The first time she had gotten sick, she had put it down to something she had eaten. But when the sickness became a regular part of her morning ritual, the stunning possibility that she might be breeding had suddenly occurred to her. With a sinking feeling, she had realized that she had not had her “woman’s time” since before she had married Chance. There was every likelihood that she had conceived that day on the bluff.
Fancy did not know how she felt about the prospect of a child. Once, it had been her dearest wish, but believing she was barren, she had put away all thought of having a child. To discover that Chance was right, that it was the stallion and not necessarily the mare that had led to the lack of children in her first marriage, was galling. Trust him to be right about that, she thought waspishly. Yet despite all her uncertainties about her future with Chance, she was filled with awe and a sense of wonder that together they had made a child, that come spring she would give birth.
An odd, secretive smile curved her mouth, and seeing it, Chance growled, “Something amuses you, Madame Wife?”
Fancy sighed and, reaching up, took off her mob cap and shook her hair loose. Dropping the cap carelessly into the basket that she still carried on her arm, she said, “No, I find nothing amusing in this situation.”
Chance stared transfixed at her hair as the sun wooed a glint of fire here and there in the dark mass. His mouth went dry, and he was conscious of an urge to drag her into his arms and bury his face in the shining mass. His voice husky, he said, “Perhaps ’tis time we did something about it.”
Her eyes wide, Fancy stared up at his dark face. Something in the cast of his mouth, something in the expression of his blue eyes, held her nearly spellbound. But ignoring the sudden leap in her pulse, she asked, “What do you suggest?”
“A cessation of hostilities? A truce, mayhap?”
“Our present truce, if you can call it that, has not accomplished very much. Why do you think another one would change things?”
“Because we cannot go on this way,” Chance muttered. “I did not marry you to spend my nights as chastely as I have. Nor did I ever envision my marriage as one of polite tolerance.”
Fancy’s jaw hardened. “When you marry a woman who does not want you and for the spiteful reason of revenge, you should not be surprised if the marriage is not as you envisioned or to your liking.”
Chance suddenly grinned. “Now, I never said that the marriage was not to my liking. And you are only playing a game with yourself if you think that you don’t want me.”
Fancy took in an outraged breath, her eyes blazing with golden lights. “Of all the conceited, arrogant—!”
Chance laughed and dragged the basket from her arm, then tossed it aside as he pulled her struggling form into his embrace. Swinging her around, a teasing glint in his blue eyes, he said, “Ah, Duchess, you do not know how much I have missed that fire in your eye and the lash of that sweet tongue of yours.”
To her dismay, Fancy felt herself responding to his teasing, her heaviness of spirit vanishing magically, a bubble of irrepressible laughter surging up through her. How could she think of laughing when she was furious with him? But it was true. She did not want to be furious with him, she wanted to laugh, to fling her arms around his neck and let him sweep aside all her doubts and fears. She fought frantically against his powerful appeal, afraid of losing the very essence of herself if she gave in to the unfair promptings of her heart. Terrified that she would lose her head—as she always did where he was concerned—with a great effort, she suddenly hurled herself out of his arms. Picking up her skirts, she began to run; but, having lost her sense of direction from his whirling her about, instead of running toward the house, she ran into the nearby woodland.
Fancy realized her mistake almost at once and swerved to change her course, but Chance caught her about the waist and they both fell to the ground. His body was half on hers, and at the sudden, carnal curve to his lips, as he stared down at her, she felt breathless, a breathlessness that had nothing to do with her exertions.
Determined not to give in to the shocking surge of desire that flowed through her, Fancy glared up at him, her eyes daring him to give in to the primitive urge that was clearly revealed upon his dark face. Chance smiled twistedly at her expression. “Sweetheart, if you did not want this to happen, you should not have run away.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Fancy’s lips parted to angrily refute his words, but his mouth caught hers in a fierce kiss, his hard body pressing hungrily against hers. Sweet fire exploded deep inside of her as the feel of him, the taste of him, the virile scent of him, overpowered her senses. She was vaguely aware of the soft grass against her back and the warmth of the dappled sunlight on her skin, but mostly it was Chance, the longed-for pleasure of his weight on her, the intoxicating magic of his mouth moving on hers, that flooded her mind. For an instant she gave herself up to the elemental emotions his embrace aroused, letting her lips soften and cling to his, letting her arms creep around his neck.
