Chapter Five

Samuel would pay for this later, but as of now—this lovely moment—he didn’t feel a goddamned thing. No, that was wrong. He felt pure, unadulterated hatred wafting from fucking Lord Cremly whenever Samuel had the ball in his hands—which was just about the entire time he was out in the field.

It was almost too easy.

With the men’s team batting left-handed, Samuel bowled all but one out, hitting the wickets off the stumps in five straight deliveries. Sir Bramble managed to make contact with the ball; however, that was pure, dumb luck, since his eyes were closed when he swung. In any event, he popped the ball up and Samuel was able to race over and get under it for the catch, single-handedly dismissing the entire men’s side without breaking a sweat.

When it was the women’s turn to bat, he insisted that he go first. Was he being a bit aggressive? Perhaps. Myfanwy didn’t hide her exasperation as he yanked the bat out of her hands and marched up to the wicket, but she didn’t make a meal out of it. He knew she wanted to win, so she eventually stopped harassing him and let him face the bowler.

Naturally, it was Lord Cremly, and naturally, Samuel slammed the ball so far that Sir Bramble called it for an automatic six runs, meaning Samuel didn’t actually have to go back and forth between the two wickets to count the runs.

Samuel could have kissed the unathletic man. He’d die before acknowledging it, but his leg was throbbing like someone had taken a hammer to his kneecap. It was taking all his resolve to walk as evenly as he could, but he refused to give Lord Cremly the satisfaction of limping. The bastard had taken his eye from him that day three years ago, and Samuel wouldn’t allow the man to take his pride at a garden party too.

In the end, the match only lasted thirty minutes before the elusive viscount emerged out of his hiding to announce a light supper was being served inside the house. And Samuel had stayed at bat for the majority of that time.

Because they couldn’t finish two innings, the men were forced to forfeit and the women walked off the field to polite applause as the victors with forty-seven runs to the men’s zero.

Samuel growled when the servant took the bat from him, upset that he hadn’t been able to hit for fifty. It didn’t matter how long he’d been away from the game—the competitive spirit died hard.

He had no intention of following the others to the house. Samuel had already done what he’d set out to do that afternoon and had discussed his business plans with Sir Bramble—embarrassing Lord Cremly had just been a lovely bonus. With everyone heading inside, he thought to slide away without notice.

Samuel should have known escaping wouldn’t be that easy. As the field cleared, Myfanwy stayed behind, obviously waiting for him, the jacket he’d taken off to play hanging from her arm.

“Looking for this?” she said, holding it out to him as he approached. Samuel accepted it with a nod of thanks before reluctantly putting it back on. The last thing he wanted to do was add another layer of clothing. Her glare could have melted an iceberg. “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked.

Samuel took his time, fastening his last button, and then his arms fell helplessly by his sides. “You won, didn’t you? There’s no reason to be angry at me.”

“Oh, I’m not angry,” she shot back. “I’m bloody furious.”

“You’re furious at the wrong person, then. Save it for Lord Cremly and his ilk. I made him look like a fool for you—doesn’t that count for anything?”

Myfanwy shook her head, and Samuel had to stop himself from staring at her marvelous hair. Even pulled back at the back of her head, the copper locks caught the light in such a brilliant fashion, startling him with their glorious shine. That was another reason why he’d been so domineering during the match. If his head was in the game, it wasn’t on her—the way she moved so fluidly on the pitch, the way her gown flowed around and in between her legs when she ran. Myfanwy was as graceful as any dancer; her motions were always purposeful and true. He couldn’t help but wonder what a woman like that would be like in the bedroom, so sure of herself and in tune with her strong body.

She snapped her fingers in front of his face, causing Samuel to blink and release the erotic visions from his head. “Are you even listening to me? I said I don’t believe for one second that you made Cremly the fool because of me. You did it only for yourself.”

Samuel swiped a sweaty hand over his face and began to trudge away. The limp was back, as was the mounting pain. “Does it matter?” he challenged.

“Yes!” she yelped, latching behind him like a shadow. “I wanted us to beat him—the women. And we could have if you hadn’t gotten in our way. By monopolizing the game, you made it seem like we were incapable. Yes, you helped us win, but you also helped prove their point.”

“And what point is that?”

“That they’re better. That…that…we need help and we don’t deserve to be taken seriously!”

Samuel spun around, but he was stopped from saying anything by a grating chuckle he knew all too well.

“Of course I take you seriously, Miss Myfanwy,” Lord Cremly replied in his pandering, confident way. “Why do you have it in that pretty little head of yours that we men have such a negative image of women?”

Goddamn Cremly!Why couldn’t the bastard just leave them alone and lick his wounds somewhere else? Samuel could answer his own question—because Lord Cremly’s title and fortune prohibited him from ever having true wounds—nothing like Samuel’s, anyway.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Myfanwy said tightly, rubbing her eyes. “Would you mind giving us a moment? We’re in the middle of an important conversation.”

