Samantha Page 16

  "Delivering Knollwood to Bow Street. Once he's been handed over, they'll join us here." Rem placed the leather bag on Boyd's counter and flipped it open. "May Knollwood spend one year rotting in Newgate for every pound in this bag."

  "What are you going to do with the money?"

  Rem snapped the bag shut. "Effect a little justice of my own. It's but a fraction of all Knollwood's taken, but perhaps it can restore one man's dignity."

  "You're going to pay off Goddfrey's debts." It was a statement, not a question; one Boyd didn't need answered. He knew his friend's mind, just as he knew Rem would try his damnedest to make certain Goddfrey never knew how the funds were repaid. "You know where Goddfrey is staying?"

  A nod. "I do. A missive informing him of Knollwood's capture will be on its way in an hour. In the interim, we're right back where we started." Tucking the leather bag away, Rem lit a cheroot and took an appreciative swallow of gin. "Unless, of course, Templar and Harris have anything to report. Or Johnson—have you checked on him?"

  "More than once. The docks have been quiet," Boyd replied. "But then, so have the seas. Whoever's running this scheme has decided to be cautious."

  "I'm not surprised. He doesn't want to be caught."

  "What about the companies our men checked out? Did their records provide any clues?"

  "We'll find out as soon as Harris and Templar get here. I don't expect major revelations, though. If they'd uncovered anything significant, either you or I would have heard from them."

  Boyd cleared his throat. "What about Samantha?"

  "What about her?"

  "Did you learn anything from her?"

  The irony of the question almost made Rem laugh aloud. "Quite a bit. None of it, however, had to do with the missing ships."

  "What did it have to do with?"

  "Me." Rem regarded the glowing tip of his cheroot. "Evidently, she shares your opinion that I'm running from myself."

  "How much have you told her?"

  "Nothing."

  "Startling, wouldn't you say?" Boyd sat down beside his friend. "You've known how many women—each one more worldly and sophisticated than the last? Yet not one of them has seen beneath your accomplished veneer. And now this very young, very innocent girl bursts into your life and in a matter of days understands you better than you understand yourself." Boyd paused, praying the significance of his words would sink in. "She obviously cares a great deal about you."

  "Obviously."

  "Are you ready to admit you care in return?"

  "I admitted that days ago," Rem returned in a strangled tone. "It's what I plan to do about those feelings that plagues me. Hell, Boyd," he shook his head in disbelief, "I lose my mind when I'm with her. I act like an uncontrolled youth, forgetting everything: who she is, who I am, what I'm supposed to be doing. I can't let this happen."

  "Why? Because she's a possible link to our mission? Or because she's a threat to your carefully guarded heart?"

  "Both."

  "At least now you're being honest. Not only with me, but with yourself."

  "My personal feelings aren't the issue. Unless Templar and Harris turn up something, we have no source of information but Samantha.... I can't stop seeing her." Rem met Boyd's knowing gaze, and his jaw set. "All right. My personal feelings are the issue. I don't want to stop seeing her."

  "Then don't. She's a beautiful, warm, loving young woman. Perhaps she can give you back a bit of what you've lost."

  "And what will I take from her in return?"

  "What will you deprive her of if you walk away?"

  "Pain. Hurt. Social ruin."

  "Do you think she'd escape unscathed if you ended it now?" Boyd put in quietly. "I'm not prying, Rem, but it sounds as if things have progressed beyond casual conversation and a perfunctory kiss on the hand."

  Rein's silence answered his question.

  "Think about it, Rem. I understand you're trying to be honorable. But Samantha's chastity is not all that's at stake here."

  A corner of Rem's mouth lifted. "According to Samantha, my concern is not for her virtue, but for my own self-protection."

  "She's a very astute young lady."

  "Dammit, Boyd!" Rem's smile vanished. "Why have you undergone such a complete change of heart? Am I now the only one who recognizes what Samantha stands to lose?"

  "No. But circumstances have changed ... feelings have changed. Remember, there are all kinds of losses. Perhaps Samantha perceives physical innocence as less painful to relinquish than emotional austerity."

