The Scoundrel’s Seduction Page 19

He stroked the sponge over her temple. “Do you need the privy?”

  “No,” she croaked out. He tried to remember the last time she’d used it. More than twelve hours ago, at least.

  “You’re not drinking enough.”

  She made a low, grating, sobbing noise. He wouldn’t push it. Not now, when she’d just had tea. In a little while, he’d try to get her to take some more.

  But for now, she was shivering even harder, and she needed to rest. He took away some of the pillows that had been propping her up and started sponge bathing her again. But the cool water only seemed to make her shudder harder.

  “Stop,” she moaned. “Please.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut; then he dropped the sponge into the basin before turning back to her. “What do you want, Élise? What can I do?”

  “Hold me, my Sam,” she murmured.

  He stripped down to his shirt and smallclothes and slid beneath the sheet beside her. Pressed up against her like this, he could feel the depth of her body spasms. She whimpered with every few breaths. He tugged her against him, murmuring, “Shh. It’s going to be all right.”

  “I am dying,” she whispered a few minutes later.

  He stiffened. “No.”

  “Please. Tell Marie … tell Marie that I love her. Tell Sam that I love him.”

  Something surged in his gut, poignant and all consuming. But he held very still as she shuddered against him. Because if he moved, he’d break.

  “Please,” she said on a weak sob. “Please tell them. Please.”

  “I will,” he said roughly, his arm tightening around her.

  An hour later, she began to convulse, and Sam could do nothing to help her, except hold her. And pray to a God who had never listened to him before.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Élise’s mind was so groggy, she had to pick her way through the fog, grasping on to bits of memory.

  She was ill. Very ill.

  Sam had been there. Sam had taken care of her.

  She’d been sick before. Once, during her marriage. Maids had taken care of her then. Dunthorpe hadn’t paid any attention whatsoever. But this time, Sam had been at her bedside constantly.

  At her bedside and in her bed.

  There was a heaviness slung across her hip. A pleasant, warm heaviness. But she was wet. Soaked through.

  She’d been in the rain. Was she still wet from the rain?

  She was so confused. She made a little noise in her throat as she tried to understand.

  “Élise?”

  Sam’s voice. Low and gruff with sleep. It was his arm that lay over her waist. She wiggled restlessly. It would feel nice … if she wasn’t so very wet.

  The arm moved up her body until a hand smoothed over her forehead. He released a sharp breath, and she cracked open her lids. He was gazing at her in the dim light. It was nighttime, but a single lamp was burning on the bedside table on his side, haloing his head with golden light.

  “Sam,” she murmured.

  “Your fever is gone,” he said, his voice full of wonder.

  She frowned. “How long have we been here?”

  “Three days.”

  She took a moment to absorb this. Three days. She’d been sick for a very long time. “Where are we?”

  “At my colleague Masterson’s house. Just outside of Preston.”

  “Oh yes. I remember.” Vaguely.

  “How do you feel?” he murmured.

  She thought about this. It felt like moving a muscle would require every ounce of energy she possessed. “Very tired,” she said.

  “But better?” he asked, and her lips twitched when she heard the note of hope in his voice.

  He wants you to be well. And his arm was stroking up and down her side in a soothing motion. She gave a contented sigh. Or, it would have been contented had she not been so very, very wet.

  “Why am I wet?”

  “You’re sweating.”

  “It’s … uncomfortable.”

  “Here.” He shifted, then peeled the sheet and blanket from her body. Cool air whispered over her body, but her chemise was so damp, the wetness made her cold. He placed a hand on her hip. “Ah. You’re going to have to take this off, love. Let me help you.”

  “You have stripped me many times by now, yes?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed.

  With a wistful sigh, she raised her arms as he tugged the chemise up and over her body. “This is highly scandalous.”

  “I know. But nobody knows about it but us.”

  “Your Masterson does,” she grumbled.

