To Taste Temptation (27 page)

“Perhaps it was the strength of a madman,” Emeline muttered with dark humor. She didn’t want to think about the fight, the sight of two men she loved trying to kill each other, the look in Samuel’s eyes at the last...But it was hard to distract Tante Cristelle off the subject. “The wedding will be ruined, I know. We will be lucky to have more than two guests attend.”

Tante Cristelle immediately took the contrary opinion. “It is not so very bad, this gossip and excitement. One would think that gossip is always bad, but this is not so. The talk will cause many to come to your wedding. I think you will have quite the turnout.”

Emeline shuddered and looked down at the teacup in her lap. The thought of all those people coming to her wedding just to gawk, hoping perhaps that Samuel would make another appearance and disrupt the wedding, was terribly distasteful. And worse, she knew Samuel had washed his hands of her. The look of disillusionment, of
disgust,
in his eyes last night had felt like a physical blow. He would never want to see her again, she knew. Which was just as well, of course. Far better to make a clean break.

If only she could pick up her spirits a bit so that she could face her future. This path had been laid out for her before she was ever born. She was an aristocrat, the daughter and sister to earls, a woman of family and standing. All that was expected of her was that she make a good match, have children, and conform to society’s rules. It was not such a hard task, and until now she had never questioned it. She’d been a good wife and mother. Hadn’t she held the remains of her family together against all odds? Hadn’t she found a second husband as worthy as the first? And if there would be no fidelity in the marriage, if the love was a fraternal, rather than passionate one, that was only to be expected. Only a fool would balk at her path at this late date.

Only a fool.

Emeline bit her lip and gazed into her cooling tea as Tante Cristelle droned on across from her. Despite all the lectures she gave herself, she couldn’t stop mourning for a man not of her world. Samuel had looked at her and really seen her. He was the first and probably the last in her life to ever do so. And what was more miraculous, he’d not recoiled. He’d seen her awful temper, her unwomanly strength of mind, and he’d said they were good. No wonder she still mourned him. Such complete acceptance was intoxicating.

Still, she was a fool.

P
EOPLE LOOKED AT
Sam as he made his way through the London streets that afternoon. They would peer at him out of the corner of their eyes, then look quickly away again, especially if they met his gaze. He’d seen himself in the mirror this morning and knew what they gawked at: a blackening eye, a cut and swollen lip, and the bruises turning purple on his cheek and jaw. He knew why they looked, but he hated it nevertheless. He’d never been anonymous in a crowd—he wore moccasins, after all—but today they looked at him as if he were a lunatic.

That was the first difficulty. The second was that he wished Vale was making this trip with him. Stupid, he knew, but there it was. He’d become used to Vale’s banter and his sardonic view of the world, and even though he loathed the man, he missed him as well. Too, it would’ve been useful to have another at his back in this.

Sam glanced over his shoulder for followers and ducked into a narrow passageway. He had to pause a moment and lean against a filthy wall, holding his side. Something stabbed there. One or more of his ribs were probably cracked. Rebecca would have a fit if she knew that he was out of bed. His little sister had been surprisingly stubborn last night in her insistence that he see a doctor. In the end, he’d given in to her pleas. What did it matter when the world had fallen in on him?

He peered around the corner of the wall he leaned against and started out again, ignoring the continual pain from his ribs. There was only one thing he had to resolve, and then they could quit this damn island and go home.

This part of London was quiet and mostly clean, the odors assaulting his nostrils kept to a dull roar that hardly disturbed. Sam turned down Starling Lane. The buildings that lined the street were made of newer brick, probably built after the great fire. Small shops were at the street level, tiny, dark windows displaying wares. Above the shops were apartments, presumably for the shopkeepers.

Sam pushed open the door of a small tailor. The shop was dim inside with a low ceiling and a dusty scent. He didn’t see anyone else in there. Sam turned and locked the front door behind him.

“A moment’s wait, if it please you, sir!” a male voice called from somewhere in back.

