“Where?” he whispered.
“Home.”
That single word, so heavy with emotion, choked off her voice for a moment. Nicholas had to swallow hard past a lump in his own throat. He kept moving his hand along her back, slowly, waiting.
“We lived in Northamptonshire,” she explained softly. “In the country. My father was a baronet. My sister Jessica and I—our whole world was…perfect.” A smile touched her lips for a moment. “Mother and Jess used to play the harpsichord in the evenings after supper…and we would hold marionette shows in a puppet theater that Father built for us…and every spring we made kites to fly out in the gardens, though the four of us always seemed to end up all tangled together.”
Nicholas shut his eyes at the wistfulness and love in her voice, keeping his arms strong around her.
“My father’s name was Sir Matthew Hibbert and my mother’s name was Mary,” she whispered, her smile fading. “And on that night…that beautiful summer night…the two of them had been to visit friends in Wellingborough. B-but on their way home, their coach was waylaid by riders. Highwaymen. Three of them, drunk, shooting off their guns. The coachman said that…that Father tried to protect Mother but…” Her voice broke. “They were both killed. Jessica and I were asleep when…the local magistrate came to tell us…our parents were dead. He asked me to…identify the bodies. They couldn’t recognize my father, be…because he’d been shot in the face.”
A shudder went through her slender frame, and Nicholas drew her closer, feeling the dampness of her tears on his chest. His throat tightened. He had witnessed horrors like that and worse in his lifetime—but for an innocent girl to see that, at such a tender age…
He wished he had words to comfort her, but could find none. So he shared the moment with her in silence, and simply held her, letting her pain pour out. Pain and loss that reminded him so vividly of his own.
“Jessica and I were left all alone,” she said after a long moment. “We went to live with our only relatives, our Uncle Prescott and his wife Octavia, in London.” She wiped at her eyes, her voice shifting, becoming tense. “They took us in. Welcomed us with open arms. He told us not to worry about our inheritance, our land, our money. He took control of everything.”
“You mean he stole it from you?” Nicholas guessed.
“Jess and I were both so innocent, so trusting. We thought we would be safe with him.” She looked down at the ground. “But we had only been there a few weeks when Uncle Prescott began…doing things.”
She pulled out of his embrace, shivering, and somehow Nicholas knew not to reach for her, not to touch her. Not now. He let her spill the rest out, like poison from a wound that had festered too long and needed to heal.
“He would stand very close to me. Look at me in ways that didn’t seem right. Didn’t feel right. I didn’t understand at first. Even when he came to my bedroom one night.” She lifted her head, staring up into the dark sky. “I was so naive that it was beyond my ability to comprehend what he could possibly want. He was my uncle. I never guessed—”
“Samantha,” Nicholas interjected gently, “hadn’t your mother ever told you anything about men and women? Anything at all?”
She shook her head, her voice wavering. “Mother always said that when we were older, on our wedding day, she would explain everything…but she never…she never got that chance.” She wiped at her eyes again. “Uncle Prescott told me that he was concerned about me, that he wanted to tuck me in. When it became clear what he really wanted, I fought him. He kept telling me he wouldn’t hurt me.” Her voice became a whisper. “I fought him so hard that he broke my arm.”
Nicholas clenched his fists, filled with a violent urge to kill this son of a bitch.
“It threw him into a panic. He told me to explain to everyone that I had fallen—and he threatened that he would throw me and Jessica out if I breathed a word, to my aunt or to anyone.”
“So you left,” Nicholas concluded.
She shook her head. “I was sixteen,” she whispered. “I was afraid. If I’d had only myself to worry about, I wouldn’t have spent another night in that house…but I had to think about my sister. Jess was only fourteen, and she was so fragile. I knew she wouldn’t survive on the streets. And we didn’t have any money—he controlled every shilling of it.” She ran a hand along a tear in her skirt, over and over. “I was always the strong one. I had to protect my sister.”
