She’d given him everything he wanted. She’d allowed him to place his coat again around her shoulders. She’d walked quietly with him back into the drawing room, had waited while he closed the doors, and then had crossed the drawing room with him. At the foot of the stairs, she had turned to him. And Sam had picked her up, holding her in his arms, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, her face nestled against his shoulder. Wordlessly, he had climbed the sweep of stairs. She weighed nothing. Even to himself, he seemed more to float upward than to take the steps one at a time. Her love carried him, he knew, in a much more real sense than he had her.
They’d encountered no one on their way to his room. And Sam was especially glad tonight that he had no valet, no one standing there to be shocked or embarrassed when he entered the room carrying Yancey. He felt certain that had they seen another person, the magic spell that wove itself around them would have been irretrievably broken. They both would have come to their senses, and she would have asked to be put down. And then she would have left him. But nothing like that happened. And so it was that they found themselves standing in Sam’s bedroom, beside his bed, and facing each other.
Sam worried. She was so impossibly small and fragile. She wanted this to happen. He knew that. She’d even been the one to say so. But still, he feared that this wasn’t the right time. Not the best moment. She’d been through so much. But on another level, a physical one, he feared he would crush her under him or bruise her … or otherwise hurt her. Not intentionally. Never intentionally. But the act of loving could be less than gentle. He started to speak his fears, even opening his mouth—
“No.” She put her fingers over his lips. “Don’t speak. Please.”
Looking into her eyes, holding her gaze, Sam clasped her fingers and kissed her palm … softly, gently. He watched her face, saw her mouth open, heard her breathing quicken. Her green eyes glazed with desire. Sam slowly straightened her arm and kissed the inside of her wrist. A tiny moan escaped her. With nipping, biting kisses, he pulled her ever so slowly to him as he worked his way to the hollow of her elbow. He kissed deeply of her there, his other arm going around her waist.
She’d told him not to speak, but he couldn’t stop the words that, for him, were as much a part of lovemaking as was his lover’s touch. “I want you, Yancey. As I’ve never wanted anyone before.”
“Oh, Sam. You are so good to me.” She cupped his face with her free hand, her eyes shining. Then she moved her fingers until they were against his lips. And again he kissed them. She surprised him by taking her fingers to her mouth and wetting them with her kiss. Then she put them back against his lips. Her expression, as she captured his gaze, pulsed with a passion all its own. “I want you, too. In all ways. I will deny you nothing. I have no defenses where you are concerned, Sam. I stand naked before you.”
“Not quite yet,” he remarked, his body exploding with a rush of desire. He pulled her to him, kissing her mouth, plundering it, taking from it the life she gave him. He’d meant to go slowly their first time together. He’d meant to seduce her, to know every part of her body, to feed his hunger for her. But the things she said, the way she looked at him, the very feel of her in his arms, would not allow for tenderness. His body wanted only to know hers. He wanted to feel himself inside her, pushing against her, his strokes—
Yancey was unbuttoning his shirt. Sam broke their kiss and lifted his shirt over his head, shrugging out of it and throwing it to the floor.
“Oh, Sam, you’re magnificent. Look at this chest.” Thoroughly enjoying herself, her face alight with delight, she ran her small hands expertly over him, exciting him beyond measure.
“I love this hair here. So dark. So crisp.” She splayed her fingers, the diamond on her finger flashing with her every movement. “I’ve been dying to get my hands on you.” She raised the green eyes of a temptress to him and affected a pout. “It teases me, you know, peeking out of your shirts.”
“Bad chest hair,” Sam said, thoroughly enchanted with her, yet frowning as if he were scolding a dog. He was relieved to see nothing in her face or her manner of the broken little girl she’d been downstairs. So damned relieved.
Yancey chuckled, capturing his attention as she planted a quick kiss on his chest. Then, she turned around, her back to him, and said, “Undo me, please.”
Never a man to question a woman’s orders, and in a fever of desire, Sam started on the row of tiny buttons. As he did, Yancey began unpinning her hair. Button after button came undone. More and more of her thick, lustrous auburn hair fell down her back and over his hands. So soft. Like her skin. Sam had the buttons undone to her waist before he realized that she wore nothing underneath the dress. The realization took his breath, and then had him releasing it in a slow, sensual exhalation.
