A Heart for the Taking (12 page)

Chance stood up just then and walked over to the fire, carefully arranging the remaining strips of venison over a spit fashioned from a freshly cut maple branch. The fire was tamped down and green wood was added to the coals, so that drifts of smoke spiraled upward around the meat. Chance watched his handiwork for several moments, his tall, lean, buckskin-clad body clearly delineated by the firelight. When he was satisfied, he looked at Hugh and said, “That should last for several hours. When we change watches, one of us can add more.” He cocked an eyebrow at his cousin. “Do you want to take the first watch or shall I?”

“Watch?” Fancy asked, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Chance sent her a look. “I mean, Lady Merrivale, that one
of us has to stay awake and alert to ensure that someone like Udell Thacker does not surprise us with a visit.”

“Oh!” she said in a small voice, thinking uncomfortably of the nights she and Ellen had slumbered in the forests, the idea of watching for any nocturnal visitors the furthest thing from their minds. “I had not thought of that.” She glanced around at the suddenly threatening darkness and asked uneasily, “Do you think that they are still following us?”

Chance shook his head. “No, they have no doubt given you up for dead and gone in search of other prey.” He grinned at her, the firelight flickering across his dark face, his teeth very white. “Easier prey.”

For some reason, Fancy felt a hot flush surge into her cheeks. She was more aware of him than she had been of any man in her entire life. She was positive that she didn’t like the odd little tingle deep in her belly when he looked at her in that mocking way of his. There was something about him, something in the way he spoke to her or acted around her that she found disconcerting. It wasn’t anything that she could put her finger on, but there was a glitter now and then deep in those cobalt blue eyes of his that made her distinctly nervous. He looked, she decided warily, almost as if he were a hunting tiger considering one particular doe for dinner.

A yawn caught her by surprise. “Oh, my. I see that I am more tired than I realized.” Prompted by some devil within her, she deliberately ignored Chance and looked admiringly over at Hugh, where he sat on the ground near the fire. “I shall sleep better tonight, knowing that you are watching over us.”

Chance snorted and walked over to his place at the base of a towering magnolia tree, where he lowered himself to the ground. “The baroness seems to have made the choice, my friend. You take first watch,” he said to Hugh. “Wake me whenever you’re are ready to switch.” Without another word, he pulled his blanket over him and went to sleep.

Annoyed with herself for her petty act, Fancy arranged herself next to Ellen on the ground. The smoke from the fire kept many of the insects at bay and, wrapped securely in one
of the blankets the men had brought with them, with Ellen lying by her side, Fancy soon drifted off to sleep. But even in her sleep she couldn’t escape from him. Chance’s dark, mocking face and long, lean body drifted erotically through her dreams.

It didn’t help that the first face she saw upon waking the next morning was Chance’s. Especially not after some of the astonishingly explicit dreams she had had about him during the night. Feeling grubby and embarrassed, she sat up and brushed back a tendril of dark hair. Trying to pretend he wasn’t there, she yawned, rubbed her eyes and face to fully awaken, and finally let her gaze travel in his direction.

Chance was sitting not six feet away, his back resting comfortably against a tree trunk, one knee bent and those ridiculously long-lashed blue eyes fixed boldly on her. Fancy’s heart gave a painful thump. She’d had gentlemen look at her before, but usually there was interest or polite admiration in their gaze. Such was not the case with Chance. There was not one whit of admiration, polite or otherwise, in his look. The expression on his face was downright hostile. He looked, Fancy decided uneasily, very much as if he would like to wring her neck.

Fancy wasn’t far wrong. Chance would very much have liked to wring her neck all right, but only after he had spent hours, days, perhaps months, making love to her. He wasn’t at
all
happy about his desires. Sternly reminding himself that she was an English lady—a baroness, for God’s sake!—and Jonathan’s intended bride at that did nothing to banish the images of her naked body twisting beneath his. Nor did it make him stop thinking about that lushly curved mouth of hers and how her lips would feel and taste.

Chance had had several hours after Hugh had awakened him to stare and study the slender woman in the dirty yellow gown as she lay sleeping innocently near the fire. Unfortunately, watching the tempting rise and fall of her small bosom, the way the ruined gown sloped lovingly over her hip and outlined her shapely legs, none of his thoughts were innocent. The smoldering firelight caressed her sleeping fea
tures, making him unwillingly aware of the strength in her face, of the character revealed in the clean line of her jaw and the promise of passion in the curve of her bottom lip. The last thing he wanted was to be attracted in
any
manner to her, and yet, though he was aware of every rustle, every sound, made in the forest that surrounded them, his attention was firmly riveted by the woman lying on the ground in front of him. Despite his best efforts not to be, he was painfully aroused; his swollen, aching member reminding him of how long it had been since he’d had a woman. He cursed the Englishwoman, Jonathan, and himself most of all for his present state. All in all, it had been a
very
long night.

Hugh had awakened at first light, and Ellen not a half an hour previously. Despite Ellen’s wry grimace, they had gone in search of some berries to add to their breakfast, leaving Chance and Fancy alone in camp. Chance hadn’t been happy about
that
situation, either, and he had almost volunteered to go with Ellen instead of Hugh, until he had noticed the way Hugh was looking at Ellen.

His mouth had twisted. Hugh was aiming high. Too high, but it wasn’t up to him to disillusion the younger man. At least that was the excuse he gave himself for remaining behind. But he knew that he was only avoiding the real reason he had stayed with the baroness. Ellen was sweet; Ellen was charming; but she didn’t fascinate him the way her sister did—even when the lady in question was sound asleep. Damn her cat-eyes.

Those same golden brown cat-eyes had finally registered that they were alone. Fancy asked uneasily, “Where are Ellen and Hugh?”