  "Perhaps Samantha is too naive to know what losing her innocence would mean to her ... and her family. She's so damned trusting, living vicariously through one of her novels, seeing only the best in everyone." Abruptly, Rem remembered something Boyd should know. "Which reminds me, Samantha has a new lady's maid."

  "Oh?" Boyd's expression was quizzical.

  "It's Cynthia."

  "Cynthia?" Boyd started. "Annie's Cynthia?"

  "One and the same."

  "What is she doing with Samantha?"

  "I told you—she's her lady's maid. Apparently, they met several days ago. Cynthia told Samantha she hated working at Annie's. Samantha offered her an alternative."

  "So Samantha knows about Cynthia's former occupation?"

  "Yes, my avenging romantic told me so herself, defended Cynthia as if they were old friends."

  "I see." A spark kindled in Boyd's eyes. "Interesting."

  "I thought you might say that."

  A noise at the door interrupted them. Cautiously, Boyd waited until he'd heard the customary signal required from his after-hours guests. Three knocks ... a pause ... two knocks more. Satisfied, he rose to admit Templar and Harris.

  "Knollwood's at Bow Street," Templar announced, shedding his coat. "From there he'll go to Old Bailey, then Newgate. We won't be seeing that cur for a long, long time."

  "Good." Nodding his approval, Rem handed each man a wad of bills.

  "Is that from Knollwood's booty?"

  "No, from mine. Knollwood's funds are being put to another use. One that needn't concern you."

  The men knew better than to pry.

  "This might be the only money we see," Harris announced, helping himself to a drink. "We don't have a damned thing for you, Gresham."

  "I'm not surprised." Rem tossed off the remains of his gin. "You shouldn't be either. Whoever's sinking these ships isn't stupid. Nor is he anxious to get caught. It's up to us to be shrewder and more persistent than he. How many companies have you visited?"

  "Four companies, three merchants. All with impeccable records."

  "That leaves at least six more companies and an equal number of merchants to investigate. You should have something for me by Wednesday night."

  "Two days?" Templar blanched.

  "Two days." Rem replenished his drink. "I don't pay you to dawdle, Templar. I pay you to work—hard. So"—Rem lifted his glass—"shall we say Annie's? Wednesday night, two a.m.?"

  Harris and Templar exchanged glances. Resignedly, they nodded. "We'll be there, Gresham."

  By the time Sammy arrived at Carlton House Wednesday night, she no longer wanted to view the Prince Regent's palatial mansion or take part in the enormous gathering within. Her head throbbed from idle chatter, her heart ached with loneliness, and her mind screamed with frustration.

  She hadn't heard a word from Rem since their broodingly silent carriage ride home from Vauxhall two nights past. She missed him dreadfully, found herself searching the crowds for him at every ball she and Aunt Gertie attended. He'd not been present at a single one, and there had been countless. Carlton House was her third stop this evening—and definitely her last.

  "Samantha . . . what a delightful surprise!"

  Clarissa's insincere greeting accosted Sammy like a bucket of ice water. Fervently, she wished she were anywhere but here. "Good evening, Lady Sheltane," she returned, forcing a smile.

  "Please, call me Clarissa. After all, we're both friends of Re
m's, aren't we?"

  Sammy flinched. "Did the marquis accompany you tonight... Clarissa, or is he still ailing?"

  "He's still not well, poor dear. But he did manage to meet with your brother again regarding my yacht. Oh, it should be splendid."

  "I'm sure." Where oh where was Aunt Gertie?

  "Samantha! It is you! I thought I saw your lovely face brighten the room a moment ago."

  "Stephen." Sammy wanted to throw her arms around Viscount Anders's neck. "I'm so happy to see you."

  The warmth of her greeting seemed to please him immensely. "The pleasure, petite fleur, is all mine. May I have the honor of this dance?"

  "Of course."

  He glanced at the marchioness. "Clarissa, will you excuse us?1'

  "But of course, Stephen. I'd never stand in the way of so handsome a couple." Clarissa's face was the picture of innocence.

  Stephen guided Sammy onto the dance floor, keeping her hand securely in his. "I've missed you."

  "It's only been a few days." Sammy scanned the ballroom quickly. Rem was nowhere in sight.

  "It feels much longer. I looked for you at every ball I attended. Where were you?"