Her flawless, smooth skin was exposed to his eyes. At last.
Her arms were at her sides. Sam held on to them and bent to kiss his way down her spine. She wriggled at the sensations and, moaning, arched her back. Shirtless, about to bulge out of his pants, Sam squatted behind her on his haunches. He wanted the remainder of those damn buttons to come loose. Now. He worked them, almost beyond control, silently cursing each one and threatening to tear the fabric away from her.
But then … the dress fell away from her, pooling at her ankles and leaving her, like him, unclothed from the waist up.
Every male instinct within him begged him to turn her around. He wanted to see her breasts, wanted to taste her flesh, and take her nipples in his mouth. Wanted to flick his tongue against each one until they were hard buds and she could no longer stand on her own. And he would do that. But first he untied her crinolines with a slow pull of the satin bow that held them in place. These garments too went the way of the dress. Sam damn near lost consciousness … Yancey also had on no bloomers, no smallclothes of any kind.
“My God, Yancey, you are so beautiful.”
She turned her head, her movement swinging her long hair across her back, and peered at him over her shoulder. Her eyes slanted sensually. “I’m so glad you think so. Robin was horrified.”
“Poor Robin. But, oh, I think so. I very much think so. You are beautiful,” he quickly assured her, grinning, feeling his blood rush wildly through his veins. Though he throbbed with need for her, he couldn’t reach out to touch her. He couldn’t move. She was that exquisite. A thing of beauty to be enjoyed. Squatting there behind her, his weight on the balls of his feet, Sam ran a hand over his mouth and chin and feasted his eyes on her perfect little heart-shaped bottom. If he could have sculpted one as an example of feminine perfection, it would have been this one, hers. Peaches-and-cream skin covered taut, firm muscle. “You are an absolute work of art, Yancey.”
She still peered at him over her shoulder. “Are you an art lover, Sam?”
She was going to drive him mad. Sam nodded, finally catching enough of his breath so that he was again capable of moving. He wrapped an arm gently around her unbearably tiny waist and tugged her back to him. “I am the world’s foremost lover of art. As of this moment.”
Her chuckling response ended as a tiny gasp … Sam was kissing the small of her back. He smoothed his free hand over her firm buttocks. She dug her nails into his arm that he’d wrapped around her waist. A satyr’s grin claimed Sam’s mouth. Her body felt and tasted just as he knew she would. He wondered only if the rest of her tasted like this warm, rich cream of her back.
Coming to his feet and directing her movements with his hands, Sam turned her until she faced him. The sight of her staggered him. He raised his eyebrows in an invitation for her to step out of the cloud of her clothing enveloping her ankles. She did so, also slipping out of her shoes, with Sam holding her hand as if they were preparing to dance a rather risqué minuet.
Then, she stood before him fully naked, unashamed, unabashed. Now Sam’s heart all but stopped. Her hair had fallen over her shoulders and hung almost to her waist. Peeking through the long curling dark auburn tresses were her breasts, each one a milky-white, perfectly shaped handful topped with a rosy pink nipple. High and firm. Overcome, he had to remind himself to breathe.
Her figure itself was the stuff of romantic poems. A narrow waist and gently flaring hips that showed a hint of the bones underneath. Her smooth, flat belly boasted a dark round mole to one side of her navel. Sam’s first impression was that of a tiny moon orbiting the sun. Then, the auburn vee at the juncture of her rounded thighs captured his attention and held him riveted.
“Sam, I feel I should tell you that, well, you’re not my … first.”
Still holding her hand, still very much under her spell, Sam looked into her green eyes … and smiled. “Good. Then that means I don’t have to explain everything to you. Or worry that you’ll be frightened by the sight of an aroused man.” Her face colored prettily and she lowered her gaze, causing her hair to fall forward and hide her face. Sam sobered. “I’m sorry. Was I crude?”
Still not looking at him, she shook her head. Her hair danced with the motion. “No. It’s just that you’re an exceptional man, Sam Treyhorne. Most men would—”
“Uh-uh.” She raised her head, showing him widened, worried eyes. Sam tenderly tucked her hair behind her ears. “If I were most men, Yancey, then I wouldn’t be exceptional, would I? And you’re not my first, either. I hope that doesn’t diminish me in any way in your eyes?”