  He gave a soft laugh. “Masterson keeps secrets for a living. He won’t be exposing ours to the scandal sheets, trust me.”

  Now she was cold. It was a cool evening, and her body was not only damp, but also naked. She wrapped her arms around her torso and shivered.

  Sam just grinned. He … grinned! She grinned back at him, because when Sam smiled, a responding joy shot through her.

  “You’re better,” he whispered gruffly.

  She nodded. “I think so. I am tired. But I feel very much better.”

  “And you’re cold again.”

  She nodded, and he tucked her naked body against his clothed one. Her body was much smaller than his, but when she pressed against him, she simply fit. It was comfortable, and it was warm. And she didn’t care that she was naked.

  Except, a few minutes later, she snuggled deeper into his arms. And his hardening cock pressed against her belly.

  She sucked in a breath and began to pull back, but the arms wrapped around her were like iron. She didn’t try to move away again. She didn’t want to.

  * * *

  Fighting the sickness had sapped all of Élise’s strength, and it took a week after the fever broke for her to regain enough strength for Sam to pronounce she would be well enough to travel in another few days.

  As she recovered, he told her about how his missing mother, the Dowager Duchess of Trent, might be close—in the Lake District—and how he was considering returning to the lakes to search for her. And Élise told him about her years with Dunthorpe, about her vague knowledge of the past schemes and secrets he’d sold to the French, and about the friends and family members she thought might be in league with him.

  Sam knew all her secrets now, but she was content with that. There was no denying he’d saved her life, and her meager secrets felt silly and insufficient in comparison.

  Now Sam wanted to turn his focus to finding his mother, and she couldn’t blame him for that. There would be time for collecting evidence and capturing the men who were in league with Dunthorpe. Plenty of time, since they wouldn’t try to do anything treasonous anytime soon, now that their master was dead. They would require at least a few months to reorganize their plans and their hierarchy.

  Sam had told Élise that the new Viscount Dunthorpe had passed through Masterson’s tollgate, evidently searching for them. Somehow, Francis had learned she and Sam had gone north. Fortunately, he hadn’t had the faintest idea that Sam and Élise were here with Masterson, so whatever information he had been given was incomplete.

  “Dunthorpe was evil,” she murmured. They were outside, strolling on a path adjacent to the road that led away from Preston. Bluebells bloomed along the edges of the path, and the air was sweet smelling and redolent of spring. “But Francis …” She hesitated.

  “What is he like?”

  “He is different, but no better, I think. He was always jealous of Dunthorpe, but he also loved Dunthorpe, and he looked up to him. There were very vast swings from love to hate.” She sucked in a breath. “I don’t believe he is quite sane. But ultimately, he worshipped Dunthorpe. Which is why Dunthorpe trusted him with his secrets. Francis never would betray his brother, and my husband knew this.”

  Sam pressed his lips together, and she could see his mind churning.

  “You did not have any evidence against him?” she asked.

  “No. Dunthorpe was very careful.”

 
; She nodded. “I wish I could tell you who was a part of the scheme against the Regent. I could not even confirm that Dunthorpe himself was part of that.”

  “He was the ringleader,” Sam said. “But he couldn’t have planned it alone.”

  “He planned it with the French, no doubt.”

  Sam nodded, but then he frowned at her. “Why do you speak of the French with such distaste?”

  She made a snorting noise. “I am disgusted by it all. By their meddling. By them attempting to infiltrate our country and kill our Regent.”

  Sam slipped his arm through hers and led her around a boulder that nearly blocked the path. “Our country?”

  She slanted him a glance. “I have lived here most of my life. I have been an English viscountess for much of that time. Why can I not be English?”

  “I think you can be whatever you consider yourself to be,” he told her. “But people will always see you as French.”

  She sighed. “I know. But I am not. England kept me safe when I was a child. Now England is mine. A part of me will always love France and will always be French. But I will never love Napoleon nor the madness of my countrymen during the Revolution.”

