Samantha Page 19

  "So was mine."

  "Concerning what?"

  Sammy hesitated. "I had some questions," she hedged at last.

  "Questions for Anders? Pertaining to what; his missing ship?"

  "Yes." Her shoulders sagged. What was the use in evading Rem's inquiries? Anders had guessed what she was up to. She might as well be honest. "I had hoped Stephen could tell me where Viscount Goddfrey was living. He couldn't. And it no longer matters."

  Rem's eyes narrowed on her face. "Why did you want to find Goddfrey?"

  "Last week at Almack's I overheard Stephen talking about Goddfrey's terrible losses, his precarious financial state and his subsequent disappearance. I thought perhaps the viscount might be somehow involved in the sinkings. Evidently, I was wrong." She sighed. "I was only trying to help Drake."

  "What did Anders tell you?"

  "Very little. Only that he didn't know Lord Goddfrey's whereabouts, but that the viscount had fled in order to avoid a personal scandal."

  "And then?"

  "Then I left."

  "Are you trying to tell me Anders made no advances?"

  "Oh, he did. But I rejected them." Sammy inclined her head, a mischievous light coming into her eyes. "And you? Are you trying to tell me that not one of Annie's women made any advances?"

  Rem stared at Sammy for a long, electrifying moment. Then he smiled—a slow, seductive smile—sliding his hand beneath the heavy sable mane of her hair. "Oh, one did. But I rejected them." He cupped her face. "All I could see was you." He bent his head, took her mouth with tender ferocity. "All I want is you."

  Oblivious to the bustle of activity around them and the prying eyes of the world, Sammy twined her arms around Rem's neck, standing on tiptoe to deepen his kiss. "When?" she breathed.

  "Constantly. Relentlessly. Until I'm burning with it."

  Sammy began to tremble. "No ... I meant when can we be together?"

  He nibbled lightly at her lower lip, running his warm fingers up and down her bare arms. "Right now, if I had my way. But that might cause quite a scandal... even in so unsavory a place as this."

  "Will you find a way?" She gazed up at him with those melting, trusting green eyes,

  "If I have to move heaven and earth, yes."

  In that instant Sammy had to bite her lip to keep from blurting out how much she loved him. But her heart cautioned her that Rem was not yet ready to hear those words.

  "Boyd and Cynthia will be worried," she murmured.

  "Oh, something tells me they don't mind our absence."

  Sammy's ecstatic smile made her glow like the dawn. "Is Boyd as intrigued by Cynthia as she is by him?"

  "Without a doubt."

  "Oh, Rem, wouldn't that be wonderful? Cynthia so badly needs a man she can trust. After what happened ..."

  Rem studied Sammy with quiet insight. "Cynthia's endured great pain at a man's hands, hasn't she?"

  That much, at least, Sammy could disclose. She nodded. "Have you and Boyd been friends for long?"

  "Over a decade. We served in the navy together."

  "I see." Sammy did see. If Boyd had been by Rem's side alt these years, then he would understand Rem's staunch need for autonomy... and his vehement resistance to allowing anyone into his heart.

  Storing that information away for later, Sammy merely said, "Boyd seems like a fine man."

  "He is. The finest."

  Nearby, one dock worker called out to another, readying a heavy crate to be hoisted aboard a ship.

  "I'd best take my leave." Sammy dropped her arms to her sides in an action that was charmingly reluctant. "Will I see you later today?"

  Later today.

  Rem's stomach clenched. Later today he'd be meeting with Samantha's strong-willed brother; the brother who would call him out in a minute and shoot him dead if he knew what Rem intended for Samantha.

  But Rem's will was equally strong. No one was going to stop him. Not from fulfilling his mission.

  Nor from taking Samantha Barrett to bed.

  "Yes, imp, you'll see me later. You have my word."

  12

  "Who is it?"

  "It's Gresham. We need to talk."

  Yanking open his office door, Anders eyed Rem with undisguised hostility. "Really? What about?"

  Rem scrutinized the viscount's disheveled appearance, making no attempt to hide his own dislike. "Samantha."

  "Samantha?" Anders's jaw tightened. "In that case we have nothing to discuss."