“I can see that,” the marquis said, meandering even closer. Samuel instantly locked his hands behind his back. He would not punch him. He wouldn’t lay his bricklaying hands on the son of a bitch, giving him the opportunity to crow to the entire party about Samuel’s lack of discipline. His parents couldn’t give him much in life, but at least they’d given him that.

“I love women, by the way,” Lord Cremly added, licking Myfanwy with another of those lascivious glances. Samuel clutched his hands together tighter. “I especially love watching you run around on the pitch like chickens with your heads cut off. It’s positively delightful. Not to mention all the money I make betting on the matrons when they beat the single ladies every year. What about you, Everett? You’ve been known to throw your money on a bet. Have you made some of your paltry fortune on the matrons? Did it pay for that sweet little inn of yours?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be happening again, my lord,” Myfanwy said testily. “I assure you that the single women will be taking home the victory this year.”

Lord Cremly tilted his head toward the clouds, musing as if he hadn’t heard Myfanwy at all. “You know…I always thinks it’s odd that the single ladies continue to lose year after year. All those girls, no doubt angry and frustrated that they have no husbands, could use that aggression and despair in their play. Can you imagine? All that pent-up energy…” He lobbed his gaze back to Myfanwy, full of pity. “Did you know the matrons have asked me to be their coach this year?”

“No… I…” Myfanwy stammered.

Lord Cremly reached out and plucked a blade of grass off her shoulder. “Perhaps it’s time you just got married. Like Miss Jennifer. I have it on good authority that Sir Bramble is going to propose soon, despite her father’s profession. Don’t you want to be like your friend and know what it feels like to win…in all areas of life?”

Samuel followed this interaction, knowing he was balancing on a thin wire. He lived with Myfanwy; he knew she could handle herself. More importantly, he knew she wanted to handle herself against villains such as Cremly, and yet it was becoming harder and harder to stand back and not interfere. If he had his way, he would have busted Cremly’s nose the second his arm extended in Myfanwy’s direction. Samuel had assumed she would edge away…or maybe snap the lord’s finger. But she didn’t do any of that. In fact, she didn’t do anything. It was as if Myfanwy was paralyzed, frozen by the lord’s callous words.

Cremly, pushing his advantage, reached across Myfanwy’s torso to her other shoulder. As he was poised to pick off another piece of grass, Samuel had finally had enough.

“Touch her again and I will break your fucking hand,” he stated evenly.

Cremly frowned, dropping his arm to his side. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are, speaking to me that way?”

Samuel stepped in front of him, blocking Cremly’s view from Myfanwy. “I’m her guardian, that’s who I am. And her coach.” Myfanwy gasped, and he felt the heat of her breath on the back of his neck. Odd, that the heady sensation made Samuel want to batter the bastard’s hand even more.

Cremly backed away. “Her coach? What coach?”

“For the single ladies,” Samuel remarked matter-of-factly. “They asked me, and I accepted. So, it seems we have a date soon on the pitch.” He found his first true smile of the afternoon. “Just like old times.”

Cremly let out a mirthless snort as the men gave one another deathly expressions. Then, slowly and maliciously, his attention fastened on Samuel’s bad eye. “I feel sorry for those poor girls,” Cremly said softly. “They deserve someone better than a used-up old cricketer who can barely see two feet in front of him.” He paused, his teeth curling over his lips. “It really is ugly, isn’t it? I’ve often wondered why you don’t wear a patch over the frightful sight.”

“Why should I? So you don’t have to see what you did?”

“I played the game, Samuel. That’s what gentlemen do. It’s not my fault you couldn’t move fast enough to get out of the way. Blame your pathetic leg for that. Everyone has moved on. I suggest you do the same.”

Move on? Move on?When the son of a bitch took everything from him? His livelihood, his youth, the only thing Samuel had ever truly loved? “If you’re a gentleman, then I’m glad I’ll never be one.”

The marquis barked a flippant laugh. “Well, luckily for all of us, there’s no danger in that happening.” Then, without waiting for a reply, Lord Cremly bowed low to Myfanwy and walked away, whistling as he went.

*

Samuel’s hand clungto the lip of the tub. He hissed as he lowered himself inside the freezing water, and the ice clinked and bobbed as it made room for his shivering body. Taking a deep breath, he finally submerged himself in one quick movement, knowing the longer he pussyfooted, the worse the experience would be.

“I’ve grown soft,” Samuel muttered as he let the glacial water swallow him up to mid-chest. That was precisely why he’d asked the maids to fill the entire tub. He only needed to ice his bad leg, but decided at the last moment that it wouldn’t hurt to give his entire body the frigid treatment. When he’d played cricket full-time, it had been nothing to submerge himself in an ice bath… Now, he dreaded it more than the pain he was working to alleviate.

