The True One (One and Only Series Book 2)

by Samanthya Wyatt

  She should have thought of that. For now he would certainly escort her back. She’d deal with that later.

  “Shall we?” He transferred the pail handles to his other hand holding the leather strap leading his horse. Then he gestured in the direction of the water. She had no choice but to go with him.

  “I’m glad for this opportunity to speak with you, Mrs. Faircloth.”

  “It’s such a fine day, Mr. Barincott. Could we not talk and simply enjoy the nature around us while we walk?”

  The smile left his face, but he nodded in consent.

  Thank goodness. She needed this time to think of a plan to get rid of him. She rubbed her palms on the side of her breeches. Warmth spread across her thighs. Stephen flashed in her mind. A stroll with him would have definitely been more pleasing—in more ways than one.

  Now why did the thought of him pop up the moment friction caressed her thighs? Her pace quickened.

  “You must be in a hurry?”

  “What?” How did she forget him? “Oh, I like a brisk walk.”

  Barincott lengthened his stride to keep up, his horse trailing behind.

  When they reached the water’s edge, she gave a sigh of thanks. Ignoring her outstretched hands, Barincott dropped the rein on his horse. He knelt on one knee and filled the buckets with water.

  “Why don’t we rest a spell?” Amazing how his grin did nothing for her—certainly not in the daunting manner as her houseguest. When Stephen grinned, her insides fluttered.

  “I have to get back. I have chores to do.”

  “That’s what I want to speak with you about.” Barincott’s expression reminded her of her father when he was about to give a lecture.

  “Hands on her hips, she put a bland look on her face—one of confusion.

  He removed a blanket tied to his saddle. “Let’s sit, I have a proposition for you.”

  “What kind of proposition?” More than uneasy, she hesitated to ask. But she’d rather face a quandary than have a tricky situation sneak up on her later.

  He spread the blanket on the ground. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Mr. Barincott, I am a widow in mourning. Even if I were not, I am not the kind of lady who would participate in a tryst.”

  “You misunderstand me.”

  She wasn’t sure if his countenance was one of offense or glee that she’d thought of him in those terms.

  “I apologize for the confusion. If you sit there, I will sit on the grass. I only want to talk.”

  “You can speak while standing.”

  A flush filled his face and his nostrils flared. Hmmm, quick to anger. She needed to remember that. But he took a deep breath, gaining control of his emotions. “Very well. I believe we got off on the wrong foot. I am not trying to have my way with you. I respect you.”

  “Thank you,” she sniffed.

  “I’m very sorry for the loss of your husband. I would like to help you, if you will allow me.”

  “Help? What kind of help?” She asked in a calm voice. It would not do to convey her suspicions.

  “Please, Mrs. Faircloth. I have no ulterior motives.”

  And cows fly over the moon.

  “You should not be doing chores that a man could do for you.”

  “Mr. Barincott. I can chop my own wood and . . .”

  “That’s man work. Not for a delicate young woman.”

  Barincott was much older. But she’d never thought about his age before. A touch of silver tinted his chestnut hair. Crinkles around his eyes did not take away from his handsome face. Only his glare lacked evidence of warmth. Yes, he most assuredly had ulterior motives.

  “Delicate? I assure you I am not faint of heart or slight of muscle.”

  “I know you are strong. I admire that about you. But, a woman should not be alone. This is a different land. Things are not the same here. You have no family.”

  “My family is in England, as you are well aware. Are you offering to send me back to England?”

  His shocked expression ascertained that idea had clearly not crossed his mind.

  “If that is your wish. But, I’d like you to know you are not on your own. I am willing to help you. With your countenance, of course, I would like to take care of you.”

  What he meant by take care of her would probably involve a bed. And she had no hankering for that.

  “What do you mean, take care of me?”

  “I am an honorable man. I would offer you marriage. I wouldn’t think of disrespecting your honor.”

  “Mr. Barincott. Did you just propose marriage?” She added a touch of sweetness to her mock display of surprise.

  “Before I do that, I want you to consider the idea. I know you’re still in mourning. We could not declare a betrothal at this time.”

  Of course not. You want to see if you can bed me first.

  At her silence, he moved closer.

  “Please.” She took a step back and turned away. “I cannot.”

  “I won’t rush you.”

  “I cannot even think of such a thing. Johnny . . .” She hiccupped on a sob for effect.

  “I empathize,” he said. “You loved your husband very much.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did,” she lied. Her impulsive love for Johnny was a young girl’s infatuation. She knew that now.

  “Will you at least consider what I’ve said? A woman cannot live alone in this country. Anything can happen.”

  Which she knew all too well.

  “Please. Leave me alone. I must think.”

  “I never meant to upset you. I will see you to your home.”

  “No please. I cannot bear any more. I must think.” Without his knowing, he’d given her a way to send him packing. “I must mourn my husband. Please. I need to be alone.”

  The sound of his harsh breathing retreated. She heard the creak of leather.

  “Mr. Barincott. My husband has not been gone a year. I will not consider your intentions until the proper time.” She had to throw him a bone. And keep him at a distance.