The shop was actually quite shallow—presumably the bulk was taken up by the back where the work would be done. Bolts of cloth were stacked on shelves with a single waistcoat displayed on a tree. The waistcoat was well stitched and sturdy enough, but the material wasn’t of the finest. This led Sam to think that this tailor probably catered to merchants, doctors, and lawyers, instead of more wealthy gentlemen. There was a tall counter and beyond that an open doorway. Sam slipped behind the counter and peered into the doorway. As he’d suspected, the room behind the shop was much larger. A long table took up much of the space, with odd pieces of cloth, marking pencils, spools of thread, and paper patterns scattered along its length. Two young men sat cross-legged on the table, sewing, while an older, balding man bent over a swath of fabric, swiftly snipping with a pair of shears.

The older man glanced up but didn’t stop cutting. “Only a moment, sir.”

“I can talk as you work,” Sam said.

The man looked puzzled. “Sir?” His hand flew over the fabric as if it had a life of its own.

“I have some questions for you. About a former neighbor of yours.”

The tailor hesitated for a second, eyeing him.

The bruises weren’t helping his case, Sam knew. “There used to be a cobbler’s shop next door.”

“Yes, sir.” The tailor pivoted the fabric and went back to cutting.

“Did you know the owner, Dick Thornton?”

“Might.” The tailor bent over his task as if to hide his eyes from Sam.

“Thornton’s father had the place before him, I believe.”

“Yes, sir. That was old George Thornton.” The tailor threw down his shears, whipped the fabric off the table, and smoothed a new piece of cloth in its place. “A fine man. He’d only opened the shop a year or so before he passed. Even so, he was much missed on this street.”

Sam stilled. “The elder Thornton had just opened the shop? He wasn’t here before?”

“No, sir, he weren’t. Moved from someplace else.”

“Dogleg Lane.” One of the men sewing piped in suddenly.

The master tailor gave him a gimlet eye under his brows, and the man ducked his head back to his work.

Sam hitched his hip onto the table and folded his arms. “Was Dick home from the war in the Colonies when his father died?”

The tailor shook his head once. “No, sir. It were another year or so before Dick came home. His wife, what was George’s daughter-in-law, ran the shop until Dick returned. She was a good lass but not the canniest of women, if you follow my meaning, sir. Wasn’t doing too well by the time Dick made it home, but he soon turned it around. Dick were here only a couple of years before he got a bigger shop somewheres else.”

“Did you know Dick before he came home from the war? Had you met him?”

“No, sir.” The tailor frowned as he deftly snipped a perfect oval in the cloth. “’Twasn’t a loss, not knowing Dick Thornton, neither.”

“You don’t like the man,” Sam murmured.

“Not many here did,” the sitting tailor muttered.

The master tailor shrugged. “He puts on a nice face, always smiling, but I didn’t trust him. And his wife was afraid of him.”

“Was she?” Sam looked at his moccasins as he spoke. If what he suspected were true, Mrs. Thornton should’ve shown much more than fear. “Did she act odd in any other way?”

“No, but it wasn’t as if we saw her long after Dick returned.”

Sam glanced up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Died, didn’t she?” The tailor met his eyes, his own shrewd, before he looked back at his work again. “Fell down the stairs and broke her neck. That was what her husband said, anyway.”

Both of the sitting tailors shook their heads to show what they thought about that.

A savage thrill of triumph went through Sam. This was it, he knew. Dick Thornton wasn’t who he said he was.
The prisoner MacDonald crouching under a wagon as the battle raged all around. MacDonald catching Sam’s eye from his hiding place. MacDonald grinning and winking.
That was what Sam had remembered the night before as he’d pushed through the crowd at Emeline’s party. The way MacDonald used to grin and wink—the same way that Thornton grinned and winked now. Somehow MacDonald the prisoner had taken Thornton’s place.

Taken his place and now lived his life.

Ten minutes later, Sam unlocked the door to the little tailor shop and let himself out. It was all but over now. He only had to confront Dick Thornton—or the man who was calling himself Dick Thornton—and then go home. A year of searching for answers would be over. The dead of Spinner’s Falls would finally rest in peace.

Except, as he made his way back to his town house, he knew he would never be at peace again. His body might return to Boston, but his heart would forever remain behind in England.

