A Heart for the Taking

by Shirlee Busbee

  Sam stared narrowly at him. “Is that what happened?” he asked grimly.

  Chance’s grin slipped a little. “Perhaps.”

  Committed to keeping the gossip and scandal to a minimum, Sam began to discuss various plans to lend respectability to the coming nuptials. It would be a small, hasty affair, with only the nearest members of the Walker clan attending the actual ceremony. Morely and his family would naturally be there, as well as some of Chance’s adopted father’s brothers and sisters and their families. Many lived within a forty-mile radius of Walker Ridge and would flock eagerly to the plantation to see Chance Walker marry a real English lady—especially one rumored to have been Jonathan’s choice of a bride. It was going to be a nine days’ wonder, and gossip would race like wildfire through the colony, but if they kept their heads about them, they just might brush through without any serious damage. From those attending the wedding the news would trickle outward, and as Sam said, the least said by the principals, the better.

  Jonathan and Constance were a great stumbling block to any plan to present a unified family front, and their absence from the wedding would create rampant speculation and fuel just the sort of gossip they were trying to avoid. They would simply have to be there when Chance took Lady Merrivale as his bride, and it would be up to Sam to make certain that bloody mayhem did not result.

  Overall, Chance was feeling rather satisfied when he finally left Sam’s office some time later. It was firmly established that he would indeed marry Lady Merrivale just as soon as it could be decently arranged and that Sam and Letty would help cloak the affair with decorum. Chance had reason to be pleased; he had accomplished what he had set out to do, claimed as his own the woman Jonathan had wanted. The fact that Sam and Letty had not blamed Fancy for what had happened, or thrown him out on his ear, intensified his satisfaction.

  Sam had already gently requested that both Jonathan and his mother remove themselves temporarily to Foxfield, the upper plantation, some fifteen miles up the river, and for them to stay there, at the small but comfortable house that had been built by some long-deceased Walker relative, until plans were more settled. Chance had been surprised to learn that they had agreed to do so, and he had to admit that for the time being, their absence would make life simpler for everyone involved. Without them at the house, there would be far less tension and discord, and it was obvious that Sam did not want to run the risk of any confrontation between Chance and Jonathan—or Constance, for that matter. Jonathan and his mother would return well before any of the Walker cousins arrived for the wedding and would, hopefully, by that time have become resigned to Chance’s marriage to the baroness. Chance doubted it, and he would have liked to know what sort of persuasion Sam had used to get Jonathan to agree to the move.

  Deciding that it would be wise if he made himself scarce for a while, at least until Jonathan and Constance had left for Foxfield, Chance did not return immediately to the big house. Whistling softly to himself, he wandered past the rows of slave cabins and various outbuildings behind Sam’s office and entered the small patch of woodland that lay beyond. He had no definite destination, he was merely wasting time until Jonathan and Constance had left Walker Ridge. But eventually he found himself walking along the river’s edge where it looped backward and wound itself sinuously along one side of the wooded area. It was a private spot, a favorite of his where he’d come often as a boy.

  Chance was standing on a small bluff overlooking the water; the green, dappled coolness of the woods lay behind him, and below him gently meandered the James River. From this point, beyond glimpses of the tobacco fields and the small winding path that led back toward the house and outbuildings, there was no sign of human habitation. There was an agreeable sense of isolation from Walker Ridge, almost as if he were all alone and miles away. No intrusive human sounds traveled his way; there was only the somnolent drone of the insects, the soft lap of the river against the bank, and the occasional lilting song of a bird. It was very peaceful.

  A yawn escaped him, and after settling himself on a patch of wild grass, he leaned his head back against the trunk of a large willow tree. The day was warm, the yellow sunlight filtering gently through the narrow leaves of the willow, and as Chance lounged there, the tenseness that had been with him since he had first conceived his wild plan gradually waned. In less than two minutes his eyes closed and he slept.

  He had no way of knowing how long he slept, but a whisper of sound snapped him into sudden wakefulness. He lay very still, all his senses straining to fix the point of the noise that had awakened him. A brief glance at the sky showed him the sun was no longer high, and from the lengthening shadows he knew it was late afternoon. The sound came again—from along the path—and he relaxed slightly. Probably one of the servants had been sent by Sam or Letty to look for him here.

