Because of You (21 page)

Still, her conscience bothered her. It seemed cold-blooded. Wicked, even…especially when a part of her body grew hot and anxious at the thought of his touch.

His kisses.

The feeling of him inside of her.

She rose from the bed and padded to the door on silent feet. She opened it and slipped into the sitting room. The curtains were back, and moonlight spread across the settee and shone on the green paperweight.

Pixies. Perhaps they were responsible for the sudden madness she felt.

This was wrong, terribly wrong—and yet she could not turn away.

She approached his door.

For a second, she debated knocking, and then discarded the idea. What if he was asleep?

She would not wake him. Not for this. If he was awake, fine…if he slept, she would return to her room.

Gingerly, as if it was a hot iron, she placed her hand on the door handle and slowly turned it.

The door didn’t make a sound as it swung open.

Here too the drapes were hung back. This room was darker than hers because of the blue walls and curtains, yet the edge of the bed could be seen plainly in the moonlight.

The fire in his hearth was almost out. A whiff of cold air skipped across the floor and tickled her ankles.

She listened, expecting to hear his steady, even breathing.

“Sam?”

His voice came from the shadows of the bed. He sat up, the moonlight catching on the hard planes of his chest, his face still hidden by darkness.

“Sam, what are you doing here?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words froze in her throat.

“Is something the matter?” he asked. His leg moved as he prepared to get out of bed.

Samantha didn’t know what to do. And because she’d gone too far to turn back now, because she’d gambled on fate and fate had made its choice, she reached down, lifted the hem of her nightdress, and pulled it over her head. She tossed it aside and stood naked before him. Her body tensed in the cool night air and she shivered, vulnerable…and fearful of her own audacity.

There was a heartbeat of silence.

Then his deep voice said, “Come here.”

T
he first step was the hardest. Samantha’s feet seemed to have turned into anvils, heavy, clumsy, numb.

Yale’s face was hidden in shadow, except for the gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

Her knees bumped into the edge of the bed before she realized she’d reached it. She almost lost her balance but caught herself in time from pitching forward onto the bed.

There she stood, in indecision.

Yale’s hand moved. He flipped the bedcovers, indicating a space beside him. He was naked. She could see the length of his bare thigh and her mind fantasized the rest. Her mouth went dry.

When she didn’t move, Yale moved over to her side of the bed and into the moonlight. The covers slipped away, revealing that he was already hard and ready for her.

The intent expression on his face held her spellbound as he reached out and placed his
hand against the side of her breast. His thumb touched her nipple. It puckered and hardened in response.

She lowered her gaze to where he touched her, his tan skin dark compared to the whiteness of her breast. The room seemed to turn hot and close around her. She stopped breathing, waiting for what he would do next.

He surprised her with a question.

“What are you doing here?”

She blinked and lifted her gaze up to his face. He watched her.

Her mind scrambled for an answer.
Why was she here?

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Her words astonished her with their honesty. She felt she stood before him, completely defenseless.

His answer was a low, deep groan. He came up out of the bed and embraced her. The length of him pressed against her stomach and he raised her up, his hands cupping her buttocks, to let her feel his need for her. His lips came down on hers, the kiss fierce, hungry, as if he’d held himself at bay for too long and could no longer.

He lay Samantha on the bed, her head on the pillow.

His lips left hers and came down to cover one taut nipple. She gasped, burying her fingers in his hair and feeling the pull and tug of his mouth deep inside her.

Her legs opened in invitation. She was ready for him. She ached for his touch. When his hand swept up her thigh and stroked her, she closed her legs around him, wanting him there.

He kissed her neck and whispered in her ear, “I have waited so long for this.” His fingers entered her, testing.

At his intimate touch, Samantha wanted to cry out, but didn’t.

Something was wrong. Something wasn’t right. In spite of the aching need she felt for him, she flinched, shying away.

His hand stopped moving. “Sam, what is it? Did I hurt you?”

She didn’t answer. What could she say? She didn’t understand herself.

She looked up at him with puzzled eyes and then understood…
Dear God
—

The realization struck like a flash of blinding light, brighter than any sun, exposing her.