He was in the mews behind the town house now. He hesitated, then walked past his own gate to the gate that led into Emeline’s garden. It was locked, of course, but he scaled the wall, moving a bit slower than he’d have liked because of his ribs. The garden beyond was deserted. Michaelmas daisies bloomed on either side of the path, and the ornamental trees were just beginning to turn color. He could see the back of the house and the windows that lined the upper floors. One of those windows belonged to Emeline. She might at this very moment be looking out.

Sam was conscious of how foolish his actions were—to sneak into the garden of the woman who’d rejected him. He was embarrassed and angry because he was embarrassed. Soon he would need to return home and ready himself for supper with Rebecca, but he lingered a little longer, gazing at her house, his heart aching as it pounded a silent beat:
if only...if only...if only
...

He closed his eyes, coming to a decision. He couldn’t leave it like this. He had to speak to her. But now was not the time. For what he wanted, he’d have to wait for nightfall. So he glanced again at that window and then turned and left the garden. He would bide his time. He would wait patiently.

For the fall of night.

Just past midnight, Iron Heart was dragged from his dungeon cell. Guards marched him up the stairs of the castle, out into the street, and into the square in the middle of the shining city. Crowds lined the streets, clutching torches to light the way, their faces eerily lit by the flames. The people of the Shining City were silent, but one among them was not. For the wizard danced the entire way to the square, crowing his delight at Iron Heart’s death sentence and only a little hampered by a limp. And on the wicked wizard’s wrist, bobbing as he capered, was a white dove, tethered there with a golden chain....

—from
Iron Heart

It was late and she was tired, but she still felt him before she saw him. Emeline’s heart gave a wild, joyous leap, entirely outside of her control. He was here. Samuel was here. She turned from her vanity table where she’d been brushing her hair in preparation for bed.

He stood by the door that connected her room to a small dressing room. His face was battered, his left eye swollen and black, and he held one hand against his side as if something pained him there. She stared at him, not daring to believe, trying not to breathe in case he evaporated from her sight.

“Your hair is beautiful,” he said softly.

It was the last thing she expected him to say. It made her self-conscious and oddly shy. He’d never seen her with her hair down. Never seen her in such a normal, homey setting.

“Thank you.” She set her brush down on the vanity table and nearly knocked it to the floor, her hands were shaking so badly.

He glanced at the brush. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

“You’re leaving so soon?”

For some reason, she hadn’t expected this, either. She’d thought she would be the one to leave first, after her marriage to Jasper. But that was silly, of course. Samuel had to return to the Colonies some time. She’d always known that.

He nodded slowly at her question. “As soon as I finish my business, Rebecca and I will sail.”

“Oh.” There were thousands of things she wanted to ask him, thousands of things to say to him, but somehow she couldn’t give voice to her real thoughts. She was stuck in this awkwardly formal conversation instead. She cleared her throat. “Is it shipping business? Or the business of finding who betrayed your regiment?”

“Both.” He ambled into her room, pausing to pick up a china dish from a side table and turning it over to look at the bottom.

She swallowed. “But surely it will take weeks, maybe months to find out who—”

But he was already shaking his head. “Thornton’s the traitor.” He replaced the dish.

“How do you know?”

He shrugged, not looking particularly interested in the subject. “He isn’t really Thornton. I think he’s probably another soldier, MacDonald, who was under arrest when we were attacked. MacDonald somehow took Thornton’s place.”

She frowned, plucking at her wrap anxiously. She wore only a shift and the silk wrap; her feet were bare. She felt vulnerable with him prowling about her private rooms. Vulnerable, but not afraid. There was something inevitable about this scene, as if she knew all along that Samuel would someday enter her rooms. She only wished she could hold him a little longer. She looked down at her trembling hands in her lap and asked another question, delaying what would come.

“Wouldn’t Thornton’s friends or family have turned MacDonald in?”

“Most of Thornton’s friends were killed at Spinner’s Falls. Maybe all of them. As to family”—Samuel fingered the heavy brocade curtains hanging on her bed—“they were dead, too, all except his wife, and she died soon after Thornton, or MacDonald, returned home. I imagine he killed her.”