  It wasn’t a servant, and a slow, appreciative smile crossed Chance’s dark face as Fancy came into view. She looked very lovely wearing a simple green-striped skirt and laceedged bodice of delicate jaconet over a pale yellow petticoat. A wide, saucy-brimmed straw hat that was tied with broad yellow ribbon sat upon her head, her dark brown hair falling in soft curls down her back, and in one hand she carried a large wicker basket. She did not look pleased to see him.

  “Letty said that she thought you would be here,” she muttered as she approached him. Motioning to the basket she held, she added coldly, “She said that you would be hungry by now, and that since I am your”—her voice hardened and an angry flush burned in her cheeks—“fiancée and we have already anticipated our wedding vows, there would be nothing amiss in my bringing it to you.”

  From beneath his thick dark lashes, Chance regarded her. “This is kind of you.”

  Fancy’s eyes glittered. “I did not want to do it. But I had no choice with Letty and Ellen simpering and looking all calf-eyed. If it had been up to me, you could have stayed out here and starved.”

  Chance grinned, his white teeth flashing in his bronzed face. “Now, Duchess, is that any way to talk to your husband-to-be?”

  Fancy gave a strangled sound, halfway between a shriek and a growl, and very nearly threw the basket at his mocking face. She absolutely hated him. And he had no right to look so damnably attractive as he lolled there on the ground before her, like a pasha surveying his favorite harem girl. His black hair fell rakishly across his forehead and around his shoulders, and his white linen shirt was half-undone, revealing an indecent expanse of smooth, tawny skin. The buckskin breeches faithfully outlined his long, strong legs, and, remembering those same naked legs brushing against her that morning in bed, Fancy fought a wave of giddiness. She would not be attracted to him. She would not. He was loathsome. Staring at him with open dislike, she thrust the basket at him. “Here. Take it. I have delivered you something to eat and I’m not doing one thing more.”

  Chance straightened from his indolent pose against the tree trunk, and leaning forward, he took the basket and set it on the ground nearby. Cocking an eyebrow at her, he murmured, “Are you sure that I cannot convince you to join me? If I know Letty, she has sent enough food for both of us.”

  “No, thank you,” Fancy said stiffly. “I am not hungry. And the less I have to share with you the better.”

  “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “our life together is not going to be very pleasant if you persist in this unfriendly attitude.”

  Fancy took in a great angry breath. “If you were worried about our life together, you should have thought of it before you stole into my bed.”

  She swung on her heels, intent upon putting as much distance as possible between herself and this wretched creature, when Chance suddenly caught a handful of her skirts and gave a hard yank. Off balance, Fancy gave a startled cry and fell backward . . . into his arms.

  Her saucy bonnet askew and her skirt and petticoat frothing immodestly about her knees, Fancy glared up at him. “How dare you,” she said in a withering, furious voice.

  Chance smiled. He was rathe
r pleased with his effort. That sweet mouth of hers was only inches from his; he had her firmly in his arms, and she was sprawled tantalizingly across his thighs, every wiggle, every squirm of her bottom, pressing against his rapidly hardening body.

  Fancy became aware of the danger almost immediately. They were all alone—any sound she made would be swallowed up by the dense forest. And it was obvious, blatantly so, that Chance was thoroughly aroused. She swallowed nervously, knowing that it was highly unlikely they would be interrupted for quite some time—unlike this morning in her bedroom.

  To her shame, she was conscious of the rapid increase in her heartbeat—an increase that had very little to do with anger or fear. The power and warmth of his body beneath her thighs sent a wave of languid heat through her, and her breasts were instantly full and heavy, her nipples straining against the fabric of her clothing. His scent, warm and male and slightly musky, drifted to her.