  “I understand,” he said. And she knew he did.

  * * *

  That night, she took a bath for the first time in days. It wasn’t an actual bath, since Masterson wasn’t in possession of a proper bathtub. But Sam gave her some privacy for a while, and she washed herself using the sponge he’d used on her when her skin had burned with the fever.

  She even managed to wash her hair using soap and pans full of warmed water. Then she dried herself, donned her chemise, and tucked herself into bed.

  She was pleasantly drowsy, and she’d just about nodded off when Sam entered. He came straight to the bed and sat on the edge, looking down at her with a soft smile on his face. He tucked a stray strand of damp hair behind her ear.

  “Are you tired?” he asked.

  “No.” She yawned. “Which was why I was nearly asleep when you just came in.”

  “Ah. Should I go?”

  She looked straight into his twinkling dark eyes, and something pulled inside her, straight to her womb. Heat crept under her skin, and she knew exactly what she wanted.

  “No,” she whispered. “You should stay.”

  * * *

  Sam knew he shouldn’t. She was still recovering, and he had been beating down his desire for her for so long, he wasn’t sure if he could do it again tonight, especially when she was looking at him like that, with those blue eyes that made promises she shouldn’t be making.

  If he gave his desire free rein … Hell. He didn’t want to hurt her.

  He should probably sleep on the sofa in Masterson’s parlor.

  But he couldn’t move. He was trapped. Spellbound under that smoky blue gaze.

  Her beauty clenched his gut. Her color had returned and her cheeks had rounded once again. She’d regained her strength quickly. He should have expected that, because she was young and strong, and a fighter.

  She reached out a hand to him, and he took it, squeezing lightly. He’d wanted her so much and for so long, a deep, yawning, aching hunger had begun to reside inside him.

  “Come to bed, my Sam,” she murmured in a husky voice that seemed to go straight to his cock. He was hard in an instant.

  He pulled in a breath, hesitating. “You need rest.”

  “Yes, I do,” she agreed. Then she flashed him a smile. “After.”

  He stared at her for a moment longer, his gut churning; then he gave a brisk nod. He turned away to remove his coat, shoes, and trousers before slipping in beside her.

  She wrapped her arms around him until her body, clothed only in her thin chemise, pressed against him. She’d lost weight during the illness, and her hipbone pushed against his stomach. She’d been thin before, but now he wanted to feed her, to serve her breakfasts in bed …

  He looked down at her, once again brushing away a heavy curl that had fallen over her face. She smiled at him. “I miss your kisses.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do indeed. Your kisses are …” She gave a wistful sigh. “They are very good. They make me happy. They make me want more.” She gazed straight into his eyes. “I’ve wanted more ever since the first one.”

  How could he deny this woman? He bent down and kissed her.

  His body flared to life. Though he couldn’t forget that he needed to be gentle with her, that she was recovering from an illness that could have been fatal, he kissed her like a bumbling youth. Like a boy who was discovering the pleasure of a woman’s body for the first time.

  Truth was, he couldn’t get enough of her. Of her violet scent. Of her sweet, ripe taste, which reminded him of grapes. Of her body. Of her sharp intelligence, her snapping eyes, her wit, her feisty personality, her …

  God. He’d never wanted anything like he wanted her. Never. He could hardly breathe for wanting her.

  He pulled back, his breaths coming in unsteady puffs. Somehow, during the kiss, he’d ended up on top of her, pinning her body down with his bulk.

  He searched her face, looking for any sign that she wanted him to stop, that this was too much, that she was in pain …

  “Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

  Her eyes widened.

  “This isn’t right,” he said. “Tell me. Tell me I need to stop.”

  “Sam …”

  He gritted his teeth, bracing himself for it. He’d lost his mind for her, but he hoped she’d held on to some bit of sanity.

  She pulled in a shaky breath. “Sam. I … I don’t think I can live another day without feeling you inside me.”