  "You're wrong." Rem caught the door a split second before it slammed in his face. Thrusting it open, he stepped brazenly into Anders's office. "Now, we can either have this disagreeable conversation in private, or in full view of your workers. The choice is yours."

  A charged moment ticked by, then Anders moved stiffly aside. "Suit yourself." He walked over to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. "You'll forgive me if I don't offer you one."

  "This isn't a social call." With a swift, nearly imperceptible shift of his head, Rem scanned the office, affirmed that it was empty save the two of them. Then, kicking the door shut, he got right to the point. "Your behavior at Carlton House was reprehensible."

  "My

  behavior? I wasn't the one who made a scene." "I wasn't the one who prompted it."

  With a mirthless laugh, Anders tossed off his drink. "You're questioning my morals? You, who have none of your own?"

  "We're discussing your morals only as they pertain to Samantha. Otherwise, quite frankly, I don't give a damn who you bed."

  " 'Tis your mind in the gutter, Gresham, not mine ... an amusing fact, considering that yours are the contemptible actions here. After all, it wasn't I who whisked Samantha away—not once, but twice—at an Almack's ball. Nor was it I who returned her, breathless and out of sorts each time." Anders refilled his glass. "No, Gresham, if anything, I intend to maintain Lady Samantha's respectability ... and her innocence. Which is more than I can say for you."

  Blood began to pound through Rem's temples. Resolutely, he steeled himself, curbing his possessive fury with great effort. He had to stay calm. There was too much at stake. "Are you trying to tell me you're not plotting ways to get Samantha into your bed?"

  "No, I'm not telling you that at all. I can hardly wait to make Samantha mine. However, I intend to place a wedding ring on her finger first."

  Every muscle in Rem's body went taut to breaking, rage exploding inside his skull in a violent surge. "What makes you think Samantha wishes to marry you?" he managed between clenched teeth.

  Anders's eyes glittered brittlely. "I'm titled, eligible, and more than willing to give the lady anything she desires. I intend to ask the duke for her hand within the month." Triumphantly, Anders raised his glass in mock tribute to himself, and his future. "I've enjoyed successful business dealings with Drake Barrett for many years ... I see no reason why this one should be any less fruitful."

  Rem had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat. This smug blackguard was describing his precious, unsuspecting Samantha as a business acquisition. The same blackguard, however, was also providing him with just the opportunity he'd hoped for—and now seized. "I hear you just lost another brig."

  Suspiciously, Anders's eyes narrowed. "Where did you hear that?"

  "The news is hardly a secret."

  A reluctant pause. "True," Anders conceded at last. "'Tis a heinous tragedy; a fine ship—constructed by Barrett Shipping, incidentally—a small crew, but valuable cargo."

  "This is your third loss, is it not?"

  "Unfortunately, yes ... why?"

  Casually, Rem shrugged. "A moment ago you proclaimed your intentions to wed Samantha Barrett. I only wondered how you'll provide for her with a third of your fleet gone."

  "Such gallantry! Why, Gresham, one would almost think you yourself had personal designs on Samantha."

  Watching Anders's lips curve into a condescending smile, Rem knew at once his ruse had worked. The insipid viscount had just come to the erroneous conclusion th
at Rem's questions were rooted solely in jealousy—precisely the conclusion Rem had hoped he'd reach.

  "I hate to disappoint you, Gresham, but I'm a very wealthy man. As to my fleet—I collected insurance money for the first two vessels. It will take some time, but I'll do the same for the third."

  "Yes, but how will you continue to operate Anders Shipping? Insurance rates have soared due to the number of missing British ships. I shudder to think what this new loss will mean for you. Won't it cripple your business?"

  "Far from it. My business is thriving."

  "I see." From the Bow Street reports, Rem knew otherwise. Of course, Anders's lie was most likely an attempt to salvage his pride. Still... "How fortunate. I wonder how many of your merchants can make the same claim."

  "Your concern is touching. But fear not. Even if the merchants become reluctant and my shipping trade decreases, my income will continue to flourish. I have many investments, all of which yield high profits. Anders Shipping is but one of them. When Samantha becomes my wife, she will assume the life of luxury both you and I agree she deserves. All her whims will be indulged"—Anders cocked a meaningful brow—"both in bed and out."