  Fancy stilled her struggles almost immediately, and eyes wide and uncertain, lips half-parted, she stared at him. Her gaze wandered over his lean face, the heavy-lidded eyes, the bold nose, the splendidly sculpted cheeks, and the wide, mobile mouth. Bitterly she admitted that Chance Walker had fascinated her almost from the first moment she had laid eyes on him. While he infuriated her and mocked her, there was something between them, something that drew her to him—even when she was at her angriest. As she stared at him, his smile faded and he suddenly looked very fierce with his black hair flowing wildly about his face and shoulders. But it was the hot glitter in those cobalt blue eyes that made Fancy’s pulse leap in her veins.

  Chance muttered something—a curse, a plea—and his mouth came down hard on hers, his arms crushing her against him. Like a starving man, he fed upon her ripe mouth, his tongue plunging hungrily into the moist warmth behind her lips, his hands gripping her upper arms, holding her prisoner to his ravenous kiss.

  All of Fancy’s senses were violently assaulted by the sensations that erupted through her body at the impact of his hard lips on hers, his seeking tongue delving deep in her mouth. No man, not even her husband, had ever made her feel the frankly carnal sensations that were surging in her blood; no man had ever made her body ache for his touch, yearn to have his hands upon her, eager to feel his flesh sinking slowly into hers.

  Frightened, excited, and half-dizzy with desire, Fancy was hardly aware of Chance sweeping her hat from her head and lowering her carefully to the sweet, soft grass. The sun beat lightly against her closed lids, and the scent of honeysuckle and magnolia wafted on the warm, humid air; but she was only peripherally aware of them, the welcoming weight of Chance’s big body as he leaned over her, the blunt demand of his mouth on hers, nearly blotting out everything else.

  He kissed her many times, long, drugging kisses that fed the fire deep in her belly and banished coherent thought. Fancy wasn’t aware of her arms creeping around his neck, or of the faint encouraging sounds that came from her throat when Chance’s hand slid slowly downward to cup her aching breast. When he touched her, when his fingers plucked at her nipple through the fabric of her clothing, a jolt of pure feminine arousal went streaking through her. Heat pooled low in her belly, and between her thighs there was an insistent, needy hunger—a hunger completely new to her.

  Fancy had never wanted a man before, never wanted, truly wanted, to be possessed by any male, but with Chance . . . With Chance, she seemed to have no control over her thoughts or her body. He had only to touch her and she became alive to emotions and sensations that were totally foreign to her. She had thought herself cold and indifferent to the elemental urges that bedeviled other people, but in Chance’s arms she discovered that she was as helpless as anyone else to resist the demands of passion. She wanted his hands upon her, wanted his mouth against hers, and even more, she wanted to touch him, to feel his hard, warm flesh beneath her own hand, to feel his heartbeat, to explore at will the entire muscled length of him.

  She was astounded, terrified, and oh, so curious by what was happening to her. She knew she should struggle, and for one moment she tried to remember precisely why, but then Chance’s wandering hand slid to her thigh and began to travel lazily up under her skirts. Her breath caught and her hands clenched instinctively in his hair as his seeking fingers touched her there between her legs.

  Sanity glimmered for a second as his mouth left hers and burned a trail down her neck. She stammered, “C- CChance, I d-d-don’t think this is—”

  His voice dark with desire, his lips brushed her lips: “Don’t think, Fancy. Don’t. Feel.”

  And she did, as his clever fingers brushed aside her undergarments to touch the naked flesh hidden by the thatch of curly hair between her thighs. Fire seemed to sear up through her, and as he caressed her, exploring between the soft folds, Fancy was lost, sweet sensation after sweet sensation crashing through her.

  Need flooded her as his finger slipped into her moist depths, and she twisted wildly in his arms, her hands moving restlessly over his shoulders and back, plucking impatiently at his shirt. She wanted, needed, to touch him.

  Feeling her response, feeling the damp warmth between her legs, the intoxicating taste of her on his lips, Chance lost whatever restraint he’d placed on himself. She had tormented his dreams for too long. Tempted him unbearably simply with her nearness. He had to have her. Now.

  He fumbled with the fastening of his breeches, and when at last his swollen manhood sprang free, he gave a deep sigh of relief. With demanding hands, he pushed aside the delicate clothing that kept him from his goal and slipped between her legs. Cupping her hips, he raised her to him.