  Her arms had remained firmly around him and now they tugged his body closer. Her gaze smoldered, and her eyes grew hooded with desire.

  He shuddered. His cock pressed against her thigh, so heavy and hard and hot, it hurt. He knew she felt it, because she shifted restlessly against him.

  “Inside me,” she whispered again. “I need you.”

  He shook his head, but he moved against her leg, unable to stop himself. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I am a very strong woman, my Sam,” she said in that carnal, husky whisper. The edge of her lips turned upward. “Do your worst. You cannot hurt me.”

  He shook his head, the edges of his lips fighting to smile, too. He kissed her, still moving erotically over her. “Not my worst,” he said against her lips. “I can’t … Not tonight.”

  She sighed. “I know this. Your sense of honor is too strong, n’est ce pas?” And then he felt her chest move subtly as she laughed.

  He stroked his hand down her side, feeling her body, the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip. He curled his fingers in the material of her shift and pulled upward, slowly dragging the skirt up her leg as he continued to sample her mouth, drugged by her potent taste.

  He moved his lips over her cheek and then down under her jaw to the column of her neck, nibbling and sucking as she arched her neck, exposing it to his lips.

  He moved farther downward, licking along her collarbone and the tops of her breasts at the neckline of the chemise. Then he gripped that seam between his teeth and tugged in impatience.

  “You want this off, do you?” she asked, humor in her voice. “Then it will be my pleasure. But you must take off that ridiculously enormous shirt. And your drawers as well.”

  He released the neckline of her shift and rose up over her, balancing himself on his hands. “Is that an order, madame?”

  “Mais oui.”

  After he helped her out of the chemise, he slipped out of the bed to take off his drawers and shirt. She watched his every move, and he slanted her a glance, his lips twisting into a wry smile.

  “Do you like what you see?”

  “Every inch of it. You are very tall, and you have very big muscles, and a very, very big—” She broke off abruptly, and he laughed as he crawled into the bed beside her, once again pulling her flush to his body. The
y both went still at the collision of their bare skin. She was smooth and soft and warm against him, and she fit so perfectly. He felt like he could hold her here forever.

  “My size doesn’t worry you?” he murmured, burying his face in her hair and breathing her in.

  “Not at all, my Sam,” she purred. “It excites me. Very much.”

  He nearly groaned aloud. God, this woman was going to kill him.

  He slid his hand down her back and cupped the warm, round curve of her buttocks, drawing her closer to him.

  She rubbed wantonly against him. Slipping her hand around the back of his neck, she pulled him to her lips, kissing him deeply. So damn seductively.

  He moved his hand around her thigh, then cupped her sex in his palm. She released a puff of breath as she pushed into his hand.

  “Such a vixen,” he teased.

  “No, never. Except when I am with you. Except when you are Sam the Scoundrel, and I want you with such intensity it hurts.”

  That response sent a deep satisfaction through him, and he crushed his lips to hers.

  As she wiggled against him, he slid his fingers between her legs. Her arousal instantly coated his fingers, lubricating his path. He stroked her, reading her responses from the twitches and trembles her body made and from the whimpers that emerged from her throat.

  She liked it … right there. He stroked above her opening, testing. Yes. She preferred the soft glide over a hard press of his fingers. So he did it again and again until she vibrated against him, and he took her harsh releases of breath into himself as he continued to kiss her.

  Her movements grew ever more restless. “Sam …” she breathed out.

  “Come for me, love.”

  She gripped his arm tightly, as if she needed to hold something solid. And then she slowed, went stiff against him and gave a low, keening cry, and her body began to undulate.

  He slid his fingers over the spot, drawing the spasms out for as long as he could until she went limp, burying her face in his chest. He kissed the top of her head, unable to stop the masculine pride that swept through him. He’d made her come. He’d given his woman pleasure.

  He slid his hand around to her buttocks again, squeezing her against him, and she looked up at him, a saucy expression in her eyes.