  "I..." An inner voice warned Sammy to be cautious. She suspected there was no great love between Stephen and Rem. "I haven't been out much. My lady's maid left me and I've been training a new one."

  "I see. Well, I'm delighted. I feared you'd been swept off your feet by some unworthy rogue." Rem's name hung between them. "I hope your appearance tonight means you're ready to resume enjoying your first Season."

  "Yes, of course."

  "Have you had the opportunity to see all of Carlton House?" Anders inquired as the strings fell silent.

  "No, but—"

  "Let me take you on a tour, then; it's really quite spectacular."

  "Well, I..." What choice did she have? He was already leading her through the sky-lit vestibule and beyond. Most of the rooms were brimming with people, Sammy noted in relief. And at least she needn't face Clarissa.

  It was on their way back to the party that Stephen managed to get her alone, in a small corner of the hallway. "Samantha ... I haven't been able to stop thinking about you." His knuckles grazed her cheek. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

  Sammy drew away. "Please, Stephen, you're embarrassing me."

  "I'd like to do much more than speak the words, if you'll let me."

  "There are scores of people about," she protested, inching backward.

  "We can go somewhere and be alone."

  "I don't think—"

  "I'll go as slowly as you want me to."

  "I think the lady is saying no, Anders."

  Rem's voice was quiet, but lethal.

  Sammy's knees began to shake.

  "My conversation with Lady Samantha does not concern you, Gresham. Kindly go off and seek entertainment elsewhere."

  "I'd like to break your jaw," Rem responded calmly. "Say the word, and I shall."

  "Remington—don't." Twin spots of red stained Sammy's cheeks. "Please."

  He took in her expression and nodded. "Very well. But I do insist on escorting you back to the party."

  "When did you become so gallant?" Anders mocked.

  "Stephen, don't make a scene, please." Sammy lay her hand on his arm. "I think it's best if I do go back to the party. Aunt Gertie will be looking for me anyway."

  "As you wish." Stephen bowed stiffly, his icy gaze fixed on Rem. "We'll talk another time."

  "Yes, fine." Gathering up her skirts, Sammy made her way to the ballroom.

  "Samantha."

  She stopped, inclining her head slightly. "What is it, Remington?"

  "We need to talk."

  "About what?"

  Rem inhaled sharply. "What the hell were you just doing?"

  "Conversing with Viscount Anders."

  "You mean flirting with him."

  "I don't flirt, my lord. You of all people know that. Remember? You're the one who told me how forthright I was."

  Despite his anger, Rem's dimple flashed. "I remember," His gaze fell to her lips. "I remember many things."

  Her flush deepened. "May I go in now?"

  "Only to say good night."

  "What?"

  "I'm taking you home."

  "But—"

  "Don't argue with me. Just tell your aunt I'm taking you home."

  Sammy studied him uncertainly. "Why?"

  "Because neither of us wants to be here. And because I need to talk to you."

  "All right."

  Several minutes later, Sammy sat rigidly in Rem's luxurious carriage, desperately trying to calm herself. She must act casual, nonchalant, as if she hadn't spent the past forty-eight hours yearning for this man. It was imperative that she keep her anxiety carefully concealed.

  "Why are you so uneasy, imp? You've been alone with me before."

  So much for concealment. "After Monday ... I feel uncomfortable."

  "Why?"

  "Because"—she averted her eyes—"I'm well aware that you undress and ... touch women with great regularity. But it was my first such experience with a man. And, in the wake of our encounter, I'm not certain how to behave."

  "Come here."

  "What?" Her chin came up.

  "I said, come here." Rem reached over and lifted her onto his lap. "God, I've missed you." Hungrily, he buried his lips in hers, his kiss burning with passion and jealousy and a touch of anguish.

  "Is this because of Stephen?" Sammy managed.

  "No." His mouth was on her neck, her throat. "Not that I didn't want to kill him. I did. But this is because of us." He tugged down her sleeve, bathing the smooth curve of her shoulder with his tongue. "Because the very thought of you with another man—any other man—is untenable. Because you're mine. Because I'm so bloody tired of fighting a battle that was lost the moment we met. Because if I don't have you I'll die." He pressed his face against the hollow between her breasts. "Are those reasons enough?"