Her smile became an imp’s grin. “Not at all. I’m glad, too, because I would hate to have to walk you through this.”
Sam laughed outright, tugging her to him. “Come here, you.”
Unexpectedly, she put a hand against his bare chest and resisted him. “No. I don’t want to be the only one with no clothes on. Take off your pants.”
Amused, he released her and arched his eyebrows. “Yes, ma’am.”
Yancey made a face at her own expense. “I’m sorry. Being a Pinkerton made me bossy.”
“You misunderstand. I wasn’t complaining. And I like a woman who knows her mind.” Sam slipped out of his shoes and tugged, one at a time, at his stockings. Then, barefooted and bare-chested, he put his hands to his trousers’ opening.
Yancey surprised him by stepping up and brushing his hands away. “Oh, no. No, no. Allow me.”
Sam gestured widely. “Please. Do as you wish.”
“And we both know what you wish, don’t we?” She pursed her mouth primly.
“I can only hope so.”
Yancey rolled her eyes and expertly worked his buttons. As she did, she grinned up at him and then almost sent him to his knees when she, without warning, captured one of his hard, flat nipples in her mouth. Gasping, his eyes closing almost of their own will, Sam had to grab her arms and hold on as she swirled her tongue around and around over the sensitive bud there. From the touch of her fingers against his skin, he realized that she’d worked all the buttons and was even now slowly lowering his trousers, along with his smallclothes, down his hips.
In only moments, he would be naked and proudly jutting, free of restraint.
Blessedly, she released his nipple, but only so she could kiss her way down his chest and belly as she took his pants ever lower. In a fever of wanting to be inside her, Sam gripped her shoulders and then caressed her arms. “Oh, evil woman,” he growled, his voice guttural.
She took her mouth away from his skin only long enough to ask, in a husky whisper, “Do you want me to stop?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
“Now who’s evil?” she quipped, kneeling gracefully in front of him and going down on her slender haunches to help him step out of his pants. When he did, she tossed them aside and met what was now just above her face level. “Oh, Sam. Look at you. I feel I should applaud.”
He looked down at himself. “It wouldn’t be the first time. But … if you must.”
She smacked playfully at his thigh. “Conceited man.”
Shaking her head and laughing, she pulled herself up to her knees and held him by his hips. “On second thought, I have a better idea.”
She then lavished her attention on the most sensitive part of Sam’s entire body. Gently holding her head, and groaning at the exquisite torture of her mouth on him, he had to tense every muscle in his body just so he could remain standing. Sam’s only lucid thought was that the Spanish Inquisition had never devised a torture as cruel as this one. He could stand no more, literally or figuratively. Already hating himself, Sam pulled back and away from Yancey and helped her to her feet. She smiled at him … just smiled.
“Yancey, you…” He could say no more. He lifted her up under her arms and she clung to him, wrapping her legs around his waist.
Kissing her, caressing her back, and stroking her hair all in a fevered rush, Sam worked them over to the bed and managed to brace himself with a hand and a knee against the mattress. Yancey let go of him and was now on her back, stretched out suggestively, her pose leaving nothing to the imagination.
Sam’s breath caught. He could contain himself no longer. He slid off the bed and knelt beside it, lifting her legs and pulling her to him. The instant his tongue found her center, she gasped, and he heard her clutching at the bedding. “Oh, Sam, oh Sam, oh my…” A sound of need, of compelling desire followed. But no more words … only mewling gasps that urged him on. She rotated her hips slowly and seductively against his mouth and arched her back.
Sam continued his loving ministrations, eagerly awaiting the moment when she would still … and tense. And then, it was there. Feeling himself stiffen even more in response to her pleasure, Sam flicked his tongue against her bud with a steady pressure that had Yancey’s muscles rippling and jerking in a spasmodic rhythm. She cried out, and he held her hips firmly, helping her ride the crest of her release. Her body opened to him, rewarding him with a rush of warmth and wetness. He sipped and sipped of her until she was drained and begging him for surcease.
Almost out of his mind now with his need for her, Sam could wait no more. He came to his feet and leaned over her. Her knees bent, Yancey raised her arms to him. “Oh, Sam, you make me so happy.”
“Good. Because I love you, Yancey.”
She smiled, warm and genuine. “Come to me, Sam.”
