Chapter Fourteen

“You’re not wearing that, by the way.”

Myfanwy blinked, dragging her attention from the window. They’d been in the carriage for over ten minutes, and she’d given up on waiting for Samuel to speak. She’d expected his bluster to begin the moment the carriage door slammed behind them. But he’d been quiet, morosely so, letting the lanterns lining the streets cast shadows over his face as they lumbered by.

“Not wearing what?” she asked.

He tipped his forehead to the sack in her hands. “Whatever face paint Holmes’s strumpet”—he grimaced—“Holly—gave you. You’re not wearing that nonsense on your face.”

Myfanwy clawed at the brown cotton sack. “Do you really think Holly is Holmes’s…” Her mouth felt impossibly sticky, like she’d just eaten a bowlful of caramel.

Samuel grunted, crossing his arms. His thighs splayed wide. He swallowed the entire seat, filling the area as a liquid would fill any container it was poured into. He tried to hide it, but there was ownership and pride in his behavior, and it amused her. Alongside her father, Myfanwy had sat in a great many carriages with a great many peers, and the difference was evident. Those men never filled a space like Samuel; they expected their surroundings to fill something in them. It was a small distinction, albeit a heavy one, like the handful of coins Holly didn’t want tinkling in her skirts.

“I doubt it,” Samuel answered, still eyeing the package in her hand as if it were brimming with poison. “Holmes might be a bastard of the first order, but I’ve never known him to be uncommonly sleazy. He leaves the merchandise for the paying customers.”

Myfanwy frowned, shifting in her seat. “Don’t call her that.”

A long pause permeated the space. “My apologies.” Samuel sighed. “I don’t know why I said that. It was ungentlemanly of me—” He threw up his hands between them. “Strike that. As you said before, I’m not a gentleman.”

His voice was bitter, and Myfanwy thought back to what she’d said to Holly. She hadn’t been making a point; she’d pointed out a fact. A positive one. Myfanwy had a feeling that Holly’s opinion of gentlemen wasn’t the best.

Samuel continued. “Nevertheless, you still aren’t putting that shite on your face.”

It dawned on her that he thought Holly had given her pastes and powders for her visage. She reined in a chuckle. She thought Samuel knew her better than that. Myfanwy barely tolerated the corsets and petticoats Society forced her to coat herself in; brushing an extra layer over her face was a burden too far.

“Ladies don’t paint their faces,” she returned.

He nodded. “Exactly.”

She cocked her head, annoyed by how certain he sounded. “However,” she said, imbuing a thoughtful lilt to her tone, “adding a little rouge wouldn’t hurt. People would hardly notice.”

“No.”

Myfanwy sucked in air through her nose, pressing her tongue harshly into the back of her teeth. “No?” She laughed. “You can’t tell me what to do or wear.”

Samuel’s eyes narrowed, but that was all he gave her. He could have been encased in plaster for how still he became. Then, slowly, he unwrapped his arms and leaned forward, heavy and skulking like a lion just waking up in the morning. He positioned his elbows over his knees. “Do you want to make a bet on that?”

It was an apt question, especially since they’d just left a gaming hall; however, despite the influences of the Lucky Fish, Myfanwy’s night wasn’t feeling entirely auspicious any longer. She tossed him a question of her own.

“Why are you so against it?” she asked. “You’ve never struck me as a stickler for convention.”

Her query pushed him back against the seat. His big, deep-set eyes lost their connection with hers and latched on the window. “I’m not,” he said, rather cagey.

Good. Let him be on the back foot for a change.

“You sound like a real spinster to me,” Myfanwy goaded him. “Like a soul-crushing grande dame.”

He humphed. “I’m nothing of the sort.”

Myfanwy’s laugh was genuine now. “Oh, come now. I’m only teasing.” She attempted to sober herself. “Tell me.”

Samuel rolled his eyes, still avoiding her gaze. “Because,” he said, shrugging, “women like you don’t need it.”

“Women like me?”