Emeline caught her breath at the casual comment. “Why are you doing this, Samuel?”

He looked up at her tone. “What?”

“Why are you bent on following this trail?” She leaned forward, wanting to cut through his defenses as he had cut through hers. They had so little time left. “Why spend all this effort and money pursuing the man? Why, after all these years?”

“Because I can and the others can’t.”

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

He dropped the curtain and turned fully to her. There was no artifice, no shield in place to keep her from seeing the desolation in his face. “They’re dead. They’re all dead.”

“Jasper—”

He laughed. “Even the ones who survived are dead, don’t you see? Vale may joke and drink and play a fool, but you’ll be wedding yourself to a corpse, never doubt that.”

She stood to meet his awful despair head-on. “I do doubt that. Jasper may have his demons, but he’s
alive.
You saved him, Samuel.”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t there.”

“You ran to bring help—”

“I ran away,” he rasped, and she shut her mouth, for she’d never heard him say it aloud. “At the height of the battle, when I knew we were going to lose, when I knew the Indians would overrun us and take scalps from still-living men, I figured there was no longer any point in fighting, so I hid. And when they took Vale, Munroe, your brother, and the other men captive, I ran.”

She ventured close to him and grasped his coat in both fists, feeling the wool on her fingertips. She stood on tiptoe and brought her face as near to his as she could. “You hid because you knew that it was pointless to die. You ran to save the lives of the men captured.”

“Did I?” he whispered. “Did I? That’s what I told myself at the time, that I was running for the others, but perhaps I lied. Perhaps I ran merely for myself.”

“No.” She shook her head desperately. “I know you, Samuel. I know
you.
You ran to save them, pure and simple, and I admire you for it.”

“Do you?” His eyes seemed to focus on her face finally. “Yet your brother died before I could return with the ransom. I failed him. I failed you.”

“No,” she choked. “Never think that.” And she pulled his head down to her own.

She kissed him, trying to instill all her conflicting thoughts and hopes into that simple gesture. Mouth to mouth, lips moving together. A kiss was such a basic thing, a thing easily given, but she wanted this kiss to be more. She wanted Samuel to know that she’d never thought him a coward.

She wanted him to know that she loved him.

Yes,
love.
No matter who she married, no matter if she never again saw him, she would always love this man. Loving him was beyond her control. Even though Samuel was the wrong man to marry, the wrong man to spend the rest of her life with, she couldn’t help loving him.

So she kissed him softly, her lips as gentle as she could make them. She moved over his mouth, murmuring incoherent endearments, finally licking so that she could taste him. She would need to remember this moment later, his taste, his lips, what kissing Samuel felt like. She would have to hold the memory in her heart forever. This memory would be the only thing she had of him.

He moved suddenly, grasping her upper arms, and she didn’t know whether he sought to push her away or draw her closer. She panicked then. He couldn’t leave her before she’d shown him that she loved him.

“Please,” she murmured against his lips.

His fingers tightened on her arms.

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Please. Let me.”

His brows drew together over his beautiful coffee-brown eyes as if he were puzzled. She pressed her palms against his chest. She’d never be able to move him against his will, but he let her. He stepped back, and when she pressed again, he backed again, until his legs hit the side of her bed.

He glanced at the bed behind him and then at her. “Emeline—”

“Shhh.” She placed her fingers against his lips. “Please.”

He searched her eyes a moment and then must have understood her incoherent plea. He nodded.

She smiled tremblingly at him. For this night, she would put away all thoughts of the future and what would come. Her anxieties, her fears, all the burdens she carried, all the people who depended on her. She would forget them for a few precious hours. Gently she drew his coat from his shoulders, taking care not to jostle his injuries. She folded the garment carefully and placed it on a table; then she began unbuttoning his plain brown waistcoat. She was conscious of her breathing, shallow and quick with nervousness, and his as well, deep and even. He watched her undress him, making no move to either help or hinder, his hands idle by his side.