  "Yes," she breathed, threading her fingers through his hair. "Oh, Rem, I've missed you, too. I couldn't stop thinking about Vauxhall, and what happened ... what almost happened—"

  He silenced her with his mouth, pressing her to the velvet cushion of the darkened carriage, following her down.

  Words evaporated into nothingness, and the reality that time was short, their destination imminent, became insignificant next to the relentless need pulsating through them.

  Rem was ruthless in his seduction, driven by demons he didn't recognize and an emptiness he could no longer face. He unfastened the buttons of her gown, kissing each inch of skin he bared, worshiping the upper slope of her breasts with his mouth.

  It wasn't enough ... for either of them.

  With one harsh tug, Rem pulled her bodice lower, freeing her breasts to his gaze, his touch. With burning eyes, he watched her nipples tighten, until, when he could bear no more, he slid his arm beneath her waist and lifted her to him, lowering his mouth to the beckoning peaks and taking what Sammy so willingly, wholeheartedly, offered.

  Nothing had ever tasted this sweet. The untainted beauty of Samantha's body, the natural sensuality of her response, stoked the flames coursing through Rem's blood. He didn't eve a damn if the whole world disintegrated around them. He wanted Samantha. Here. Now. This instant. With every fiber of his being.

  Damn Anders to hell. Damn any man who tried to claim her. She was his—his—and he needed to brand her so completely that there would never be any doubt of that fact.

  His fingers glided up her leg, beneath her gown, over the silk of her stocking. She was trembling; so was he. The carriage jostled, and his hand slid farther up the soft contour of her thigh. "I've got to touch you," he muttered against her breast. "I've . . . got. . . to."

  Sammy's fingers sifted restlessly through his hair, holding him to her. "Yes ... that feels so ... oh, Remington." She caught her breath as his fingers neared their mark, teasing the sensitive curve where her thigh ended.


  "Let me ..."

  "Yes. . ."

  "I've got to ..."

  "Yes."

  "Samantha ..." His most intimate caress followed on the heels of her name, causing her breath to erupt in a harsh sound of pleasure.

  "Oh, Rem ..."

  "God ..." Rem closed his eyes, tenderly claiming the warm wetness that belonged to him ... only him. Slowly, gently, he entered her with one finger, groaning aloud at the tight, clinging resistance that greeted his touch. "You're perfect," he told her huskily. "Perfect."

  "Kiss me," she managed, quivering from head to toe. "Please..."

  He covered her mouth with his, taking her with deep, lusty strokes of his tongue, his finger moving tantalizingly in and out, in a rhythm that made them both wild.

  "I want to be inside you," he rasped against her parted lips. "God, I've got to be inside you."

  "Remington ... what's happening?" Sammy choked out, her body tightening, crying out for some unknown release.

  "It's all right, sweetheart. Let it happen," he replied, determinedly mastering his own body's urgent need. "Let me give this to you...."

  The carriage jolted to a halt.

  "Remington ... please ... don't stop," she pleaded.

  "I won't. I won't." He didn't give a damn where they were.

  "My lady?" Cynthia's purposeful voice penetrated the privacy of the carriage walls. "Is that you?"

  Sammy's eyes flew open, filled with fear and smoky passion and unfulfilled need. "Oh ... I..."

  Rem wanted to choke Cynthia with his bare hands. "Dammit. Dammit to hell." He gritted his teeth, simultaneously striving to bring his own body under control and to soothe the panicked, heightened sensations of Sammy's. "God I'm sorry," he whispered, his fingers still damp with her response. "Samantha, I..." He didn't know what to say. Maybe there was nothing he could say. "It's all right, sweetheart." Swiftly, he hauled himself upright, tugging up her bodice and smoothing her gown. "No one will know."

  Her expression tore at his heart. "I don't care who knows. I feel so ... I ache."

  "I know you do, love. So do I."

  That seemed to surprise, and distract, her. "You do?"

  He chuckled, despite the screaming need for release that tore at his loins. "More than you could ever imagine." He stroked her hot cheek with his knuckles. "I'll explain to you another time ... when we finish what we just began."