“You know what I mean,” he rasped.

No, Myfanwy most definitely did not. “I’m going to badger you until you finish explaining,” she said. “And we both know how aggravating I can be.”

The put-upon grimace Samuel gave her almost hurt her feelings. Surely she wasn’t that aggravating.

He mumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“You’re too pretty for it,” he said.

Myfanwy straightened away, as if the force of his words blew her off axis. Now, she was the one who couldn’t quite meet his eyes, and he was the one intent on continuing.

“Some women can handle a little more,” Samuel went on, waving his palm over his face awkwardly. “But you…wearing all that color would only detract from your”—he coughed into his fist—“beauty. Inside.”

Myfanwy couldn’t understand it, but tears were pooling in her eyes. As she started to wipe them away, Samuel noticed the emotion, and his two-toned gaze grew large and frightened. “Besides,” he added with a shaky laugh. “If you wear that trash on your face when you play, you’ll risk it running into your eyes from all the sweat, and you won’t see the ball properly. And then where will we be?”

Myfanwy didn’t laugh with him, not when she knew that his last comment was made in fear. His fear. Of her.

“Women don’t sweat,” she whispered.

“Horseshit. Everyone sweats.”

From under her lashes, Myfanwy watched Samuel come to terms with everything he’d just divulged. They’d kissed at night under the cover of darkness, and yet this small admission seemed to point an even greater flame toward his soul. She knew he lusted for her, knew he found her desirable, but hearing that he found her greatest, truest beauty on the inside rather than the outside was a revelation of honesty she’d never hoped for from the taciturn sportsman. She should have pretended to buy face paint much earlier.

Samuel wasn’t filling the carriage anymore. He shoved himself in the corner so completely, it was like he was trying to blend in with the crimson upholstery. Myfanwy didn’t like seeing him like this, but she’d be lying if she told herself she wasn’t a little entertained. She was so used to his acting disgruntled and angry with her that she almost preferred him that way. That was the only explanation for what she did next.

Myfanwy tipped a glance at the sack before placing it on the seat next to her with a heavy sigh. “What would you do?” she asked.

Samuel’s eyebrows knitted together in a fierce seam.

“If I came to you with my face all colored like a doll?” Myfanwy scooted to the edge of her seat, cupping the edge as she veered forward. They were still too far apart for her liking, but she resolved to only meet him halfway. She wanted another kiss, but she wasn’t going to jump on the man to get it.

Samuel’s damaged eye glowed in the darkness, as unnerving and exciting as seeing luminous eyes in the dark forest, always aware that they were watching your every movement. It felt like being stalked, and there was nothing unappealing about the sensation.

“I would take it off you,” he said. It was a plain, succinct statement; nevertheless, it still caused her stomach to flip-flop like she was falling from a great height. More. Myfanwy wanted more.

She stretched further across the divide of the carriage. “And if I run? If I won’t let you catch me?”

It seemed like her words had to fight through the tension in the air to reach him, because she had to wait for a response. Finally, Samuel’s lips curled up and he peeled himself away from the seat. Blinking slowly, he bowed forward, setting his forearms on his knees again. Still too far away, though. “I would catch you.”

Myfanwy’s laugh was completely void of breath or sound. She lowered her lashes—intending to stare at his bad leg—but her focus got stuck on his…well…his manhood, which looked much, much healthier.

Samuel’s laughter didn’t have the same problem as hers. There was nothing stuck about it.

Myfanwy licked her lips, compelling herself to continue with the game. Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Just a game? With a kiss for the winner?

The need was pure in her voice, so bright it was almost translucent. “You couldn’t catch me if you tried.”

Samuel’s mouth closed. His jaw was tight when he leaned over even further and said, “What makes you more upset, Myfanwy? The fact that I could catch you or the fact that I’ve never tried?”