“Fuck,” he rasped, leaning his head back against the tub and closing his eyes. What a disaster of a day. Not his meeting with Sir Bramble—that had gone well, with the baron agreeing to invest in the sporting goods venture. However, just like everything else in Samuel’s life, the second the sky appeared clear…the rain came pounding down.

Samuel didn’t know the first thing about coaching. He was a cricket player. One of the best England had ever seen. And he knew even less about coaching girls. He’d grown up with two brothers; when disagreements happened (and there had been many), they were solved with fists and cutting remarks. The coaches that he’d had the benefit of playing under in his youth had resolved matters in the same, belligerent way. Pats on the back were few. Screaming and foul words were the only motivations.

The gentler, weaker sex was…well, gentle and weak.

Perhaps Samuel was overthinking this. Since the single ladies would never make good cricket players, maybe he didn’t need to be a good coach. Only a decent one. Good enough for them to slaughter Cremly’s team.

But that thought put him in an even worse mood. Samuel didn’t have it in him to do anything perfunctorily—especially when it came to cricket. If these women wanted him, then he would give his experience in its entirety. Shame on them. They should have known better. Caveat emptor.

One woman, in particular, should have known better.

What the hell was he going to do about Myfanwy? The moment she’d needled her way into his house, Samuel had made a point to keep their interactions to a minimum. And he’d been doing a damn fine job, too. Now, in only a matter of days, he’d agreed to spend more time with her—intimate time. Because, to Samuel, there was nothing deeper and more personal, private and profound, than the cricket pitch. It was the only place he’d ever truly felt his soul quicken and transcend his body, the one place he ever felt like the man he wanted to be. Even bloody and bruised, it was the one place he was whole.

Sharing the pitch with her would be dangerous.

A knock sounded on the door. “I told you I needed more time,” Samuel called out, desperately trying not to move. He’d gotten a handle on the cold, but when he jostled in the water, it was like a million ice picks stabbing into him all over again. “Come back in ten minutes.”

“No, I don’t have ten minutes,” a resolute voice answered as the door swung forward.

Samuel’s eyes flew open, and behind him, he heard determined footsteps stall on his bedroom carpet.

“What are you doing?” Myfanwy yelped.

Samuel shot straight up to sitting, frigid water be damned. “What does it look like I’m doing? Get out of here!”

But his ward didn’t budge. Instead, the damn girl seemed to tiptoe even more into his room. “Is that ice?” she asked with naked curiosity.

Samuel cupped some water and splashed it on his face. He had to be dreaming, but nothing was waking him up. “Of course it’s ice.”

“Oh…you’re naked in there!”

Samuel swiveled around in the bath to see Myfanwy—wide-eyed and impertinent—craning her neck toward the tub. “Of course I’m naked! Why wouldn’t I be?”

She twisted her fingers fretfully. “I have no idea! I just didn’t expect it!”

“This my room,” Samuel returned dryly. “A reasonable person would expect it.”

Myfanwy shook her head. Her copper hair was down, and it swayed across her shoulders like glorious church bells. “I told Benjamin I needed to speak with you; he said now would be a good time.”

Samuel gripped the lip of the tub. “My butler wouldn’t do that.”

“He did.”

“He wouldn’t.” Or would he?

A pregnant pause fell over them. Samuel could almost hear the wheels spinning in her head. “Why are you sitting in ice water?” she asked.

“Because,” he lamented wearily, realizing she wouldn’t leave until she got her answer, “it’s the only thing that stops my leg from feeling like it’s been set on fire.”

“Because you played with us today?”

“Yes. No. It hurts every day, but playing on it didn’t help.”

“You could have fooled me. For a moment there, when I was watching you…” Her voice took on a dreamy quality that pricked Samuel worse than the ice. “I thought… Well, I thought it was like I’d gone back in time. You seemed like the old you.”

“And now I’m paying the price for it.”

“Is there anything else you can do…for the pain?”

“No.”

“Truly? Forgive me, but this seems like torture.”

No more than speaking to you alone in my room with only one set of clothing between us.“I’m used to it,” Samuel said, annoyed that the more he told himself not to engage with her, the more he engaged. “Just… Will you please go back to your room? I’ll be there momentarily, and then I can answer more of your ridiculous questions.”

Myfanwy was about to step away but stopped herself. “Wait, no. Can I just say what I have to say? It won’t take long. Please?” A small smile curled onto her face. “I won’t look, I promise.”

Samuel continued to glare at her. That little smile told him that trusting her was the last thing he should do. But he wasn’t in the best position to debate. It wasn’t like he could pick her up and throw her out. Or could he?

