The Scoundrel’s Seduction Page 9

  All of a sudden, Sam hauled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her. “Shh, Élise. It’s going to be all right. I’m not going to allow anything to happen to you.”

  “How … how can … you promise that?” she gasped out. She couldn’t get enough air. Her chest was constricting, closing in on itself. She couldn’t take a deep breath, couldn’t breathe at all …

  “I promise it,” he murmured. “I promise.”

  His big, blunt fingers pressed through the fabric of her dress and into the tight muscles of her back. He gathered her closer to him, and she curled up against the hardness of his chest. Safety. His touch brought her such comfort. Such … peace. Slowly, her breaths began to calm, and warmth traveled through her, bringing with it a deep longing, a craving she’d never experienced in her life.

  A craving for more. For more Sam.

  He gazed at her, his expression tender even as his eyes glittered. And she saw it there in his eyes. Desire climbing until it equaled her own. Ever so slowly, his fingers dragged up her back. Then his hand moved around until he cupped her cheek and tilted her face toward his. He moved closer, inexorably closer, until she could feel his strength and his heat, palpable forces in the tiny space between their lips.

  Then he closed the distance. His lips touched hers, the tiniest, most erotic brush.

  Her own reaction shocked her. She should have gone stiff, pulled away, slapped him. But she did none of that.

  Instead she melted against him. His lips firmed, moving gently, transferring calmness and strength into her. They glided over her mouth in a gentle caress, exploring, tasting, soothing. He tasted smooth and warm and sweet.

  How could such a man, such a large masculine man, taste sweet? But he did. He was delicious. She gripped his coat in her hands and pulled herself even closer to him. She wanted to sink into him.

  He’d kidnapped her and held her against her will, yes. But despite the violence in him, there was something about this man that was pure goodness. There was something about him that she trusted completely. She had never trusted a man in her life. It seemed insane that she should trust this one.

  But she did.

  She kissed him harder, pushing her body to him, opening to him, allowing the heat of his breath to wash over her and through her, allowing his tongue to touch the inside of her lip. He nibbled at her mouth, from the edge to the center. Their noses brushed as they adjusted the angles of their heads so they could kiss more, taste more, closer and deeper.

  The simmer in her core rose to an inferno that spread through her limbs. She was on fire, her body aching, burning … for what exactly, she didn’t know. But she did know one thing … Her body wanted Samson Hawkins. She wanted him.

  She wanted to touch him. Feel his skin under her hands. Her fingers moved to the cloth-covered buttons of his coat. She felt for the top one and slid it open.

  Abruptly, he pulled back. It took a second or two for her hazy gaze to focus upon his face.

  “Élise … we cannot …”

  She knew that. Did he think she didn’t know that? But need—desire—had stolen all her logic. “One minute you are a scoundrel, but then your honorable side comes out to wage battle with that scoundrel.”

  “I don’t know if it’s honorable, but that side of me always wins.”

  “But I want to be the scoundrel, too, you see. It doesn’t matter, does it, what we do in the confines of this little space? No one but us will ever know …”

  He released a low groan. “But it does.” He shifted in the seat, and she felt the hard ridge of him under her thigh. The press of his erection against her flesh made her breath stutter and her body give a dark, delicious pang of anticipation.

  This scoundrel had seduced her thoroughly, and without even trying. But her body was anticipating what her heart knew would not be happening. Not now. Not tonight, and most likely not ever.

  Ever so gently, he lifted her and settled her onto the seat beside him. She clasped her hands in her lap as he pushed the curtain open a sliver to look through the window.

  “We’re almost at the meeting point,” he said softly.

  “The meeting point?”

  He nodded.

  “We are meeting someone?”

  “Yes. Laurent.”

  “And Carter?”

  “No. He has different duties in the event of an attack on the house.”

  “What are those?”

  He shrugged. “Reporting the incident. Cleaning up any possible difficulties if I am not present to do so. We plan for every contingency.”

  “I see.”

  Her face heated as she imagined what it would have been like if Sam had allowed her to continue … if she’d stripped off his coat and shirt and felt his body—his skin—beneath her palms.

  Laurent would have opened the door and seen her wantonly pressing herself against his mentor.

  As the carriage drew to a halt, she knew she should be glad that at least Sam hadn’t lost his senses. Because she certainly had.

  She still ached with unfulfilled passion, but another part of her burned from his rejection. She’d been too carried away to stop, but he clearly hadn’t … And that hurt a part of her she’d never known was capable of hurting.

  “Stay here,” Sam ordered. He opened the door and stepped outside. Élise gazed at the door closest to her, her eyes dropping to the handle, her chest a confused tangle of emotions—embarrassment, shame, hurt, desire, and more she couldn’t unravel.

  Maybe she could do it—escape from these beguiling, confusing men. Run. Find a safe place where she could be free of all this.

  She thought about the implications of tonight’s attack. If it was Francis who’d been trying to kill them—and who else could it be?—there was nowhere she’d be safe.

  But Sam had promised he wouldn’t let harm come to her.

  It would be no use running, anyhow. She hadn’t forgotten how easily Sam had caught her when she’d run before.