Chance kissed her like a starving man, his lips, tongue, and teeth all tasting and exploring her willing mouth. Desire, kept so long in check, suddenly ran rampant through him, and his manhood instantly became hard and aching, the urgent need to mate with her nearly driving any thought but that one act from his mind. Gripped by powerful passion, Chance fought to keep from falling upon her like a ravening beast, every fiber and sinew of his body urging him to rip aside her clothing and his own and make them one.
Breathing in harsh gasps, he was finally able to lift his mouth from hers, and his eyes black with naked need, he said thickly, “Fancy, sweetheart . . .” He groaned and kissed her again, deeply, passionately, before flinging himself to the ground beside her, his hand tightly clasping one of hers.
They lay there side by side on the sun-warmed ground, sheltered from sight by a slight rise in the grassy terrain between them and the houses, as well as the spreading branches of a huge oak tree, its green leaves showing the faintest trace of gold. Birdsong drifted through the hot, humid air; the whistling call of a quail could be heard in the distance, and the drone of the bees and insects was a drowsy concert all around them.
His breathing slowing, Chance turned and propped himself up on one elbow. Staring down into Fancy’s flushed face, he said quietly, “I want you. I always have, and these past weeks have been very difficult for me.” Softly he added, “I do not want to force you, but if you continue to deny me, I fear . . .”
“Threats?” Fancy asked, her eyes daring him to deny it.
He smiled bitterly and shook his head. “No. I would never threaten you, but I find myself in an untenable position. You are my wife. You married me. If not of your own free will, you certainly agreed to the marriage and all that it entailed.” His gaze hardened. “If you meant for us to live our lives as celibates, if my touch is so repugnant to you, why did you not simply damn me to hell and go back to England . . . instead of chaining us to a situation that, if not resolved, is going to make both of us live a life of misery?”
Fancy looked away and bit her lip. Damn him! He was being so reasonable and, worse, had put his finger on the crux of the matter. Despite the scandal it would have caused, she could have left the Colonies. She’d known that and had even considered it. But she hadn’t left. She had chosen to stay—and to become his wife.
“What do you propose? A divorce?” she asked tightly.
His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you want?”
“Would you allow it?”
“I cannot stop you from leaving me,” he growled. “If you wish to return to England and seek a divorce, there is nothing I can do to prevent it.”
“You would let me go?” she demanded incredulously. “After you went to such deplorable lengths to marry me?”
He hesitated. Looking away, he spoke as if the words were torn from him. “If you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me for the way I coerced you into marriage and you intend to deny me my rights as your husband, I
think that perhaps it would be the best solution for us.”
His words shocked him nearly as much as they did Fancy. In all his dwelling on the situation between them, until this very moment Chance had never considered either a divorce or the possibility that his wife would leave him. But he realized with sudden, painful insight that they could not continue as they were, that though he had kept his promise to her these many weeks, he did not trust his control if she were to remain close at hand. And if he were to give in to his baser instincts and force his body upon her ... He sighed. He would hate himself and grow to hate her, and whatever tender feelings she had for him would surely wither and die.
Fancy fairly gaped at him, hardly daring to believe she had heard him correctly. When he said nothing more, but continued to stare blankly off into the woodland, she jerked upright and, angrier than she had ever been in her life, spat, “Well, I like that! You seduce me; force me to marry you; force me to share your bed; and now, at the first little obstacle in your path, you decide to throw up your hands in despair and turn me loose.” Her eyes glittering furiously, she startled both of them when she suddenly slapped him. “How dare you! How dare you marry me and then toss me aside. How dare you.”