“Fine,” he gritted out. Samuel resumed his position, leaning against the back of the tub, his eyes closed. “It’s not like there’s much to see anyway.”

“I don’t understand.”

Samuel chuckled. “Good.” He’d let her husband inform her about the delightful consequences of cold water on a man’s balls. His chuckle died a hasty death. Thoughts of her future husband usually had that morose effect. “If you’re going to stay here, go over to the far side of the bed,” he instructed her, claiming a modicum of respectability in this improbable situation.

Myfanwy released an exasperated exhale, but at least she listened. However, once Samuel heard the telltale squeak of the mattress, his eyes shot open once more.

“Don’t sit on it!” he yelped, splashing ice cubes out of the tub.

Myfanwy hopped off the mattress like it was covered in poisonous snakes. “What’s wrong now? You told me to come here!”

“Not to sit! Just to stand.”

She tossed up her hands. “What does it matter?”

Oh, it matters.Samuel couldn’t let one ounce of Myfanwy perch on that bed. If he saw her in that position, all the ice in all the world wouldn’t matter to his inflamed flesh.

“You’re being ridiculous and mean,” she announced, leaning against his bedpost. Fine. Leaning is fine. As long as she didn’t lean too much. “All I wanted to do was come in here and say thank you. That is…” Myfanwy bit at her plump lower lip, and Samuel came to the stark conclusion that leaning was too much. He needed more ice.

“What?” he growled, a little too harshly even for his own ears. Dammit! It couldn’t be helped. He was naked and she wasn’t—which was the way it was supposed to be, but not the way he wanted it.

A streak of red traveled from Myfanwy’s neck, flushing the skin up to her cheekbones. “I’m worried that you only told Lord Cremly that you’d be our coach to get back at him and that you didn’t truly mean it.”

“I mean what I say.”

“Yes, but…” Myfanwy lazed against the bedpost, hugging it with her torso, and Samuel had never wanted to be a piece of wood so much in his life. “Do you really want to do it, or do you just want to beat Lord Cremly?”

Samuel splashed more water in his face. This was what separated professionals from amateurs. Professionals wanted to win at any cost; amateurs seemed to only care about the optics of winning. It never made any sense to him.

“You’re worried about the wrong thing,” he said evenly. “Who cares why I’m helping you? All you need to know is that with me as your coach, you will beat the matrons. Isn’t that what you want?”

Myfanwy squinted while she paused to mull that over. “Yes. I suppose…”

“There’s no supposing; there’s winning and losing. That’s it. Now, I’ll ask you again. Do you want to win?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then—”

“But I also want to know what changed your mind,” she said, cutting him off. “You seemed adamantly against the idea the day before. I never took you to be someone whose mind could be changed so quickly.”

Samuel stared into the water where the ice cubes were melting at a faster rate than he would have expected. The notion of honesty banged around in his muddled head. Honesty between a guardian and his ward wasn’t necessarily needed; however, honesty between a coach and his player…that was something else.

Myfanwy continued, her voice soft. “I wasn’t aware that it was Lord Cremly who did that to”—she nodded toward his face—“to you. It’s understandable that you would want revenge. I suppose I only hoped that it was more than that.”

“It is.” Samuel cleared his throat. “It is more than that.” He trailed his fingers through the water, watching the perfect and fluid way the liquid cut across his skin. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you. It was wrong.”

“How did he look at me?”

Samuel’s gaze remained down. “Like he owned you,” he said gruffly, “or thought he could have you.”

Myfanwy’s laughter surprised him. She untangled herself from the bedpost and perched on the edge of his bed. With his latest admission, Samuel no longer had the strength to stop her. “Clearly, you have no experience being a woman,” she replied.

“What does that mean?”

Her laughter subsided. “Men always look at me like that, at women like that. Well…most men do, anyway. You don’t. I’ve lived with you for a year, and it’s rare to get you to look in my direction.”

Samuel’s entire body screamed at him to stay quiet, but he dragged the next words from his lips. “Do you want me to?”

“Look at me?”

He nodded.

“Yes…I believe I do.”

Samuel’s gaze soared to her in an instant, and he watched that shy little smile come back to her face, making his chest tighten. He also noticed her focus latch on to his bad eye.

He motioned to it with his hand. “I find it’s easier for everyone if I don’t look at them. It can be distressing. I actually tried wearing a patch, but I hated feeling like a pirate.”

Myfanwy didn’t laugh. “I’m not distressed.”

Samuel cleared his throat again. “No?”

She shook her head, and then slowly peeled herself from the bed and walked toward the door. Samuel was numb, and it had nothing to do with the water.

“I like it when you look at me, Samuel,” Myfanwy said softly before leaving.

After she closed the door, Samuel inflated his lungs and plunged himself under the water. When he came up, he could still smell her perfume.