She truly was in love with him.

That was the reason she had crossed the distance between the two bedrooms. Somewhere in their journey from Sproule to London, maybe even before, she’d fallen in love. It was so obvious, she was surprised she hadn’t recognized it sooner.

But he did not love her.

The thought filled her with an indescribable sadness.

“Sam?” His voice sounded angry. He sat up,
moving away from her. “You don’t want this, do you?”

She shook her head no, tears starting to fill her eyes. He caught a tear on the tip of his finger.

“Then why are you here?” he asked again.

Samantha wasn’t sure of those reasons herself. The arguments that had seemed so sane and rational when she was in her bed were suddenly confusing, crazy, insane. Terrifying.

Without his love in return, she felt as if she prostituted herself. But she also felt another emotion, a stronger one:
fear.

No other man had ever made her knees so weak or had so completely captured her imagination or had kept her grounded by listening to her talk about her doubts.

Yale could do that, all of it.

And when he kissed her, it was like stars shooting into the heavens.

He’d warned her once against falling in love with him…but she hadn’t heeded his warning.

Now, she would be doubly hurt when the time came for him to cast her aside. Why had she not protected her heart? Lying here naked beside him, she felt common, cheap. She could be any woman to him.

Her breath caught in her throat in a small sound of despair.

“Damn!” Yale swore viciously, and rolled out of the bed on the other side. He came to his feet. “Why are you here?” he demanded. He was still proudly erect. He looked down at himself, swore
again, this time colorfully, and pulled the sheet off the bed, wrapping it around his waist.

Samantha reached for the satin bedspread to hide her own nakedness. Her body still throbbed from the heat of his touch; her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

Yale raked his hair back with his hand. He stood in the moonlight and she could see every line on his face. “What are you doing to me, Samantha? And why?”

“Doing to you? I don’t understand—”

“Oh, you certainly do,” he said, ruthlessly cutting her off. “You know
exactly
what you are doing, and that’s playing me for a fool! I’ve just spent a good portion of the last week burning for you, and now tonight you walk in here, take off your clothes, and practically beg me to take you. But you don’t want to be here, do you? You started, but you changed your mind.”

This was worse than she had imagined. She felt dishonorable, a fraud. “I will finish. Come back to bed. I’ll do it.”

“Damn you, Sam, damn you, damn you, damn you.” He stormed across the room, having to kick the tail of the sheet out of his way and then realizing how ridiculous he looked, he sat down in an armchair by the window.

She came up on her knees. “I don’t understand why you are so angry,” she said around the lump forming in her throat.

He looked up at her, his hard, glittering gaze
boring straight into her. “Did Wayland put you up to this?”

His accurate guess caught her unawares. Too late did she realize her face gave her away whether she spoke or not.

He gave a half laugh and sat back in the chair. “Why am I not surprised? My brother. He started with little digs at first. Belittling words about Rogue Shipping and my present status in the world. Nothing serious, only letting me know that perhaps I’m not as well off as I wish to be. But then this morning, he let me have it full bore.”

“Is that when you were arguing?”

“Oh yes. He announced that it was time I lived up to my responsibilities and stopped pretending to be a businessman. God, he sounded just like Father.”

He stared at Samantha a second. “And I’m not surprised he’d try and use you. That
is
why you are here, isn’t it? Because Wayland encouraged you to come to me.”

“Yes.” It was hard to say the word.

Yale nodded. “I’ve been in England less than two weeks, and already I’m surrounded by the hypocrisy.” He sat forward. “But I didn’t expect it from you, Sam. I thought we understood each other. I had faith in your honesty.”

His words inspired guilt. She felt a need to defend herself. “You question
my
honesty? You married me under an assumed name!”

“And you’ll never forgive me for it, will you?
Tell me, Sam, what did Wayland use to convince you to throw yourself at me? Money? A better house than I could afford? What? I would have given you all those things and more any one of the last several nights instead of sleeping on the floor, playing the monk.”

“He told me it was my duty.”