Nicholas stared at her, stunned at what she had been willing to face for the love of her sister. He had always considered her gutsy, for a woman.
But he had never suspected the true depth of courage and caring she possessed.
“When my arm healed, he started again.” She sighed as if wearied by her story, by the telling of it, by the weight of her memories. “Then that winter, Jessica fell ill. I wasn’t strong enough for her this time. I couldn’t help her.” Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. “She died, so quickly. And I was…alone.”
The way she said the last word tore through him. He knew exactly what it was to feel alone, desolate. Somehow her pain made him feel his own more vividly than he had in years. It was as if her anguish, her grief, poured through his blood, his heart.
She didn’t protest this time when he reached out and pulled her into his arms. She sagged against him, letting him hold her.
“I-I tried to slip away the next morning, but Uncle Prescott tricked me. He locked me in his library while my aunt was out, and he…he cornered me. He had me down on his desk, and he almost…” She couldn’t speak for a moment. “But I grabbed a pen-knife and used it to defend myself. I stabbed him.”
“It was self-defense,” Nicholas said adamantly. “You stabbed him in self-defense.”
“The warrant,” she said bitterly, “reads attempted murder. I was covered with blood. My uncle yelled for the servants and told everyone I had gone mad with grief, that I should be put in an asylum. He tried to have me arrested. But I managed to get away before the marshalmen came. I ran and…”
“Never stopped running,” he finished for her. He knew the rest.
She was crying again, exhausted, weary tears. The tears of a woman who had spent too many years running.
Too many years alone.
He cradled her in his arms while all the hurt flowed out of her. “Shh, angel, it’s going to be all right,” he murmured. “You’re going to be all right.”
It was little wonder that she feared a man’s touch.
The truly astonishing fact was that a lady who had endured so much at such a tender age could still believe in things like faith and goodness and human caring.
Could still feel grateful for something so simple as moonlight and a summer wind.
He closed his eyes, grimacing ruefully. Unfortunately for her, she was still too naive, in too many ways. She thought she knew the way of the world, when in truth she knew nothing. Her trust, her faith left her vulnerable to mankind’s cruelty.
While her fear, her misplaced anxiety, denied her one of mankind’s few genuine pleasures.
After a while, her crying ebbed slowly to silence. Gently catching her chin on the edge of his hand, Nicholas tilted her head up. He cupped her face in his palms and brushed his thumbs over her cheeks, drying her tears, all the while inwardly cursing himself.
He had been telling himself from the start that he didn’t care about this lady thief.
But she had come to mean something to him.
Which was impossible. He had no time for a liaison of any sort. They had no future. Not a week, not a day, not even an hour beyond the moment he got the shackles off. He had a job to do, an enemy to kill, and she was a complication he didn’t need.
But though they couldn’t share a future, he could share with her one precious gift, now, tonight. Much as she had given to him in the cave, with her soft voice, her gentle touch, bringing him warmth, light, life, he could now give to her.
What had been stolen from her by her bastard uncle could be returned
.
By one wayward ex-pirate. For once, perhaps Nicholas Brogan could put someone else’s needs ahead of his own.
Give without taking.
Experience for himself what simple human caring felt like.
“Samantha,” he asked softly, “are you still afraid of me?”
Her lower lip quivered. “A little.”
He smiled at the open honesty he had come to expect from her. “Do you trust me, at least a little?”
“Yes.”
That made his smile broaden. “What happens between a man and a woman…angel, what you’ve learned about it is all wrong. It isn’t supposed to be about force and pain and hurting someone.”
She looked dubious, uncertain.
“You’ve been made afraid of something that’s a natural, vital part of every man…and every woman.” He stroked his fingers along her jawline. “It’s supposed to be about pleasure. Especially for the woman.”
That made her look downright skeptical.
“When it’s good, when it’s right, it’s the greatest feeling a man and woman can share.” He brushed his thumb over her mouth. “Let me show you, angel.” He phrased it as a question, a gentle entreaty. “Let me show you.”