  “As you wish. But I will call from time to time, to be sure you are safe.”

  “Sir. I already told you I can take care of myself.” She gave a hiccup and made her voice shaky for good measure.

  “I know you’d like to think so. And you’re a strong woman, Mrs. Faircloth. However, you are a woman living isolated. Unaccompanied. As a gentleman, safeguarding you is the respectable thing to do.”

  There was that word again. Debaucher, more like.

  “Good day, Mrs. Faircloth.” His horse snorted, he jerked the reins and rode away.

  She crumpled in relief. Let him think her grief stricken. If truth be known, she’d just escaped impending doom. His words may have sounded sincere, but he had a black heart which showed in his eyes every time he looked at her. His gaze always sliding up and down her body, inspecting every inch, undressing her with his scrutiny. It was loathsome.

  She feared she only evaded his presence for a short time.

  “What did you think you were doing? Where are your crutches?”

  Stephen didn’t like being weak. Discovered face down in the middle of the floor rated right up there with humiliation. Although, he didn’t mind so much having a beautiful woman fawn over him. Distress covered her fine-looking features.

  “I tripped,” his voice irritable, embarrassed at being found in such a mortifying position. “It’s about time I put these legs to some use.”

  Her fingers quickly checked his ankles. “At least you have them wrapped tight.”

  “Woman, I’ve lived on a ship for more years that you’ve been born. I’ve seen many mishaps and doctored my share of broken bones.”

  “So you’re an old man and an old fool.”<
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  Damn the girl had sass. “I am not an old man.”

  She helped him to a chair. “And, I’m no child. How old do you think I am?”

  Old enough.

  Her eyes flashed fire. Determined and loaded with fervor. He loved a woman with spirit. Unaware of the picture she made with her hands on her hips and her divine bosom thrust forward. Her soft curves would feel delectable in his hands. She was all woman, he’d give her that. His mood lifted considerably.

  “You musta been married out of the cradle.”

  “Ha. I’m not that much younger than you. I am two and twenty. And if I were a child, you wouldn’t look at me the way you do.”

  That got his attention. He quirked up a brow and caught her gaze.

  “How do I look at you?”

  Her cheeks flushed red.

  “Come now, my lovely. Don’t go all shy on me now.”

  She meant to pull away, but he was having none of it. He grasped her wrist and gave a tug. She bounced onto his lap. He quickly locked his arms around her while she wrestled to get free.

  “Simmer down. I won’t bite.” He gave her a grin that had prompted many maids to eagerly jump onto his lap. “Unless you want me to.”

  “Of course, I don’t want you to.”

  “Liar,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear.

  She wiggled again.

  His loins stirred. This woman had a habit of making his manhood jump to life.

  “Keep doing that and I’ll do more than bite.”

  “You’re no gentleman,” she said crossly.

  “You’re right. I’ve been on a ship too long to sport gentlemanly ways. But I can be gentle. Let me show you.”

  His angel sat on his lap, not moving. Her breasts extended with each laboring breath resembling a rabbit ready to run. Anxiety? Or anticipation? The woman was a widow. She knew the workings of a man’s mind.

  He leaned close enough for his breath to fleetingly sweep her neck. One hand stroked down her back while the other settled across her stomach, snugly on her hip, allowing her no escape. His fingers worked their magic, massaging, kneading, manipulating her, coaxing her to relax her inhibitions. Melt away her defenses.

  Lifting a lock of hair, he tugged her earlobe between his lips and gently drew with featherlike suction. Her eyes closed and her head drifted back. As light as a dove’s wing, he blazed a trail of kisses down the vein in her delicate throat. She shuddered.

  His hand slid from her hip. Rising, gliding upward, over her rib cage to a swell of flesh. One finger slowly drew circles around her breast, each loop nearing closer and closer to its tip. A tiny sound escaped her lips when his finger finally touched her beaded nipple.

  She was his. His for the taking.

  He captured her cheek, and drew her mouth closer. She raised her face, begging for his kiss. Her lips were warm and sweet. He added a bit of pressure under her jaw making her open her mouth. She sighed and he groaned in delight. Need drove him. He twisted and slipped his tongue inside. She gave a start of surprise, then quickly recovered and kissed him back with equal fervor. He slid a deft hand to unknot the upper ties of her shirt and slipped his hand inside. He cupped her breast catching her soft cry in his mouth. She arched forward filling his hand, her body showing him she loved his bold caress. And craved more.

  God, he wanted her. Now.

  He wanted her pressed against him, naked, skin on skin. Her bare breasts rubbing his own unclothed flesh. Their hips pressed together as one.

  His hand slid down to her belly. Damn man’s breeches. Why didn’t the woman wear a bloody skirt?

  He kissed her thoroughly. Keeping her mind occupied, his hand slipped between her legs. He pressed her center, stroking, creating a friction through her clothing.

  She gripped his shoulders.