  Fancy stiffened, the reality of what was happening suddenly bursting through the erotic fog that had clouded her thoughts. Her eyes snapped open. “No. Stop. Oh, I never meant to . . .”

  His face fierce with desire, passion glittering in the blue eyes, Chance stared down at her, trying to comprehend what she was saying. Stop? Was she mad? Or simply trying to drive him mad? She was soft and pliant beneath him, he knew she was aroused, he could feel it. His body was hard and aching, one swift movement and he would find the urgent release he so desperately needed. And she wanted him to stop?

  He closed his eyes in near pain. Fancy wiggled slightly, her thigh brushing against his solid shaft, and a shudder went through him. She was asking too much of him. Of any man. And yet . . .

  Gulping in a breath, he opened his eyes and looked down into her passion-flushed face, at the softly swollen contours of her mouth. His hands tightened on her buttocks, and bending his head, he gently suckled her nipple through her bodice, feeling with savage satisfaction the excited ripple within her that his action caused. His lips hot against her breast, he said thickly, “Fancy, don’t ask this of me. I want you—I am dying with hunger for you. Let me....”

  He kissed her, his mouth melding urgently with hers, his body rubbing provocatively against hers, his big hands caressing her buttocks. “Let me,” he breathed into her mouth. “Let me.”

  Ensnared by his kiss and the warmth of his body on hers, the boldly carnal sensation of his flesh rubbing against hers, Fancy forgot all about propriety, decorum, sanity. She wanted him. Her body ached for him, yearned for him, and she wanted most desperately to find out if there was more to this dark spell Chance had woven about her. Not giving herself time to think, mesmerized by the hot demand singing in her blood, her arms fastened closely around his neck and her body moving in an invitation as old as time, Fancy offered herself to him.

  Chance groaned, and his lips sought hers hungrily as he lifted her and positioned himself more solidly between her thighs, then slowly sank deep into her moist warmth. She was so tight. So snug. So perfect.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Fancy felt weak and dizzy as he filled her, her body stretching and widening eagerly to accommodate his substantial bulk. Nothing had ever felt like this before, and she trembled with giddy pleasure when he began to move, his body pumping lazily into hers, his lips crushing hers.

  As Chance
made love to her, his mouth moving erotically against hers, his powerful body driving more and more frantically into hers, the ache that he had first aroused in Fancy grew more persistent, more needy. In mindless hunger she met each thrust of his hips, pleasure she had never even imagined rippling through her every time their bodies collided. In wanton abandon she writhed beneath him, her tongue curling provocatively around his, her hands moving almost desperately over his back and breeches-clad buttocks. Every thrust, every meeting of their flesh, sent shocks of delight through her, and Fancy was staggered by her own passionate response. Never, never had she even dreamed that lovemaking could be like this. Unexpectedly a wave of intense pleasure erupted through her, and she cried out in stunned ecstasy and clutched Chance even closer to her.

  Feeling her body clench and convulse around him brought Chance instantly to the brink. With a soft, shaken groan, he exploded inside of her, such pleasure as he had never known in his life flooding him. His breathing ragged and labored, he slowed his movements and relished the last faint eddies that rippled through him. Then he lifted his head and, bracing himself on his elbows, looked down into Fancy’s face.

  There was a dazed, dreamy expression in her catshaped, topaz eyes as her lids lifted slowly, and Chance thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. Fancy’s cheeks were flushed, her mouth rosy and swollen from his kisses, and her gorgeous chocolate brown hair spread in wild disarray around her head. Staring down at her, at the innocently provocative sight she made beneath him, he felt something tighten in the region of his heart. To his astonishment, he felt his body, still buried within her, stir and begin to harden.

  A look of startlement crossed Fancy’s features as she became aware of what was happening to him. Her gaze flew to his, disbelief widening her eyes. “S-s-so soon?” she stammered, blushing.

  Chance smiled ruefully. “Probably not to completion. ’Tis just merely letting us know that the beast is not completely dead. He will live to service you another day, m’lady.”