Chapter Sixteen

If it took Myfanwy forever just to work up the nerve to join Samuel on the bed, she made up for it by getting his trousers off in a hurry. He was incredibly helpful in that endeavor. The order wasn’t even fully out of her mouth and his hands were already working on his front buttons. She wanted to help him glide the fabric down his legs, but Samuel completed the task in no time. However, the end result left something to be desired.

For some reason, Myfanwy assumed his undergarments would be short, cut off before the knee, but they were sadly long and white and covering the entire area she needed to massage. They were essentially trousers underneath his trousers.

They both stared entirely too long at his nether regions. Myfanwy made a clicking sound with her tongue, feeling panic begin to bubble in her chest. She didn’t know how much longer her cavalier act would hold. Kissing him would solve all of this. Samuel didn’t think as much when he was busy kissing her, and she was less anxious. But Myfanwy hadn’t intended to storm into his room and debauch him—not at first, anyway. A selfless act was her goal. And Samuel’s layers were getting in the way.

“You weren’t supposed to be wearing those,” she remarked.

“I wasn’t?” Myfanwy could hear the amusement in Samuel’s voice.

She plucked at his undergarments. “The fabric is thin, but I don’t think the tincture will absorb into your skin unless you’re…um… Well, you’re…” Myfanwy cast a hopeless look at the hearth, thinking it must be blazing for her to feel so uncomfortable, only to realize that Samuel hadn’t bothered to light a fire that night.

“Naked?” he finished.

“Quite.”

Samuel shifted further up the bed. She couldn’t look at him. Her embarrassment was as cloying and sticky as toffee pudding. “Myfanwy,” he said gently over her head. “I don’t need you to massage my leg. It hurts, yes, but I just have to deal with it. Nothing ever helps, so I’ve found it’s always best to just get through it.”

Not good enough!Thoughts jumbled together in her mind. Samuel took care of so much, and yet he was so alone. Whoever took care of him? Whoever put him first?

The bed sank lower as he tried to inch away from her, but Myfanwy slapped her hand on his chest—his very naked chest. “No,” she stated firmly—as firm as the muscles under her fingers. He hadn’t played proper cricket in a few years, but one couldn’t tell from his upper half. Well-formed and lithe, Samuel’s body had the sculpted, chiseled look of something cut from rock, all angles and sharp points, shaped expertly and pulled tight against the bone. He didn’t have much hair on his chest, and what he did have was so light in color that it barely registered. Myfanwy held her fingers firmly against his skin, so she didn’t play with the small curls.

“I will look away while you take off your undergarments,” she said officiously. “Then you can cover your… Well, you know, your…”

“Cock.”

“Lap.”

What did he just say?Myfanwy’s eyes almost jumped out of her head. But if she was expecting an apology from the incorrigible man, she was mightily mistaken. She buried her face in her hands and shook her head. “I can’t believe you just used that word.”

Samuel’s laughter was thick and guttural as he worked to do her bidding. “Don’t be such an innocent,” he said, shifting the bed as he did what she asked. “I know you’ve heard worse on the cricket pitch.”

“That’s the cricket pitch,” Myfanwy squeaked from under the darkness of her hand. “This is the—” She stopped. Feeling no more movement on his end, she peeked out from between her fingers and saw him naked—but still covered—with the bedclothes draped around his hips. Her mouth dried as she took in his long legs, much hairier than his chest. Even bruised and scarred, they brought to mind pure power. The ability to run and run until your lungs couldn’t take any more and threatened to burst out of your chest. Samuel could tear down the pitch faster than anyone Myfanwy had ever seen—like Zeus blowing a ship across the sea with the power of his lips. He’d been so beautiful. And yet, she realized, nothing had changed. Here he sat before her…still beautiful, maybe even more so now that she knew him as a person and no longer an idol.