“Your duty?” Yale repeated. He stood up. “I don’t want you in my bed out of
duty.
I don’t want some guilt-ridden vicar’s daughter weeping as I labor over her like a peasant. I’m not without honor, Sam. No matter what my brother and family believe.”

A wave of shame rolled through her. “Yale, please, it’s not what you think. I just wanted—” She broke off before confessing her innermost desire. She wanted a baby. He’d accuse her of worse mistreatment if he knew the truth. And then he’d never believe what lay in her heart.

And she could never tell him.

When she didn’t speak, the set of his face hardened. Without another word, he turned to his wardrobe and began getting dressed.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“That should be obvious.”

“But why? Where are you going?”

“Does it bloody matter?” He angrily stomped his foot in his boot, putting on first one and then the other.

“Yale…” She searched for words. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand—”

“Leave it, Samantha. Not another word. Just
leave it.” On that, he opened the door and marched out into the hall.

His booted feet made no sound on the hallway carpet, but she could sense his movement. She waited, hardly daring to breathe. In her mind’s eye, she could see him going down the stairs and across the foyer, and then opening the door. She could almost hear it slam behind him.

He was gone.

Just as she’d feared.

He’d left her.

Samantha rolled herself up in his bedspread, buried her face in his pillow, and cried.

Yale didn’t care where he went. He strode out of his brother’s house and took the first left until he came to the end of that street and turned again, this time to the right. And turned at another block, and then walked and walked and walked. He’d forgotten his hat and overcoat but didn’t even feel the cold winter air.

The most errant part of his body was still stiff and erect and it only made him angrier that he’d wanted her so much.

Sam! He could curse the day he’d met her. She was driving him to madness. One minute she was all moral righteousness, and the next she was doing his family’s bidding, offering herself like some harem slave.

But then, he realized with a snort, she couldn’t be anything other than what she was. He wasn’t surprised her conscience had gotten the better of
her. She could no more play the whore than he could the beggar—and it was time Wayland and all the other dukes of Ayleborough understood that fact!

The worst of it was, he wanted Sam. Memories of the hours they had spent in bed together that first night were burned into his mind. Her passion rivaled his own—when she wasn’t feeling guilty!

After a good half hour of walking, he finally started to calm down and came face-to-face with one hard fact: he wanted Samantha as he’d never wanted another woman before.

He ached from wanting her.

He’d rather be drawn and quartered than feel the way he did now. Oh, there were a good many things he admired about her…one minute she exasperated, another she challenged, and in the next she worked her way into his heart—

Yale almost stumbled over his own feet. He came to halt.

What the bloody hell was he thinking?

His heart remained free, unfettered. He was a self-made man, completely independent of the society, country, and family that had bred him.

And yet…he
wanted
to be around Sam.

He actually treasured those nights he’d spent on the floor of her room feeling a bit like some sort of chivalrous knight—

Dear God, it was happening! A few more days with Samantha and he’d be daffy in love!

Yale wanted to roar with frustration.

He began walking again, his pace brisk.

He
couldn’t
be in love. Love was like thunderbolts and lightning—he hadn’t felt any thunderbolts with Sam, not even a sizzle…well, maybe a sizzle, he amended, remembering the scene in his bedroom. Actually,
more
than a sizzle—but not a thunderbolt.

Love was the sort of thing where men and women mooned about over each other. He and Sam argued. Of course, he found her spirit invigorating. Intriguing, even.

But love never lasted, no matter what the poets said. Yale couldn’t imagine himself shackled to one woman. There! At last a statement his conscience couldn’t challenge.

Of course, he really didn’t want
other
women right now. The only one he longed for was Samantha.

“Blasted woman,” he said under his breath.

Wayland had seen it. In some mysterious manner, his older brother had divined that Samantha was the one person Yale wanted to please.

He’d have to hide his feelings better. Ignore her. Better yet, set sail for his spice plantation in Ceylon. Whatever he did, he couldn’t let her know how deeply his affections ran for her. Ever.

In fact, he was just starting to realize how deep they were himself.

Only the oceans knew such depth!

Yale stopped his furious walking. Where had such a poetic notion come from? He avoided po
ems. Avoided poets! And yet here he was, thinking in poetry.