  That did it. Though he understood he was being deliberately goaded, Rem knew if he didn't get out of here soon, he was going to tear Anders apart limb from limb.

  "Stay the hell away from Samantha," he ground out, his menacing tone conveying the magnitude of his threat. Flinging open the door with such force it was nearly torn from its hinges, Rem stalked out, unable to bear being in the viscount's presence one second longer. "Don't make the mistake of ignoring my warning, Anders," he cautioned over his shoulder. "Or I vow, you'll answer to me."

  He didn't wait for a reply.

  "Good afternoon, Lord Gresham. We received your message. The duke is expecting you."

  Humphreys, Allonshire's portly butler, acknowledged Rem with a slight bow. "I'll show you to his study."

  "Thank you, Humphreys."

  Rem had visited Allonshire on but several occasions, and never during the past few years. He'd forgotten how palatial an estate it was. Gilded ceilings and elaborate statues decorated the entranceway, and priceless paintings hung on the walls, stretching as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of rooms on just as many acres defined the Gothic manor, bespeaking both great wealth and great power. Indeed, Allonshire was as formidable as the man who owned it.

  Soberly, Rem followed Humphreys through the marble corridor, contemplating his impending challenge: the interrogation of Drake Barrett. The task wouldn't be an easy one. Allonshire's astute, imposing master was not a pompous dolt like Anders. His strong-minded cunning wouldn't blind him to what Rem was about, nor deter him from the realization that Rem's questions were motivated by more than mere curiosity. With the secrecy of his mission at stake, Rem cautioned himself to tread carefully when broaching the subject of the missing ships.

  And when broaching the subject of Samantha.

  That reminder incited all Rem's protective instincts, and intensified his resolve threefold. His original vow to drown in Samantha's company for no more than four days was long since cast aside, obliterated in a tidal wave of desire so powerful it stripped reason away. And despite her brother's anticipated and justifiable rage, despite her innocence, her tender heart... despite the insanity of it all, Rem was going to have her.

  "Your Grace ... Lord Gresham," Humphreys announced.

  Drake Barrett turned from the window, leveling his probing gaze on Rem. "Hello, Gresham."

  "It's been a long time." Rem extended his hand. "Nearly a year, if memory serves me correctly." Upon close inspection, Rem could see the family resemblance: the thick black hair, the startlingly green eyes, the chiseled, aristocratic features. But where Samantha was soft, delicate—from the velvety meadow-green of her eyes to the fine bones of her face and her slender shape—Drake's features were hard, arrogant, his eyes fiery emeralds, the lines of his face harsh, his shoulders broad, muscled from years at sea. A formidable opponent indeed.

  "Since last Season to be exact," Drake agreed, shaking Rem's hand. "The final ball at Almack's." He indicated a large, tufted chair. "Have a seat and we'll get to the purpose of your visit. What can I offer you?"

  Noting the nearly empty glass of brandy on Drake's sideboard, Rem replied, "Brandy would be fine."

  "I'll see to the earl, Humphreys," Drake informed his butler. "That'll be all for now."

  "Very good, Your Grace." Humphreys turned to go.

  "Oh ... Humphreys?" Drake looked up, ran an agitated hand through his hair. "You'll call me if I'm needed?"

  "Of course."

  Rem watched the exchange with interest, taking in Drake's unsettled state and unsteady hand. Evidently, something was troubling the duke.

  "You seem distressed," Rem commented, leaning back in his chair. "Is it the ship that just went down?"

  "Hmm? Oh, the ship." Drake handed Rem his drink and began to pace restlessly about the room. "Of course I'm deeply concerned by the loss. I've arranged a thorough investigation to determine its cause." He tossed down the remaining contents of his own glass. "As for my agitation, you'll have to forgive me. I am a bit out of sorts. My wife is in the process of gifting me with our second child." He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as if seeing through to their second story bedchamber. "I'd almost forgotten how unbearable it is to see her in pain," he added softly.