“What are you really doing here?” Samuel asked gently, lowering his head to catch her bashful gaze. His eyes were wide, his expression open. Honesty. Simple honesty poured out of him. And…hope? “What is this, Myfanwy? Tell me. Because you sit here all timid in front of me, but this is my room you’re in in the middle of the night. My skin you’ve asked to touch. My body you’ve made bare. I’ve done it all, and now it’s your turn.”

Myfanwy had always considered herself forthright, but being that way and being treated that way were two different things. Samuel was asking for her truth, and he deserved it. She wanted him, but again, that was not why she’d knocked on his bedroom door. “This night is not about me; it’s about you. I don’t want to talk about me or my father, please… I just can’t right now. I’m not here to answer questions.”

With a desperate, pleading look, she unscrewed the bottle and poured a little of the oil into her hands. The room was immediately infused with wintergreen, making it seem as fresh and light as a forest at daybreak. She rubbed her hands together, pleased at how tingly and stimulated her skin became by the simple action. When she laid her hands on Samuel’s thigh, he flinched as if she’d burned him.

“Stay still,” she warned, gently working into his flesh, not wanting to knead too deeply, too quickly. She had no basis to test any of her theories, though it made sense to her that one must wake up the muscles before one really exercised them.

The room ebbed and flowed, at first feeling impossibly small, as if any major move would throw them together. But as Myfanwy began to work, the air swelled with emotions and questions, shy glances and shallow breaths.

Soon she got the hang of her exertions, learning the way Samuel’s body responded to her touch. Much like she’d seen the cooks manipulate dough in the kitchen, the longer she pushed and pulled, the more the tension in Samuel’s leg eventually gave way and a softer, suppler muscle emerged underneath her hands.

She heard him groan and lay his head back against the headboard, closing his eyes, wincing at times, sighing at others. Myfanwy was helping him, and that knowledge spurred her on. If he was opening to her in body, then maybe she could get him to open in spirit.

“What did Holmes mean earlier,” she began, watching his eyebrows rise, “when he talked about professionals and how they are the only ones who understand winning? I don’t understand.”

Samuel’s chest expanded as he took a massive breath. Myfanwy wanted to place her hand there again and massage the space over his heart. Could this magic tincture stimulate that unyielding space?

“No, you wouldn’t understand that, would you?” Samuel replied lazily, almost sleepily. “But it’s not much different than what Cremly was spouting off about before.”

“Cremly?”

He nodded. The lines of his face softened, but he couldn’t fool her hands. Just saying the marquis’s name caused his muscles to turn to steel under her ministrations. “The professionals-versus-amateurs nonsense,” he began. “The idea that professionals ruin the sport by demanding to be paid. The amateurs—the gentlemen,” he sneered, “never take into account that the professionals cannot afford not to be paid. These men don’t come from much. If they choose to play instead of spending the day working, then they miss out on wages for their family. And most of the professionals are the better players. The crowds pay to come to see them. Why should they be ashamed to have a cut of that?”

“They shouldn’t—”

“And if they want to make a little more by betting on the game, why shouldn’t they? They’re betting on themselves, for Christ’s sake.”

Myfanwy wove her hands around Samuel’s knee, the one that gave him such a difficult time. He hissed between his teeth as she manipulated the area, giving it the attention it so desperately deserved. “Did you bet on yourself?” she asked with a heavy dose of trepidation. “Is that what Harry meant by ‘winning’?”

Samuel finally opened his eyes, and the blue orbs appeared oppressively tired. “Of course. I was always told to bet on myself to make extra money. It was the surest bet I’d ever make. I’m afraid I’m a jaded beast. I have little to no faith in others, only in myself.”

Myfanwy snorted. “Did my father tell you that?”

“No,” he said wistfully. “No, it was someone else.”

When Samuel didn’t explain further, Myfanwy let it drop. There was no sense in pushing; he would tell her if he wanted to.