That wasn’t exactly the answer he needed … he’d hoped she’d say she loved him, too … but, under the circumstances, it was the exact answer he wanted. Needing no further encouragement, Sam positioned himself at the side of the bed and pulled Yancey to him. He entered her in a smooth, slow, slide that left both of them gasping with the exquisite pleasure of their coupling. When he was fully sheathed in her, Sam held still, his eyes closed, just savoring the moment.
She was as he’d known she would be. Hot. Slick. And tight around him. Opening his eyes, meeting Yancey’s inviting green eyes, he held her hips. She wrapped her legs around his waist. And perhaps sensing what was to come, Yancey clutched wide-eyed at the bedding. She was wise to do so, because this first time was not one for finesse. The need was too great. Sam was helpless to stop his body from seeking its pleasure. It instantly found its rhythm with her and pounded against her, wanting its release, seeking her center, wanting to take her there with him. All too soon, Sam felt himself tighten, felt his member swell … and heard Yancey make that guttural sound at the back of her throat that told him she was near.
He forced a slower pace on himself, waiting for her, pushing into her, sliding out of her, then back in, penetrating his fullness into her enveloping depths. Then she moaned and stilled as she had done when he’d held her in his mouth. Excited beyond imagining, Sam quickened his pace. Yancey matched him stroke for stroke. She was absolutely exhilarating. Such wanton abandon. Sam leaned further over her, and Yancey gripped his arms. The pleasure was unbearable. He must have relief. He must. Driven wild, Sam took them to the height of the loving precipice, and then held them there, suspended … carrying them finally over into the chasm of pleasure realized.
Done, empty, sated, happy, Sam fell atop Yancey, bracing his elbows on the bed to hold his weight off her. He tried only to breathe as he watched her face. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was open, and her cheeks were colored a dark pink from their sexual exertion. And she had never been more beautiful. Sam smoothed a hand over the satin-slick sheen of wetness on her ribs.
She opened her eyes and smiled at him, weakly putting her arms around his neck. He hadn’t lied, he told himself. He would never let her go. She belonged to him. To Stonebridge. To England. She was truly the Duchess of Somerset. And he would have her. No matter what it took. No matter what he had to do, where he had to go … he would keep her. And God help any man who ever, ever tried to hurt her. Because he, Samuel Isaac Treyhorne, the Twelfth Duke of Somerset, would kill him. Or be killed trying.
* * *
Yancey awoke that next morning to find herself part of a tangle of arms and legs and sheets. She felt so deliciously sore and wonderfully lethargic. And decadently naked. Last night Sam had used her body in pleasurable ways she would never have thought possible. Wicked, wicked man. She smiled, relishing now the feel of his warm muscled chest under her cheek. This was heaven. Lying pressed to his side, her head nestled at the juncture of his shoulder and his chest, she had apparently draped an arm and a leg over him sometime during the night. He, in turn, lay on his back and had an arm around her. He was fast asleep. His even breathing told her that much.
Seized with a sudden desire to lovingly study his every feature, Yancey ever so carefully, so as not to awaken him, raised her head. Her heart full, her eyes those of a lover, she feasted on the sight he made. His strong neck, his skin so taut. She eased her hand up his chest and touched his throat. Surprising her, and halting her movements, was the huge diamond ring on her left hand. Then it came to her. Oh, of course. Sam had pressed it on her last night. Smiling, shaking her head at the memory of how she had resisted him over wearing it, she gave in again to her desire to touch him and to study him.
After pushing her hair back from her face, she ever so slowly edged a finger up to his jaw and felt of the beard stubble there. Sam’s mouth twitched and, without waking, he brushed at his jaw where she’d touched it. Grinning, biting down on her bottom lip, Yancey pulled her head back, out of his way. She waited for him to settle again into a deep sleep. Then her grin changed to a smile for all the good things in her heart. This man was such an answer to all her prayers.
Her smile faded. An answer to her prayers? She didn’t remember praying for a man to love. Ever. If anything, she’d prayed that one didn’t come along … ever. And yet, here he was. So, didn’t that make him more of a complication in her life, rather than the answer to anything? She frowned. Probably so. But right at this moment he didn’t feel like a complication. Or seem like one. Yet he was, and she knew it. He was also a heartache waiting to happen. Yancey exhaled sadly and rested her hand against his chest, propping her chin atop it as she stared at him, so close and warm and sleeping.