Oh, she deserved that. Nevertheless, knowing that didn’t make it sting less. Myfanwy almost retreated to her corner of the carriage. She might have, too, if Samuel hadn’t reached out and taken her hand. Painstakingly, he cupped it in both of his and slid her thin glove off, dropping it on the floor. He turned her hand palm side up. With callused, rough fingers that knew a life so different than hers, he used his time thoughtfully, tracing the lines top to bottom, side to side.

Recounting her past or reading her future?

Whatever the information he gathered, it didn’t make him content. On the contrary, Myfanwy noticed his frown grow deeper as he studied her.

She tried to break the heady moment. “You remind me of an old gypsy woman.” She chuckled. “Are you going to tell me my fortune?”

His studious brow didn’t relent. Samuel shook his head as he continued to caress her. He wasn’t following the lines of her palms anymore; he was tracing her scars. Myfanwy didn’t have many—certainly not as many as him—however, she’d attained her fair share with the cricket bat in her hand these last few years. She never noticed them because she never found a reason to dislike them as other ladies might.

“Your hands shouldn’t look like this,” he said. The words came out part wounded animal, as if all the pain in the scars bit and stabbed and scraped into his own skin.

Utterly self-conscious, Myfanwy attempted to pull away, but he wouldn’t release her. Samuel continued to hold her—and astonish her.

Her voice wobbled when she replied, “I like my hands.”

He tore his gaze away from her palms to grant her a baleful look. “These are not the hands of a lady.”

“They are my hands,” she said airily, “and I am a lady. Ergo, these are the hands of a lady. Besides, it’s none of your concern.”

She felt his breath on her skin as he lifted her hand closer to his face. “Everything about you is my concern.”

“Yes…because of your promise to my father.”

Samuel’s chuckle was plaintive and short. There and gone like a drop of rain lost in the earth. “It has nothing to do with your father.”

Her pulse hammered, and she desperately hoped he couldn’t feel it. From the slight smile on his face, Myfanwy realized it was a losing battle. She tried again. “Because you want to beat Cremly?”

He shook his head again, only slower this time, hypnotic and almost sensual. Myfanwy leaned in further. She was more than halfway across the carriage now, but at least she wasn’t on his lap. She wouldn’t go that far!

“It has nothing to do with Cremly,” Samuel answered.

“Then why?”

Samuel didn’t answer. And it didn’t matter anyway, because soon, Myfanwy forgot the question. Because it was then that he lifted her hand to his mouth and, one by one, took his precious time kissing the tips of her fingers. He pressed them to his full lips and gave each a benediction, a blessing. There was nothing lascivious, and yet there was nothing innocent about the act either. Myfanwy’s breath lodged in her throat as she watched him touch her in this intimate way.

He ended the exchange by placing his mouth on the flesh of her palm, his nostrils flaring, his eyes open and daring as they fixed on hers, almost begging her not to speak, not to give voice to this erotic act unfolding between them.

So, Myfanwy didn’t. She jumped on his lap instead.

Samuel was ready for her.

Myfanwy locked her arms and thighs around him, leaving no safe place for the man to hide. He didn’t seem to want to. Samuel’s lips found hers in an instant, and he pillaged her swiftly and ruthlessly, finally giving words to all the unsung emotions that had bumped alongside them in the carriage. His mouth laid claim to her, sweeping and filling her with undiluted passion.

This is it,Myfanwy thought. This was finally the moment when they would go from friends to lovers—even though they weren’t truly friends, and she hadn’t the faintest idea what made lovers. It didn’t matter. This act was as purposeful and defining as pulling Excalibur from the stone. Samuel was the rock—he was always the hard place—but Myfanwy knew that all he needed to do was relinquish his hold. Then, and only then, would greatness envelop them both.

Myfanwy lifted on her knees, plastering her chest against his, adoring the way he pressed his hands into her back, pushing her even harder on him. They traveled higher, and Samuel placed one hand on the back of her neck, guiding her head where he needed it, canting her to the right angle so he could plunder the depths of her mouth more. He tasted like fire, all fervor and intensity, so electric in his need that his touch pulsed and shocked her all the way to her core.