  A thrill of delight cuffed his chest. Instead of pushing his hand away, she rocked her body as if seeking the stroking of his fingers. He pressed harder, angled deeper for penetration. He’d give her pleasure through her damn man breeches, just see if he didn’t.

  She lunged against his hand. He thought he would explode from the sheer pleasure of it.

  Good God. He had to get the bloody breeches off. Or at least open them where he could get to her. Claim his prize. Give her what she begged for.

  His fingers unknotted the rope. He kissed her passionately, using his tongue, seeking, laving every sweet angle of her mouth—and damned if she didn’t respond just as madly. He drank in her sighs and moans, and pushed her down on his rapidly growing arousal.

  “Stephen,” she said in a throaty voice that drove him wild.

  Tugging the constricting material out of his way, he found the slit in her drawers—and her delicious honeypot.

  He gulped.

  Dewy and warm. His eyes rolled back in his head. Sweet flesh, slick and moist. He glanced down to find her face awash with color. Her violet eyes glazed under a thick blanket of lashes.

  “Jennifer,” he breathed. And then kissed her with a fury that came from the depths of his soul.

  With a flick of one finger he drove across her nubbin. She jerked and clutched him tighter.

  His sweet little Jenny was a passionate creature. A woman who responded to his every tormenting dream.

  “Do you like this, Jenny?” he asked in a ragged whisper.

  She didn’t stay his hand, so he grew bolder.

  He dragged her shirt off her shoulders. He sucked air between his teeth. How beautiful. So close to his mouth, her bosom rose and fell in a tantalizing motion, creating a hunger he could not ignore. He leaned forward.

  With his open mouth, he covered one breast. Her gasp rang vividly in his ears. He licked and nuzzled and feasted like a man consuming his last meal. She gripped his head and pressed her body closer, eager for more of his fervent kiss. When he scrapped her nipple with his teeth, she squirmed scooting her pretty little bottom harder against him. God Almighty, his cock reared for glory. Blood raced to his temples.

  He drew her flesh deeper into his mouth, and sucked.

  She ground against him.

  She needed release. And so did he.

  Feeding her desire, he rubbed the mound between her legs, then slipped one finger into her moist cavern.

  A husky groan escaped from low in her throat.

  Blood pounded in his ears.

  He inserted a second finger, her juices flowed so freely he dove into her with a frenzy. His mouth ravaged hers, his tongue mimicking the thrust of his fingers. She nearly gyrated off his lap. She bucked and grew wild in his arms.

  The turbulent squall intensified to a raging storm. Arching with uncontrolled passion, she suddenly cried out. Shudders racked her body while spasms convulsed around his fingers. He pressed his thumb to her nubbin, adding pressure to prolong her release.

  My God, what a beautiful sight. Pleasure, pain, gratification, bliss—her face expressed every sentiment while she experienced each emotion.

  His randy cock throbbed.

  He drank in the sweet aroma of her release.

  God, he couldn’t wait to fill her. Feel himself in her.

  Why did he hesitate? Normally he would toss up a woman’s skirts and finish the deed. Normally, she would not have on any skirts. She’d be as naked as he. Which reminded him painfully that he was fully clothed.

  Her head dropped to his shoulder. She fit right in the curve of his arm and his chest. Like she’d been poured from a mold to fit his body.

  A sense of peace filled him. The first since his journey to India began. Lord knew he’d suffered the last several months. His satisfaction could wait.

  This moment was for her. Right at this instant, he cared more for this woman than any basic need. Funny how he’d never cared before. Sti
ll, he’d always given a woman pleasure. What kind of selfish man thought of his pleasure and did not allow a woman her own?

  Moments passed before his sweet Jenny stirred. She gave him a look of such shocking awe, he’d swear the woman had never experienced an orgasm before. Which delighted him beyond measure. Good God! Why should he care if it was her first? Of course his pride rose a few notches—like any man who’d just given a woman her first taste of passion.

  Her reaction and her cries of need rocked him to his toes. Kissing Jennifer came as natural as breathing. He’d built a sweet fire within her. Having tasted her, he burned for his angel. And he coveted a bit of heaven right here on earth.

  Other emotions filled him with confusion. Like how wonderful she felt in his arms, where no other woman had fit so perfect. Like how her lips tasted sweeter than any he’d ever supped. Like how her breasts begged for his caress. Even now, his fingers molded her softness.

  Still, he felt a bit unsettled. He couldn’t explain it. All he knew was the last few weeks the woman had inflamed his every nerve. He was a healthy man. With a healthy appetite for a delectable body. In every harbor he’d sailed into, there was a woman waiting to greet him with open arms. Jennifer was not the sort of woman to open her arms to any man.

  She worked too hard. A bit thin, which more than likely was a result of her labor. But she had ample curves in all the right places—which enticed him to touch her body, taste her sweetness. And now he behaved in a manner not to his liking. He was a man of strength and confidence. He had no tolerance for bewilderment.

  He glared down to find Jennifer staring at him.

  A frown graced her elegant brow. The trusting hero worship in her eyes soured to anger. The warmth in his arms grew frigid.