Sam couldn’t summon a reply, couldn’t even catch her breath. Gazing into his eyes, warmed by his touch, she felt as if she had been swept up into the night sky, spinning among white-hot stars.
Everything seemed to be whirling around her, changing so quickly, leaving her scrambling for something solid to hold on to. But all she could find within herself were new, undefined feelings, too tentative, too fragile for her to depend upon.
Feelings for this man. For a stranger who now knew all of her secrets.
But he wasn’t a stranger anymore.
Nick.
She had shared with him memories and pain that she had never shared with anyone. And as he held her so carefully, his broad hands cupping her face so lightly, she chastised herself for being ten kinds of a fool. How could she have told him everything? Why had she trusted him?
She had every reason to feel wary of this man. Any sensible woman would. He was an outlaw. A scoundrel who knew too little of kindness, too much of fighting and recklessness and the hard edges of life. Sitting so close beside him, feeling the heat of his body against hers, she felt an uncomfortable shift in the rhythm of her heartbeat.
The hard, muscular planes of his body, his numerous scars, the pitchfork brand all bespoke a life of harshness and danger. He seemed to be made entirely of steel, corded lengths of steel wrapped around iron. As hard and unyielding as the chain that bound the two of them together. A man crafted from and for violence.
Yet he was capable of gentleness, too. And compassion.
She had experienced that herself.
And he awaited her answer. Would she grant him an intimacy she had never granted any man?
Drawing an unsteady breath, she closed her eyes, unable to bear the heat in his gaze and her own uncertainty. She had no need to fear that he might lose control over his unpredictable male hunger. He was clearly in complete control of himself, as he had been all along.
It was her own reactions that alarmed her.
“Nick,” she whispered, “I…I haven’t been entirely honest.”
“I find that hard to believe.” He wasn’t mocking her; his voice was serious.
“It’s true.” She opened her eyes, swallowing hard. “When I said I was still a little afraid of you, it’s…it’s not you that I’m afraid of.” Confessing brought a cascade of heat to her cheeks. “It’s me.”
He smiled as if he understood. “What is there to be afraid of, Samantha?”
“Well, when you…kissed me, I felt so…” She struggled to find words for what she had experienced, felt embarrassed by the memory. Her senses had simply scattered to the winds at the first brush of his lips over hers.
“As if you were hot and cold at the same time?” he murmured, kissing her again, the lightest touch of his mouth this time. “And hungry and thirsty all at once?” He kissed her a third time.
“Yes.” The word came out as a sigh, her lashes drifting downward as she experienced the same breathless, almost dizzy sensation she had felt before. “It’s like a ticklish flutter in my stomach. And—” Another kiss interrupted her explanation. “A funny ache in my throat.”
“And you feel as if you’re melting…” His hand moved lower, touching her abdomen, his fingers burning her. “Here?”
Her eyes opened wide. “Yes,” she gasped, feeling something powerful unfurl within her, there where he touched her.
“That’s all part of it, angel.” He brushed a kiss through her hair. “Part of every woman and man, part of you. And me.”
The deep, husky tone of his voice sent shivers through her. She gazed at him, felt as if she were seeing him for the first time, found herself noticing things she had never noticed before—the way his beard emphasized the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the deep creases at the corners of his eyes, a small scar on his temple, the stubborn tangle of hair that fell over his forehead.
And his eyes. They held hers the way his hands caressed her cheeks—boldly but gently. Staring into his dark green gaze, she sought any hint of deception but found none. “You mean that you feel these same feelings?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him askance, barely able to believe it. In the pool, in his embrace, she had felt herself very close to losing control…yet he seemed so in command of himself.
“Whenever you’re close to me,” he explained when she didn’t speak. “Whenever you touch me…especially the way you did in the cave.”
“Th-that was purely for medical purposes.”