  No. This was not the time. She knew these men now—what they were capable of. They would catch her in the blink of an eye.

  She couldn’t—wouldn’t—succumb to being a prisoner forever. Eventually, she’d be given the right opportunity to escape. When it came, she’d take it. And the odd feelings she was beginning to have for her captor did not make a bit of difference to her plan. Not one bit.

  They didn’t dally long. Within a few minutes, Sam slid in beside her once more. Seconds later, the carriage lurched into motion again.

  “Laurent’s driving now,” he explained. “We’re leaving Smithy—he was the first driver—here in London.”

  “So … we are leaving London?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you will not tell me where we are going?”

  He sighed. “We’re going north. To a safe house in a remote location where hopefully no one will be able to locate us.”

  “Were Laurent or Carter hurt?”

  “No. Laurent is here and in one piece. Carter will remain in London, and he is also unhurt.”

  But Sam had been hurt. He’d gotten shot—she remembered the ragged tear at his shoulder. Bon Dieu. She’d been so muddled, she’d forgotten, and she hadn’t been able to see it clearly in the dimness of the carriage. She closed her eyes. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” Surprise was evident in his voice.

  “You are not in one piece.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Your arm …”

  “I told you,” he said, “it is nothing.”

  “I must look at it. Show me, please.”

  With a sigh, he turned, exposing his left shoulder to her sight for the first time since they’d entered the carriage.

  She swallowed hard. It was a ragged, bloody wound. She was shocked he hadn’t flinched, hadn’t favored it when he’d held her.

  He was a strong man. Now it was her turn to be strong.

  “Is there any cheap gin to be found in this carriage?” she asked.<
br />
  He gave her a bemused look. “Gin? What do you intend to do with gin?”

  “I shall give you a great deal of it to drink; then I shall splash it profusely over your injured flesh.”

  He raised a brow, but he bent over and pulled a woven sack from beneath the seat and proceeded to rummage through it. Finally he was favoring his arm, she noted. Perhaps his reaction of pain had been delayed by all they’d gone through tonight.

  He pulled out a corked bottle of red liquid. She frowned. “That is wine, I believe.”

  “Will it do?”

  “No. Not well. But begin to drink it, if you please.”

  “Gladly,” he said. “I was beginning to get thirsty anyhow.” His lips quirked in a rare smile. “There’s a bit of dried salted herring in there. Not quite the dinner I’d hoped for, but it’s all we have.”

  “No, thank you,” she clipped out. Food had never sounded more unappealing than it did at this moment. And salted herring? Just … no.

  He uncorked the bottle and drank a hearty swallow straight from it before handing it to her. “Thirsty?”

  Actually, she was. She took the bottle and took her own healthy swallow, feeling rather pleasantly barbaric. She hadn’t drunk wine from anything but crystal in many years.

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, realizing for the first time that the only items she had in her possession were her undergarments, her shoes, and the too-large simple cotton dress she wore. No pelisse or coat, no gloves or hat. The moment she stepped out of this carriage, she would be completely conspicuous to any passerby.

  She gazed down ruefully at the simple dress that hung on her like a sack. At least no one would accuse her of being the elegant, untouchable Lady Dunthorpe. She’d hated the role for so, so many reasons.

  “Thank you,” she said politely, handing the bottle back to him. “Now … Is there anything else in that satchel? A jug of water, perhaps?”

  “There is.”

  She pondered for a moment, debating the wisdom of using water or wine. “Pass me the water, then.”

  “Of course.”

  He handed her a jug, this one corked as well. She set it aside and put her hand to the waistcoat she’d almost ripped off him in the throes of lust just minutes ago. Their eyes met.

  “I’ll need to remove your waistcoat and shirt.”

  “Are you serious about this?”

  “There is no doctor in this carriage, is there? And I do not think I am a fool for assuming that you have no intention to stop for one.”

  “You’re right,” he admitted, “on both counts.”

  “Then I propose I do my best. I am, in fact, not a doctor, but I do possess some limited medical knowledge.”

  Marie was the one who’d helped the injured and ill aristos who came to her in Paris during the Terror, usually wearing dark cloaks and skulking to their door at night, afraid of going to a “proper” doctor. She and Marie had lived in hiding, pretending to be commoners, for two years after Élise’s parents and brother were killed and before she and Marie were able to escape, with Élise’s uncle’s help, to England.

  Élise had been quiet in those days, watching Marie, helping whenever she could. Terrified to open her mouth for fear that her aristocratic accent would expose her. The patients had thought of her as Marie’s mute little sister. She’d absorbed as much knowledge as she could, and Marie had fostered her curiosity. Together in England, they’d continued to share an interest in healing, but on a more academic level, since they’d seldom had the opportunity to practice it.

  Her gaze locked on to Sam’s wound. Here was an opportunity, oozing with blood, right in front of her. She slid off the seat and crouched in front of him in the small enclosed space of the carriage.

  Sam reached up to help her with his waistcoat buttons, but she shooed his hands away. She slipped the black buttons through their holes and slid the wool over his broad shoulders, careful not to touch the wound on the left side. But her hands did skim over the front of his upper chest, and her body leapt back to life at the feel of the powerful muscles beneath her fingertips.