“Did you know the amateurs don’t even get ready in the same pavilion as the professionals?” he went on, his tone gaining strength. “They think it’s below them. They travel in different trains—hell, they even enter the pavilions in different areas than professionals on their own teams. But they still deign to hire us professionals to bowl to their sons while they attend Eton and provide labor on the grounds of their clubs that would never accept us as members. It has nothing to do with the money. If you look closely, you’ll notice that men like Lord Cremly always seem to walk away from a cricket match with a heavier pocket than they came in with. No…it’s just another way to stigmatize those who grew up poor, because we are better than them. Professional cricketers are the best of the best, but that can’t be allowed, so they try to swipe us down any way they can. One sneer, one joke, one slight at a time, until men like Joe Danvers and Benny Hardcastle are no longer gods of the pitch, but old drunkards to be laughed at.”

“I can’t imagine anyone laughing at you.”

“Because I don’t give them a reason to.” Samuel made a ragged sound in the base of his throat. “Your father taught me everything. He taught me to behave like a gentleman, even though I was far from it. He taught me to wring as much money out of the game as I could so that I could leave on my own terms and was never beholden to anyone.”

“But you didn’t leave on your own terms.” She tapped lightly on top of his knee. “I thought this was the reason why you retired, and the injury to your eye.”

Samuel glared at the offending limb as if it were a best friend who had stabbed him in the back. “After a time, the eye healed, or healed enough that I could still find a way to play. It was the leg that kept me down. It refused to move the way I needed it to. It slowed me, and hurt so much that I found it difficult to think of anything else. I’ve seen a few doctors. Some said I was done for; others said ice baths would help and that I’d be on the mend in no time. But it never felt right.” His cheeks glowed red, like he was in the confessional telling Myfanwy a terrible secret. “I didn’t see the point in trying to return. If I couldn’t play at my old level, what would be the point?”

Myfanwy frowned, caressing his rough calf, digging her thumb in so hard that his foot trembled. His words angered her. “It’s still a game,” she replied. “Do you have to be the best? I’m sure at one time you enjoyed it just for sake of playing. Can’t that happen again? Isn’t that enough?”

Samuel snorted, crossing his arms. “Says the woman who hates losing so much that she cast all her ego aside to ask me to coach her team.”

Myfanwy laughed despite herself. “I suppose you have a point.”

She settled back on her feet, admiring her handiwork. Half of Samuel glistened like a god before her, drenched in her oils, lacquered to a relaxed shine. With the content smile on his lips and the lethargic way he was situated on the bed, she could almost believe she’d cured him. But if their talk had taught her anything, it was that some of Samuel’s injuries weren’t anywhere near the surface—and potentially out of her reach.

“There,” she said, rubbing her hands together, absorbing the last of the oil. “How does that feel?”

Samuel flexed his leg, twisting it back and forth and bending it a few times. She watched him closely and didn’t detect a single grimace. On the contrary, he rewarded her with a grin. “It feels… Damn, it feels better. Much better.”

“Holly told me it was a magic cure.”

Samuel arched a brow at the bottle on the table. “Do I want to know what the prostitutes use this oil for?”

Myfanwy shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Holly said she uses it for her legs when they’re sore after work.”

Samuel’s grin turned tight. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“Oh, don’t be such a snob. If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for you.”

“Is that why you went to the Lucky Fish tonight? To find this oil?” His voice lowered. “Or to find me?”

“I told you, I’m not answering questions tonight.” She turned to place the bottle back in the sack. She was almost off the bed when Samuel’s hand stopped her.

“So, that’s it, then?”

Myfanwy wasn’t sure what to make of this man. She was so used to the curmudgeonly brute; he looked every bit the rascal now, with his loose, dark blond curls swept off his forehead, his crooked nose pointing at her as best it could. His lips quirked up at the ends like he was laughing at a joke that only he had heard.

She couldn’t help but play along. “What more did you expect?”

Samuel’s mouth curled devilishly to the side. “Honestly…I thought you would kiss my leg and make it better.”

Myfanwy stoned him with a wry look. “I’m not your mother.”

“My mother never did that…and I’m well aware of what you are and what you aren’t.”