She glanced up and met his eyes and felt a wash of heat in her cheeks. What an intimate act this was, to undress a man.

He smiled faintly as he shrugged off his waistcoat. She took a deep breath and started on his shirt. His hands came up to rest on her hips, lightly, but she felt the heat of his fingers even through the layers of cloth. Her hands shook, fumbling with a button. He leaned over her and kissed the top of her head. His body surrounded her, and she inhaled his scent: wool and linen, leather and parsley. She pulled apart the edges of his shirt, looking at his bare chest. His skin was so beautiful; she ran her fingertips over his collarbone and pressed her palm onto his chest. She could feel the wiry hair beneath, and under that the slow beat of his heart. He was here with her, so real. How would she be able to bear it when he wasn’t? When he was across a wide, wide ocean?

She pushed that thought away as she urged him onto the bed. He sat and watched her under hooded eyes, waiting for her next move.

She dropped to her knees and began to unlace his moccasins. He made to lift her up.

She looked at him. “Please.”

His hands dropped.

The laces were made of some type of leather, and she bent over them, concentrating on discovering how they worked. She was aware, though, of his legs before her and her supplicant position. The pose was humble and at the same time erotic.

The first moccasin came off, and she started on the next. He stroked her hair as she worked, silent, never commenting, and she wondered what he thought of this. Yesterday he’d been so angry. She looked up and saw only need in his eyes.

He bent and kissed her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, holding her head now with both hands, and she was lost, forgetting her purpose, forgetting what she wanted. She swayed and placed her hands on his thighs to steady herself as he arched her head back, feeding on her mouth. Oh, Lord, she wanted this man. He brought her forward, and she was enclosed, still kneeling between his thighs, hard and strong, on either side of her. And in front...She smoothed her palms up the leather covering his thighs until they inevitably met where the leather stopped and there was only fabric at the juncture of his legs. She gasped, her inhale lost in his kiss, for he was hard and straining already against his breeches. She cradled his length, tracing him through the cloth.

He caught her hands.

She broke the kiss and glanced up at him. “Let me.”

His face was dark, flushed from passion, and he looked in no mood to concede her anything.

“Please,” she whispered.

He opened his hands, spreading them palms up on his thighs in a gesture of acquiescence. She squeezed him gently through the fabric and then let go to work on opening the flap of his breeches. She peeled back the cloth and fumbled with his smallclothes until she found him, ruddy and proud underneath. The hair surrounding his cock was almost black, a shockingly private sight. This should only be for her, she knew on a primitive level. This man, this sight, this penis was hers.

She stared for a moment and then looked up at him. “Take them off.”

Her tone was probably too commanding, for he half smiled at her, but she didn’t care at the moment. She wanted him entirely nude; she wanted to imprint the sight of him on her mind. He shucked his leggings and the rest of his clothes, and she stood to push him back onto the bed, slipping out of her wrap before climbing in next to him, wearing only her chemise. He lay on his back and immediately felt for her, but she slid down his length, out of his reach.

“Emeline—”

“Shhh.”

She was at the level of his manhood, and the creature fascinated her. One fingertip traced his length, bumping over his veins. She knew that there were women who found a man’s genitals ugly and rude, but she had never been one of them. Had Danny lived longer, had she been a more experienced wife, eventually she would’ve explored him, but they’d never had that time. Now she was determined not to lose this opportunity with Samuel.

She studied him, beguiled by the way his foreskin pulled back to accommodate his erection, enthralled by the slight curve upward. She flicked her eyes to him and saw that he was watching her intently as she examined him, and a thought occurred to her that, at any other time, she never would’ve voiced. They didn’t have years to overcome shyness and the strictures of polite society. They had only tonight and she would not waste this little time.

So she asked, “What do you do when you’re alone?”

He raised his eyebrows, and for a moment she was disappointed. He would pretend not to understand her vulgar question. But, still holding her gaze, he moved his right hand down and wrapped it about his length. Her eyes dropped from his then so that she could watch. He held his penis much more firmly than she would’ve dared and moved his hand up and down. On the up stroke, the head of his cock nearly disappeared into his fist.