Christine Merrill - Regency Temptation

‘Since you will not speak plainly, I must,’ she said, ‘so that you cannot pretend to misunderstand me. If you offer, I will accept. If you wish it, I will go with you to Gretna tonight.’

‘St Aldric …’ he said, almost choking on the name.

‘Is nothing to me,’ she said, laying a hand against his cheek. ‘Not compared to you.’

Finally his strength failed. He laid his own hand over hers, pressing her palm to his mouth. His lips were hot against her skin. Even hotter as they met hers when he released her hand and pulled her forwards to take her lips.

And if she had thought this kiss would be like the one that they had already shared, she was proved wrong. He opened her mouth with a steady pressure and his tongue touched hers, advancing and retreating. At first it was a gentle tide, but it grew to a storm and she gave herself to it, trembling. She clung to his body and he held her there, between his legs so that she could feel his manhood growing against her belly. The thought of it pressing into her made her moan into his mouth.

He was aroused. She had but to give in to him and soon he would be beyond control. There would be no hesitation on her part. When the moment came, she would succumb. Once they had lain together, he would never leave her again.

She pressed his hand against her breast, urging him to stroke it through her gown. At the merest touch, he grew harder. He raised his other hand, kneading both, as if to prove that every inch of her body belonged to him. His kisses took on a desperate quality, as though he was trying to reach into her soul with each thrust of his tongue so that he might claim that as well.

She had imagined giving herself in passive submission, but suddenly she needed more than that. She wanted his hands on her bare skin and his body filling the wet empty place between her legs. As she knelt before him, he trapped her body between his thighs. So she ran her hands over them, back and forth, each time growing closer to their apex.

Her palms itched to caress him. It would not take much more than a touch, she was sure, and he would be irrevocably hers. Her fingertips grazed him, once, twice, three times through the cloth, and then they settled on the buttons of his breeches.

He pushed her away suddenly, scrambling back on the bed as though he could not put enough distance between them. His expression was wild, eyes fixed and staring, lips drawn back, as his head shook once in an emphatic ‘no’. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was as gesture of revulsion.

He pointed towards the door.

‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered. She was near tears again. She swallowed hard to stop them. Crying was the lowest type of female trick. She would not give in to it with Sam, no matter how much she hurt. ‘If you love me …’

‘It is not love,’ he said with finality, cold and professional again. ‘I doubt I am even capable of the feeling. But if you value me, as you say you do, get up off your knees and get out of this room.’

‘Leave you?’ Now that she had finally found him, he wanted her to go?

‘Marry St Aldric. Be safe and happy. But for God’s sake, woman, go away and leave me in peace.’ He stood and grabbed her again, but it was not for another kiss. Instead, he hauled her up off the floor and spun her away from him. Then he opened the door and pushed her through it and out in the hall.

The oak panel slammed behind her, cutting off her words of apology.

You must understand, my boy, it is quite impossible …

Sam looked wildly around the room, searching for the bottle that he had already packed. Rum. Stinging, harsh and nothing like her kiss. He pulled the cork and took a mouthful, swished it and spit it into the basin, expelling the memory of her taste.

Nothing he had seen in his studies at land or at sea could explain the feelings coursing through him now. He understood the pumping of the blood, the mechanical and chemical processes and increases in humour that led to arousal and release.

But none of it explained the demon that possessed him, the maggot in his brain that made him want the one woman he could not have.

It is my fault really. I should not have raised you together, as I did. At the very least, I should have made clear the relationship between you, to prevent this misunderstanding …

Lord Thorne’s words were as fresh in his mind now as they had been on the day he had heard them. And they offered no more comfort now than they had then.

Your birth was the mistake of a youthful man. My wife was understanding, of course. She agreed that we should take you in. A natural son might ease her loneliness. We had no child of our own. And when, finally, we were blessed, she did not survive long enough to know our Evelyn .

Why could they not have left him where he was? If duty needed to be done, it could have been done at a distance, with a series of discreet and anonymous payments to guardians and schools.

And then he might never have met Evelyn Thorne. A life with no Evie in it was his greatest desire, and his worst nightmare, hopelessly mixed.

I could have acknowledged you. Perhaps I should have …

Before puberty, perhaps. Sam laughed bitterly at the thought, and took another swig of the rum to wash the bitterness away. If he had understood what Evie was to him, then he would never have fallen in love with her.

And as he had done so many nights before, he went to the desk and took up his beads and a Bible so worn from use that it fell open automatically to Leviticus.

The nakedness of thy sister, the daughter of thy father, or the daughter of thy mother, whether born at home, or born abroad even their nakedness thou shalt not uncover .

He prayed, as he always did, for strength and for forgiveness.

‘Evelyn! Stop tormenting that poor kitten and see to your hem. I swear, girl, you cannot keep the stitches straight if you allow a beast to swipe at the edge of the linen.’

‘I am sorry, Aunt Jordan.’ Evie glanced at the work in her lap and tried to raise any interest in it. These sessions of needlework were another concession to her father’s wish that she behave like a young lady. On the few evenings when she had no other engagement, she was forced to endure them, along with critiques of her deportment. As usual, they were a trial both to her and the poor aunt charged with teaching her.

She set the shirt aside and lifted the kitten into her lap, offering it the end of the string to chase. ‘It is hardly fair to blame Diana for my indifferent needlework. I was equally bad at it before she arrived.’

‘Your manners have improved much in the last years,’ her aunt reminded her. ‘And you are on the cusp of success with St Aldric. Snaring a peer is much more challenging than plain sewing. Your stitching would improve as well, if you would but make an effort at it.’

If it was put to some other purpose than making shirts, then perhaps she would try harder. She remembered the pages in Sam’s text books that explained suturing and wondered if large wounds were more difficult than the cuts she had closed. The stitches would need to be bigger, of course, and more numerous. As she poked at the linen, she imagined the resistance of skin, and the difficulties created when the subject flinched …

‘Evelyn!’

The needle slipped and she pricked her finger instead of the cloth. She waved her hand in the air for a moment, trying to shake the pain away, then held it high to keep the drop of blood that formed from falling on the work. This sent her mind to the various methods to staunch bleeding, and the efficacy of causing it when one had an excess of certain humours.