Chance stood up. “They have gone to forage for some berries.” He gave her a thin-lipped smile. “Do not worry, Duchess, you will not be left long in my tender clutches.”

Fancy glared at him. “First of all, I am
not
a duchess! Second, my name is Merrivale.
You
may call me Lady Merrivale.”

He flashed her a crooked grin that did queer things to her heart. “Not Fancy, as Hugh calls you?”

Suddenly realizing how Ellen had felt last night, Fancy bit her lip and said stiffly, “Of course you may call me Fancy.”

Fancy got up and, studiously ignoring him, walked to the creek, where she splashed her face with water. Returning to the vicinity of the fire, she discovered that there was hot coffee in the pot, and she poured herself a cup. Her back to him, she looked at the forest and sipped her coffee. The silence between them was prickly and uncomfortable. Feeling that something more was required of her, she said abruptly, “Ellen and I are beholden to you for our very lives. I would not want you to think that I am ungrateful for what you have done for us. We are enormously obligated to you and Hugh, and I am aware that we owe you a tremendous debt of gratitude.”

“Do you?” Chance asked from directly behind her, startling her.

Fancy whirled to face him, her eyes widening at the angry glitter in his. He took the cup from her and tossed it carelessly on the ground.

Jerking her into his arms, he pulled her hard against his chest. His mouth a fraction above hers, he growled, “Since there are just the two of us here alone . . . shall we see just how much of that
great
debt you’re willing to pay?”

F
ancy knew Chance was going to kiss her, and that he would not be gentle with her; what he intended was explicit in the hot glitter of his eyes. But she was too astonished, too aware of him, too
curious
, to offer even token resistance. As his hard mouth came down almost brutally on hers, her eyes clamped shut, and to her utter shame, she felt a bolt of erotic excitement shaft through her.

Dimly Fancy realized that for all her years as a wife, she was an innocent when it came to physical desire. She had never experienced anything even vaguely resembling Chance’s embrace. Never. She was burningly aware of him in ways that she had never been with any other man. It was as if he simply
invaded
her very being. His strong arms crushed her to him, her breasts were flattened against his broad chest, her legs were pressed intimately against his muscled thighs, but his mouth . . . His mouth was pure sweet sin, hot and forbidden, thrilling and dangerous, seductive and treacherous, and oh, so, intoxicating.

There was no gentleness, no tenderness, in his kiss. His mouth upon hers was fierce and demanding, and Fancy was gallingly aware that while she should be insulted, she was not. At least not at the moment. At the moment, she was too
battered by newly awakened sensations, too stunned by the frankly arousing sensation of his warm body against hers, of his lips consuming hers, of his hands suddenly cradling her head, angling her face up so that he could feed more deeply, to feel anything but plain, naked, carnal delight.

With something between a groan and curse, Chance forced his tongue into the dark, warm recesses of her mouth. The coffee she had just sipped still lingered on her tongue, and he knew that he had never tasted any brew so heady. She enflamed him, increased the urgent ache to bury his rigid manhood within her sweet body. To his fury, not only did she make him blind to anything but the demands of his own body, but she effortlessly aroused other, deeper, more powerful emotions. The sudden painful surging to life of feelings he had thought long dead and the violent need to suppress them nearly loosed what little control he still had of himself. Frantic to deny the burgeoning tenderness that flowed through him, Chance blocked out coherent thought and let passion and blind desire rule him. There was nothing in the world for him but her soft body and sweet mouth, no yesterday, no tomorrow, nothing, just Fancy in his arms. . . . It was the creeping awareness of how close he was to the edge, of how near he was to ripping back her skirts and taking her upright against the nearest tree, that abruptly brought him to his senses.

With something akin to loathing, he suddenly thrust her away from him. His chest heaving, his eyes nearly black with the powerful emotions that still raged within him, he said savagely, “Consider the debt paid! I find that having a woman respond to me out of gratitude”—his mouth twisted derisively—“even you, Duchess, is not quite as satisfying as I thought it would be.”

Reeling from the cruel cessation of his embrace, Fancy could barely register his words; it took almost thirty seconds for her to realize what he had said. Then, as the full import of his words trickled into her brain, whatever remnants of that treacherous desire she had felt in his arms were totally eclipsed by the fury that suddenly shook her. “Why, you ar
rogant, presumptuous
barbarian
!” she spat, her eyes blazing with angry golden lights. “How
dare
you think for one moment that I
responded
to you or that I would allow myself to be mauled by a crude creature like you in order to show my gratitude!”

A smile, not a very nice one, curved his lips. “Would you like me to kiss you again and prove to both of us that you’re spouting arrant nonsense, Duchess?”

“I am
not
a duchess,” she said through gritted teeth, the palm of her hand itching to wipe that mocking expression off his face. “My husband was Baron Merrivale, which makes me the
Baroness
Merrivale.” Her upper lip curled. “Even a backwoods lout like yourself should be able to understand something so simple.” Pride made her add, “And as for kissing me again—it would simply prove that Jonathan was right—that you
are
a bastard. A cruel, black-hearted bastard who cannot be trusted not to take base advantage of any woman left in his care.”

“Such language, Duchess! And here I thought that the English were so prim and proper,” Chance drawled, suddenly enjoying himself and discovering that fighting with her was
almost
as pleasurable as kissing her—and certainly a lot less dangerous.

Fancy took in a deep, fortifying breath. The man was impossible! And it was obvious that she was not going to win this battle. Chance Walker was too arrogant even to realize when he was being insulted. Drawing herself up and putting on her most haughty air, she said dismissively, “We English speak our minds, and there is nothing
improper
in calling a knave a knave.”