“I didn’t see a cloth in your hand that last time,” he chided, flashing a particularly wicked smile. “You seemed to be enjoying it.”
She dropped her gaze, mortified.
“It’s all right, angel.” He caught her chin on the edge of his hand, tilting her head up. “It’s all right to enjoy touching each other.”
“I-I don’t…I…” Even as she said it, she knew it was a lie.
“You think you shouldn’t enjoy it?”
Was that the reason? For six years, she had lived her own life by her own rules, going and doing as she pleased. The word shouldn’t had become a part of her past the day she became an outlaw. After so much time on her own, she was used to being in charge of her life, her fate, her feelings. She had come to like being in control.
But now it felt as if her confidence had vanished, as if she didn’t even know herself anymore. Nick was no longer a stranger, but now she seemed like a stranger to herself.
Even her fear, her wariness, her caution, so much a part of her for so long, was…missing.
She felt like the earth had disappeared from beneath her and she was falling, tumbling through the night.
And the only solid thing she had to hold onto was…him.
“Nick, I don’t know. It’s…so…”
“New. It’s all new to you, angel. But it’s a natural part of who you are. You’re meant to enjoy it, just as you enjoy the moonlight and the wind.” He smiled. “Maybe more.” He leaned closer, nuzzling his cheek against hers, his beard sending a little shiver through her. “Let me show you.”
She made a small sound deep in her throat, but even she couldn’t tell if it was denial or assent.
“We won’t do anything that frightens you,” he assured her. “If you want me to stop, tell me and I’ll stop. If you want me to continue…” He brushed his lips over hers. “Tell me and I’ll continue.”
She was trembling, but the feeling wasn’t unpleasant. Not at all. His mouth felt so warm, his hands so strong, so sure when he touched her.
And he was leaving the decision up to her. She had thought him a callous, unredeemable, selfish rogue…but at the moment he wasn’t being roguish at all. He was being warm, giving.
Caring.
And that, even more than his kiss, made
her heart pound so hard that thinking became impossible.
“Samantha?”
“Yes,” she whispered, realizing that her decision had been made perhaps a long time ago. “Yes.”
She barely completed the word when he kissed her again, a soft brush of his mouth over hers that deepened into a slow, hot joining. His arm circled her shoulders and he gently lowered her to the ground, leaning over her in the firelight, his weight on his forearms as his mouth worked tantalizing magic over hers.
She had never known how sensitive her lips could feel. Or how fast her pulse could race. She reached up to pull him closer, threading her fingers through the dark hair at the nape of his neck. With a low groan, he captured her wrists, lightly pinning them to the ground on either side of her head.
Understanding what he wanted, she relented, allowing him to take command, letting herself surrender control. Stretched out beneath him on the warm grass, she felt the last of her hesitation burn to ashes in the fire of his kiss. She let go willingly, allowing herself to be completely open to his touch, completely vulnerable in a way she had never been before.
Her display of trust brought a soft sound from him, almost a sigh, a sound of deep pleasure. He lifted his mouth from hers, kissing her jaw, her cheeks, her nose. And when her eyelids drifted closed, he kissed her lashes.
“That’s right, angel,” he whispered. “Close your eyes and just let yourself feel.”
He released his hold on her wrists, his hands sliding down her arms, down the sides of her body. Through the thin cloth of her silk gown, she could feel him like a fire in her blood. He nibbled at her ear, began a slow, teasing descent down her throat, his lips and tongue sending a rush of sensations cascading through her.
He caught her skin ever so delicately between his teeth, nipping her in a light, fierce way that drew a cry of pleasure from her parted lips. Arching her neck, she offered herself up to him, to these new feelings that made her feel weak and yet strong all at once.
The night air around her, the leaves overhead, even the ground beneath her seemed to crackle with electricity. Like the heat of a lightning strike. Like a summer storm that drenched the earth with hot rain.
Escape with a Scoundrel (Escape with a Scoundrel Series Book 1) Page 19