His cheek tingling from her slap, Chance turned his head and looked at her, a dangerous smile curving his lips. His eyes alight, he grabbed her hand as she started to her feet and jerked her back down beside him. Despite her struggles, he brought her hand to his lips and dropped a warm kiss on the back of it. A hint of laughter in his voice, he said, “Forgive me, Madame, I’m afraid that I have misread the situation.” He turned her hand over and gently pressed another kiss on her wrist, feeling the pulse suddenly begin to race beneath his lips. “You must put my lack of understanding of the situation down to being a mere colonial and not used to the ways of the, er, fancy.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said breathlessly, aware of a sweet languor creeping over her as his mouth continued its soft, oh so seductive exploration of her lower arm. “You are not going to escape the blame that easily.”
“I throw myself on your mercy, Duchess,” Chance murmured, half-teasing, half-serious. “I have greatly wronged you, and I am sorry for it.”
Her uncertainty clear, she asked huskily, “Chance, are you really sorry? Sorry that you married me?”
His light mood vanished and, his eyes steadily meeting hers, he said gently, “Sorry for the way I gained your hand? Yes. Sorry that I married you?” His voice thickened.
“Never.”
“But why?” she nearly wailed. “Why did you force me to marry you in such an underhanded way?” Almost accusingly she added, “It was not worthy of you.”
Chance had come a long way to understanding quite a lot about himself in these few moments with her, but he was not quite ready to make that final confession—not even to himself. His eyes once more on the woodland behind them, he said simply, “I wanted you. I did not want you to marry Jonathan.” His gaze swung back to her. “I have always wanted you—from the first moment I spied you leaning on the ship’s rail in Richmond. I just never knew how much until I feared that you would be lost to me if I did not stop you from marrying Jonathan.” His lips thinned. “And arranging that little scene in your bedroom at Walker Ridge, disgraceful though it was, seemed a simple solution.”
“It—it was not just to take revenge against Jonathan?”
Chance sighed and threw himself back full length on the ground, dragging Fancy with him. Positioning her next to him, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist, he stared at the canopy of leaves overhead and asked abruptly, “What do you know about my . . . first wife, Jenny?”
Fancy tensed. Chance’s previous marriage wasn’t something she wanted to think about, and she was surprised by the burst of plain old green-eyed jealousy that knifed through her at the soft note in his voice when he said the other woman’s name. Forcing herself to relax, she said casually, “Only that she was a local heiress whom you swept off her feet and married—despite her family’s protestations—and that she died tragically. A suicide.”
Chance laughed mirthlessly. “I suppose I do not need to inquire who told you the ‘heiress’ part. I see Jonathan’s fine hand there.”
“He did mention it, yes.”
“Did he also mention that while I was away in England on business, he seduced my wife? That he got her with child? And abandoned her? That he left her to face me alone—her belly already showing signs of the babe who grew there? A babe who could not possibly be mine?”
Fancy rose up to look at him, her face showing her shock. “No, he did not.” She smiled bitterly. “Jonathan is very careful in what he chooses to divulge.”
Chance cocked a brow. “Learned that, have you?”
“Yes—unfortunately.” A little frown crossed her features. “But if you knew what he had done, why didn’t you . . .”
“Challenge him to a duel?” Chance asked dryly. At her nod, he added, “I thought of it—especially the day I finally discovered who her lover had been. I could have killed him. Easily. But, conveniently for him, Jonathan was away on business in Boston at the time, and it was several weeks before he returned to the area. By then I’d had time to consider the situation more coolly and had realized that,while killing him would have given me immense, immediate satisfaction, it would have hurt Sam and Letty a great deal. They have always been very good to me, and I would not willingly cause them grief.” His voice hardened. “And I realized that by merely killing him, that Jonathan would have escaped too lightly. I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to feel as I had felt when I discovered that my wife had betrayed me.” He stopped and looked away. “I wanted him to feel all the pain of losing someone beloved and to suffer as I did those months and years following Jenny’s death.”