  She folded the waistcoat and set it aside. She didn’t meet his eyes, just gazed at where his shirt was tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

  “Now the shirt,” she murmured as she grasped the linen and began to pull it out. He held himself rigid, perfectly still, but she felt his eyes on her.

  The carriage dipped through a rut in the road and she began to tumble to the side, but his arm whipped out to steady her. She gripped the edge of the seat beside his thigh—his solid, rock-hard, thick thigh—and glanced up at him.

  “Do not use your arm again until I have assessed the wound,” she scolded him. “I forbid it.”

  “Do you, now?” Humor edged his voice. He let her go and took another deep draft of wine.

  “Hold still,” she snapped.

  He laughed. He actually laughed! It was the first time she’d ever heard him laugh, and her gaze snapped to his face in astonishment.

  “How you may laugh at a time like this is beyond my comprehension.”

  “A time like this? What do you mean?”

  “A time of danger.”

  “We are out of danger, my lady,” he reminded her.

  “Élise.”

  “We are out of danger, Élise.” The way he said her name, with that perfect French accent, made a shudder of desire run down her spine.

  “But we are not out of danger,” she insisted. “I am well hated. Obviously, someone has decided that I am the enemy and he has determined that you must die, too.”

  “He won’t find us,” he said in a tone of supreme confidence.

  “Ever?”

  He blew out a breath, and his dark eyes studied her, all seriousness now. “I prefer to focus on the present. It’s safer that way. For me, the most direct road to madness is sitting still and attempting to conjure possible futures. And for the present, we are perfectly safe.”

  “Why would you do that? It is unreasonable not to consider the future.” She’d finished untucking his shirt and began to pull it upward, revealing miles of muscled, olive-toned, deliciously hard male flesh.

  He was so beautiful. Her thoughts trailed off for a protracted moment as she focused on her task. A few scars marred his perfect flesh—there was a jagged one in the rough shape of a circle just below his right shoulder. And a trio of long, slashing ones over his right hip.

  “Because most of the futures I conjure up are not pleasant ones,” he said quietly.

  She paused to gaze up at him. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Think of what I do.”

  She swallowed hard and returned her gaze to her task. “Ah. That. Raise your good arm, please.” He did, and she maneuvered the shirt over his head and off his arm. As she began the process of drawing it over his wound, she said, “I believe, monsieur, that I prefer your laughter over your melancholy.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “No, you do not disappoint me. I do not think you are a man who laughs frequently. It makes me happy that I can cause you to do so, even if it is not very often.”

  She finished pulling the shirt off, leaving his heavily muscled torso completely bare. She forced herself not to stare, however; instead she focused on the wound. The bullet had torn across his outer arm, taking bits of cloth and flesh with it. Clearly, it hadn’t lodged inside his body, which was a good thing.

  “It would be better if I could stitch it, but I will assume you do not have the proper implements for such a task.”

  “You are experienced in stitching wounds?” he asked in surprise.

  “Somewhat.”

  “Well.” He paused to take that in, then said, “No. I don’t believe there is medical equipment like that in this carriage.”

  “That is very stupid,” she told him.

  “Oh?” There it was again, that tiny edge of humor in his voice. “Why?”

  “Because this is your vehicle of escape
. Did you believe you were all untouchable? That even fleeing a group of men intent upon murdering you, you would not be injured?”

  “We certainly never intended to become injured,” he said. “In any case, none of us have surgical experience. Nor did we anticipate fleeing with a noblewoman who did.”

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “Stupid, as I said. What if the shot had gone through your shoulder, lodged in a bone, nicked an artery? You would be very dead by now.”

  “But I am not.”

  She made a small growling noise.

  “Does it make you happy, Élise?”

  “Does what make me happy?”

  “That I am not dead?”

  “Infinitely happy,” she grumbled. “Now. I will be picking the fabric from your wound thread by thread. It will be very unpleasant.”

  And he laughed again, that deep, low, throaty laugh that did make her happy. Her lips twitched, fighting to smile, but she tamed them into flatness.

  “Be still,” she ordered, tearing at the tattered remains of his shirtsleeve. “It is time to make this clean.”

  Chapter Seven

  Given her lack of proper implements, Sam couldn’t fault Élise’s work on his arm.

  The wound definitely wasn’t a serious one. He’d experienced more severe injuries in his lifetime. Compared to some of those wounds, this was a scratch. But he couldn’t deny it—he gobbled up her careful attentions like a starving man. He watched her as she worked, focus deep in those blue eyes, her lips pressed into a straight line.

  She picked all the debris from the wound, cleaned it with plentiful amounts of water, then dried it and wrapped it with strips taken from his ruined shirtsleeve and pieces of cotton she tore from her petticoat.

  She was efficient, competent. She was serious. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

  After she finished, they sat for a long while in companionable silence. It had long since grown dark, and erotic thoughts crowded in Sam’s mind. The way she’d responded when he kissed her. Impassioned, fiery. She was a little ball of heat. What would it be like when she exploded under his hands? Under his mouth? With his cock buried deep inside her?

  He tilted his head back on the cushion, swallowing a groan.