Samuel was like gravity to her, always pulling her in his direction, always making her fall into his arms.

Myfanwy tugged at his necktie. “We should probably stop,” she whispered into his mouth, defying her actions. “We’re almost home.”

Samuel kissed the mutiny from her lips. “This carriage will run for as long as I tell it to,” he growled, sliding a hand down her thigh. With an impatient flick, he whipped her skirts up, baring a thigh. His hand latched on like a barnacle to a ship and gripped tight. “I fucking love your legs.” His voice ached with pure need. “So fucking strong.”

Myfanwy would have laughed—out of shyness—more than anything, but she stopped herself. Because he made her think about his legs and how he couldn’t use them as he once could. And that made her mind go back to the package on her seat. He was perfectly amiable enough at the present. Would he let her use the tincture on him now? Not wanting to ask the question—her lips were already in the middle of something—she reached behind her. When her hands came up with only air, she forced herself to break away from the kiss to glance back at the cushion.

And then she saw it. A slight, familiar form just outside the carriage.

“The boy!” Myfanwy shrieked, slamming down harshly on Samuel’s rather turgid lap.

“Fuck!” he yelled, shutting his eyes in a brutal hold, grabbing her hips and readjusting her into a better position.

Myfanwy didn’t have time to apologize. She was already rapping on the ceiling of the carriage, yelling for the driver to stop. “It’s him,” she yelled in Samuel’s face. “It’s the boy from the other day. The one who dropped off Annabelle!”

She didn’t wait for recognition to come to Samuel—the poor man still hadn’t even opened his eyes. The minute the carriage came to a halt, she whipped open the door and hopped out onto the street, frightening the dickens out of the poor child.

Not enough to freeze him, though. After a moment’s shock, the boy, as was his habit, took off like a shot. He scrambled down the street, but Myfanwy wasn’t about to let him win this time. Neither was Samuel. She heard him shout from the carriage; however, it didn’t work on her or the boy. Neither of them stopped. If anything, the boy was incited to panic even more.

He had youth on his side, but Myfanwy had her long legs. They ate into the pavement, and within seconds she was right behind the child. She only had to reach out and she could grab the back of his shirt. Only, for once, she was beaten to it. Samuel’s arm snaked into her periphery as he snatched the back of the boy’s threadbare collar. Releasing a nasty expletive, he yanked hard, and the boy snapped backward, landing on his behind on the sidewalk.

The abrupt motion proved to be too much for Samuel. His leg went out underneath him like the damaged foundation of a house, flimsy and shattering, and he crumpled next to the boy. He closed a grimace over his yelp, but Myfanwy could see the toll the effort took on him. His face was marred with anguish, and a heavy layer of sweat coated his forehead. Like her, his chest pumped from the run; however, every breath he expelled seemed to be riddled in agony, like the pain was tattooed into his very core, with nothing there to abate it.

Slithering like eels, the boy’s limbs struck out as if he was ready to make another run for it, but Myfanwy plopped down next to him, pinning his shoulders with her hands. “You’re not going anywhere—”

“I didn’t steal anything, I swear,” the boy cut in, his youthful eyes bobbing frantically.

Myfanwy glanced at Samuel, but his frown was set squarely on the boy. No help there. “Stealing…?”

He was close to crying now. He’d seemed so much older the first time she encountered him. Maybe that was because he’d been standing so close to Annabelle. Now, on his own, Myfanwy saw him for what he was—a young child himself, a terribly frightened one. Close to hysterics.

The boy’s bottom lip trembled as his words flowed like a river. “I promise. I just wanted to see her. I didn’t take anything from the lord’s house.”

Myfanwy could sense Samuel’s shoulders straightening at the mention of his being a lord. They didn’t have time for all that. “Who did you want to see? The little girl you deserted on our doorstep before you ran away?”

The boy’s expression completely changed at the mention of Annabelle. The tears could no longer wait. He broke like a dam. “I didn’t desert her,” he sobbed. “I would never do that to my sister!”