The words were out of her before she could stop them. “What am I, Samuel? What am I to you? Because every time I try to be something, you push me away.”

His grin deepened, cutting into the frown lines. Myfanwy’s heart hurt when he looked at her this way, so youthful and buoyant, as if anything was possible, as if his best years were still in front of him. With her.

With a grace that startled her, Samuel shifted from his spot, languidly moving toward her. His actions were slow, hypnotic, like he was wading through water to find her. When he reached her, he pressed her back onto the bed, covering her with his body, his face just above hers, poised and ready. Myfanwy shivered through the intimacy of it, the possession and power he deftly wielded.

Samuel’s expression was difficult to read, though she thought she caught an appraising smile as he raised his hand to her chest, tracing his fingers over the lace and seams of her high-necked gown. “What are you to me?” he drawled, keeping his touch as light as his voice. He was like a magnet. Whenever his fingers drifted over her body, Myfanwy could feel her skin beating through her fabric, pulling toward him.

Samuel made his way higher, running his tips along her sharp jaw. “You are a woman who has given me a gift tonight, one that I am more than willing to repay.”

So, that’s it, then?Myfanwy quickly slammed the door on that vulnerability. Her voice came out like a puff of smoke. “You vowed not to ruin me. Is that still the case?”

Samuel nodded. His gaze was dark and mesmerizing. Myfanwy couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a magician weaving a spell over her; her limbs were soft and pliable, ever-ready for him to command. But somewhere in the back reaches of her mind, she told herself to stay strong, make him pay for this…make Samuel give more—give everything—for the right to her body. And it was only her body. Despite what she’d told Jennifer, Myfanwy knew her heart had already been given away long ago. The man was so blind that he didn’t know he kept it for her. She desperately hoped it was still safe.

Samuel’s lips were exquisitely gentle as he replaced his fingers on her jaw. “I have no future to give you, and I won’t take away a chance for you to have your own. But I can’t stay away from you, either,” he said, kissing a path down her neck. “You’re a pain in my arse. You’re a meddler who never knows when to leave well enough alone. You’ve bewitched me.”

Myfanwy arched her neck to allow him more access, but still, she pinched his shoulder. “You’re horrible at wooing!”

Samuel chuckled against her skin. “I’m not wooing, darling. I don’t have to woo you; you’ve already been properly wooed.”

“How…how…so?”

He crawled down her body, nuzzling in between the valley of her breasts, against her trembling tummy, taking deep, full breaths like a man starved for air. Myfanwy raked her hands through his hair, holding him against her, afraid she might never let him go.

So caught up was she in the riotous emotions he was drowning her with, Myfanwy didn’t notice his hand had wandered to her leg, where he was pulling her skirts up with silky intention. “I remember you watching me on the pitch,” he said. “Did you think I didn’t know? Did you think I couldn’t feel your eyes on me? I tried to ignore it. Ignore you.” He sat back and placed both of his hands on her thighs. He massaged them with the same intensity she’d used on him, but Myfanwy didn’t feel it in her muscles. The jolt of pleasure traveled straight to the apex between her legs. She dug one heel into the mattress, and Samuel wrapped his hand underneath her thigh, following the lines of her body all the way to her behind. “But it’s a hopeless cause; I can always feel you,” he purred, kneading her flesh. “You haunt me, woman.”

Myfanwy found his gaze. It astonished her, the level of heat and wanting she witnessed. “I haunt you?”

He nodded, fixing his attention back on her long, supple limbs. “Of what could be. You put terrible fantasies in my head of what I can be.”

“What can you be, Samuel?”

He dipped his head to her thighs, placing his nose at the center that was so very open and so very afraid of what he might do next. He placed a solemn lick at her entrance, causing Myfanwy to curl her toes so hard they cramped.

He lifted his head infinitesimally, and all she could see was his two-toned eyes over the reaches of her belly and pelvis. “Whole,” he said.

And then he lowered his chin and proceeded to break her into so many pieces, Myfanwy didn’t care if she ever came together again.