“And so, thinking I was to be his bride, you decided to punish him by forcing me to marry you,” Fancy said harshly, bitterly aware that she was uncharacteristically jealous of a dead woman.
Chance looked at her, the expression in his eyes enigmatic. “No,” he said slowly, “that was the excuse I used to take what I wanted . . . you.”
A flush stained Fancy’s cheeks. She glanced away from him. Stiffly she said, “It does not seem like a very good reason to me.”
Gently Chance pulled her to him. “It wasn’t,” he said huskily, “but I wanted you so desperately that I was not thinking straight. I never have where you are concerned. All I could think of was having you.” Softly he kissed her cheek. “And of holding you in my arms,” he murmured as his arms slipped around her. “And kissing you,” he breathed against her lips the second before his mouth claimed hers.
His words didn’t answer all her questions, nor did they remove all the hurt. But they did fill her with warmth and hope, and, loving him as she did, she realized dimly, as the familiar sweep of passion rose up inside of her, that for now it would have to do. Wanting was not love—she had no illusions about that—but perhaps from such an emotion, love could grow.
Her mouth opened willingly for him, her hands clasping the back of his head, pulling him closer to her. Her actions told him as clearly as words that he had won the day, and with a smothered groan, he bore her back into the grass, his hands moving urgently over her.
Desire erupted through them both, and heedless of their surroundings, between hungry kisses and increasingly explicit caresses, their clothing was hastily discarded and provided a bed for their naked bodies. It was like the first time they had made love and yet so very different.
This time Fancy knew the pleasure his hard body could give her; this time Chance knew the sweet completion he would find in her yielding flesh. This time Fancy had no doubts that this was where she wanted to be, that this one man was the only man she had ever loved. And Chance? Well, Chance had not come that far, but he knew that no other woman, not even Jenny, had made him feel the way Fancy did, that no other woman set him on fire as she did, that he wanted no other woman in his arms.
T
here was tenderness in his touch, a lazy sensuality in the way his mouth traveled from her lips down her throat to her waiting breasts. The warm wetness of his tongue gently laving her nipples, the scrape of his teeth, sent a fiery arrow of need streaking to the throbbing ache between her legs, and Fancy’s fingers dug into his shoulders.
His mouth tugging hungrily at her breasts, Chance caressed her, his fingers drifting over her slender form, kneading and exploring, wooing and pulling her deeper into their own secret, sensual heaven. Her flesh was silky and warm beneath his touch, and the shape of her shoulders, the narrow back, the gentle curve of her hips, were enchanting. He lingered there awhile, his hands cupping and fondling her firm little fanny, marveling at the soft texture of her skin, reveling in the tantalizing brush of her body against his.
The lure of her mouth proved too much for him, and he left off his suckling to kiss her lips, to drink deeply of her. His tongue met hers, tangling and twining with hers, and he groaned his delight as the fire between them leaped higher.
Dizzy and wild with passion for him, her breasts aching for the return of his mouth, the demanding hunger between her thighs becoming urgent, Fancy purred like a cat as she moved beneath him. Her fingers caressed his warm chest, seeking his small, hard nipples, pleased when he moaned his pleasure at her touch. Tauntingly her hand moved lower to his belly, his gasp and the sudden tightening of his body revealing clearly that he was as helpless against her caresses as she was against his. Made bold by his reaction, she slid one shapely thigh over his, pushing up against the hard length of his member.
Chance groaned and reluctantly lifted his mouth from hers. A lock of black hair falling across his forehead, his blue eyes glittering with desire, he said thickly, “Madame, continue as you are and you may get a great deal more than you expect—and considerably swifter than either of us had planned.”
Fancy looked innocent. “Oh, am I disturbing you?” she asked archly as her fingers played across his groin. It was a new and heady experience for her, this intimate teasing, made all the more so by the satisfying reactions of Chance’s body to her lightest touch.
A Heart for the Taking Page 34