Suddenly, she wanted to cry. What was she going to do about him? He’d been so wonderful to her with her awful confession. For the first time, the memory of her deed didn’t overwhelm her. Perhaps telling him had set her on the road to healing that wound. It certainly seemed so. But he’d been wonderful in every other way, too. Such a gentleman he’d been at supper. He’d made her laugh. And that was hard to do. He’d made her feel whole and welcome. That was even harder to do.
Then he’d told her—and more than once—that he loved her. She hadn’t been able to say it back. For one thing, that word held such permanence in its four little letters. He’d also told her that he wouldn’t let her go. But he would. She knew that. She also knew what he meant when he said it. Not that he’d physically stop her. He wouldn’t. What he meant was he wouldn’t want her to go. She shied away from the realization that maybe she wouldn’t want to go, either.
No, that couldn’t be right. That wasn’t what she was feeling. Yancey quickly conjured up the men from her past. There weren’t many, only three. They were good men, too, and not a one of them had wanted her to go, either. But she always had. One of them, Spence Caulfield, a deputy sheriff out in Wyoming, where one of her cases had taken her, had said that he loved her and had tried to hold her with that. She’d cared about him, of course. But she’d still left. It had been easy to do, which had told her everything she needed to know.
But now, with Sam? Oh, Sam. Yancey sighed, moving her hand only enough to allow her to plant a tender kiss on his rib. Overcome, she laid her cheek against him, where she’d kissed him. So solid and warm. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to go. Or that she could. He loved her, and she hated that he did. Because she feared she loved him, too. Could she do it? she wondered. Could she give her unconditional love to a man forever and marry him and give him children and be happy with that?
She blinked, pursing her lips and staring at the tangle of sheet that covered them. She didn’t know if a life of domesticity would be enough for her. She was too used to using her mind and living by her wits. It would be hard to settle for anything less. Not that Sam was a mindless imbecile who wouldn’t excite her and challenge her. He would. But the thing of it was she loved her career.
She’d worked hard at it and had built up quite the reputation as a top agent. That meant a lot to her. Marrying and living in England—or even America—would end all that. Mr. Pinkerton did not encourage his female agents to marry. Nor did he encourage them to stay on once they did. But every married one that Yancey knew of had quit because her husband had insisted on it, and not Mr. Pinkerton. Yancey didn’t want to be one of those women. She knew how she and the remaining female agents disparaged their sisters for leaving, and how they’d assured themselves they were better off without a husband and children.
That brought Yancey back to her original question. Would settling down and giving up the excitement of the job be fulfilling enough for her? Did she even want a family? A husband and children? And what about a lifetime spent in England among the nobility and in London for half the year? Could she be happy making social calls all day and abiding by strict rules of etiquette? Would she miss the danger, the excitement, of a new case, the delicious subterfuge of donning a new disguise?
Or getting shot at and chased and living on the edge and never having a home or anyone to come home to?
Yancey frowned. Where had that come from? But she knew. Her darned old heart, the fickle thing. But speaking of her work, what would Mr. Pinkerton say if she were to quit, if she were to send him a letter of resignation? She couldn’t even begin to imagine how disappointed he would be. Then, in her mind, she heard him saying, that day in his office when he’d told her she was coming to England, that the duke would probably end up wishing she were the woman he’d married. Yancey smiled. Truer words had never been spoken.
Sam loved her. Sighing with the contentment of that truth, she hugged Sam to her, snuggling in next to him as close as she could get without actually crawling under his skin. As soon as she was settled, though, her heart—or was it her mind?—had an observation it felt compelled to make. What Mr. Pinkerton—or even she—hadn’t considered that day, this ornery part of her self commented, was … would she come to wish she were the woman Sam had married?
Oh, I don’t know, Yancey fussed, frowning. Why did she have to think about this now? Couldn’t she just enjoy their warm, loving nest for a little bit longer? Sometimes she hated her overactive mind. It just never gave up. She felt certain, Yancey fussed, that if she dwelled on this long enough, she would ruin her mood and the coming day … and would end up wanting to scream.
At that exact second, a scream shattered the morning quiet.