  Rem started to rise. "Forgive me. This is obviously not the time to discuss business. I'll come back after—"

  "No." Drake gestured for Rem to remain. "A diversion would be welcome, I assure you. Besides, I've been asked"—a corner of Drake's mouth lifted—"actually, ordered to leave Alex's room."

  "By a midwife?"

  "No, by Alexandria herself. Evidently she feels I'm more hindrance than help." Drake grinned. "My duchess is a tyrant, Gresham. The idea that I rule her is questionable at best. And, as if that notion alone weren't humbling, she's managed to pass her winsome brand of defiance on to my son. At two years of age, Gray is a little devil who upends the whole household, then flashes me one of Alex's angelic smiles and I relent." Drake shook his head, his expression baffled and tender all at once. "For a man who's used to intimidating all he meets, it's unnerving as hell."

  Rem was stunned by two distinct and simultaneous realizations: one, he completely understood the emotions Drake was describing, and two, the tightness constricting his chest was not disdain, but envy. "Unnerving as hell," he murmured in agreement.

  "Pardon me?"

  Coughing discreetly, Rem forced himself back to coherence. "It's difficult for me to envision Alexandria as a tyrant. From what I've seen, she's a beautiful, charming woman."

  "True. She's also an opinionated, outspoken hellion who has turned my life upside down since the day she burst into it three years past. And I wouldn't trade a moment of our time together for all the riches in the world." Selfconsciously, Drake rolled his empty glass between his palms, dispelling the conversation's sentimental tenor. "In any case, it will do me good to concentrate on business for a while—which I assume is the reason you're here. You certainly didn't come all the way to Allonshire to hear me ramble on about my family." Drake perched at the edge of his desk. "What's on your mind?"

  In truth, what was on Rem's mind at that moment was Samantha's description of her brother's marriage. Love, she'd said. Well, perhaps she was right. Certainly Rem had never witnessed such tenderness from Drake Barrett, never even suspected he was capable of it.

  "Do you intend to tell me why you wished to see me?" Drake prodded.

  "Of course." Sipping his brandy, Rem berated himself for his lack of concentration. This was not the time to lose control. "I'm considering making an investment. I wanted your opinion on it."

  "My

  opinion?" Drake's brows rose. "Why?" "Because it involves purchasing a ship. Or rather, commissioning one to be built."

  "You're going back to sea?"

  "Not in any official capacit
y, no. I'm looking for a merchant brig, not a warship."

  "I see." Drake set down his glass. "What kind of vessel did you have in mind?"

  "One large enough to transport extensive amounts of cargo, yet fast enough to reach her destinations more swiftly than all her competitors."

  "Is that all?" Drake looked vastly amused. "Just a five-hundred-ton runner laden with three decks of cargo that can traverse the seas in the blink of an eye."

  "Exactly." Rem leaned forward. "And one other thing. She has to be immune to the disastrous fate so many English ships have suffered these past months."

  Instantly, Drake's smile vanished. "Guarantees such as that I cannot offer." "How do we ensure that you can?"

  "What the hell kind of question is that?"

  "The kind of question I ask before I commit tens of thousands of pounds to an investment. The kind of question asked by a cautious man who wants some assurances."

  "I presume you're considering Barrett Shipping for the construction of this superior vessel of yours?"

  "You presume correctly."

  "Our record stands on its own."

  "Really?" Rem inclined his head. "Wasn't yesterday's loss your second in the same number of months?"

  "It was." A muscle worked in Drake's jaw. "And if you're implying that the losses were caused by poor workmanship or inferior materials, then I suggest you leave my home."

  "I'm not implying anything." Rem finished his drink, unbothered by Drake's show of temper. "I'm merely trying to protect my investment."

  "My company doesn't require any defense, and I don't require your business." Drake came to his feet.

  "If I thought you did, I wouldn't be here." Rem held out his empty glass. "Another brandy, if you will, Your Grace."

  Reluctant admiration flickered in Drake's eyes. "You're an insolent bastard, you know that, Gresham?"

  "So I've been told."

  Chuckling, Drake took the glass and refilled it. "Very well. What do you want to know?"

  "I won't insult you by questioning your choice of workers. But I will ask what materials you use and what final steps you take to inspect your vessels prior to declaring them fit for sailing."