A Heart for the Taking

by Shirlee Busbee

  Aware of Fancy’s fascinated gaze upon him, Chance felt his body respond, desire tightening its carnal grip on him. The expression on her face made it clear that she found the sight of his naked body not unattractive, and a frisson of pleasure went through him.

  As Fancy continued to look at him, Chance did some looking of his own, enjoying the picture she made as she lay on the bed, her pale gold gown in appealing disarray around her, one shapely calf and half a thigh revealed. His hungry gaze reluctantly left that sweetly formed thigh and traveled upward, past the tantalizing junction of her legs and flat stomach, to linger on her breasts, the dampness from his earlier caresses making the material cling revealingly to the firm flesh, the nipple hard and thrusting against the fabric. His eyes could not seem to move from that spot, the need to see her bosom bared to his gaze suddenly very strong.

  Rejoining her on the bed, he reached for her and murmured, “I believe, Madame Wife, that you are wearing too many clothes.” And he proceeded swiftly to divest her of the hampering garment.

  When he had completed his task, his breath sucked in audibly at the loveliness that lay before him. Not even his most erotic imaginings had prepared him for Fancy’s finelimbed beauty. She was delicately made, her bones small and fragile, yet her shape was utterly feminine, from the small, gently rounded breasts to the flare of her slim hips and long, shapely legs. She was the color of palest cream, the tips of her small breasts a rosebud pink and the triangular patch of silky hair between her thighs almost black. Chance found her enchanting.

  Shy beneath his gaze, Fancy sought instinctively to conceal herself, one leg shifting to hide that most feminine part of her, her hands coming up to cover her breasts.

  “Nay, nay, sweetheart,” Chance breathed softly, his hands gently pushing hers aside. His dark head bent, his lips caressed her nipples. “Your loveliness should never be hidden from me. You are undoubtedly the most beautiful creature I have ever seen . . . ever.”

  His warm lips on her breasts, as much as his words, lessened her self-consciousness, and, trying for a light note, she murmured, “Then everything is, um, acceptable?”

  “Dear God, yes,” Chance averred passionately, his mouth leaving her tingling nipples to trail a path to her lips. “I find you most acceptable,” he murmured, then kissed her passionately.

  Fancy sought for another light retort, but she couldn’t think. The heat of Chance’s naked body against hers, the feel of his hard lips moving on hers, his tongue plundering her mouth at will, left her flustered and at the mercy of her awakening sensuality. Hazy memories of Spencer’s lovemaking, his cool, practiced passion, flickered through her mind. He had never made her feel like this. Never made her burn and yearn for that ultimate joining between lovers, never made her pulse pound and her heart thump, never caused fire to race through her veins.

  Lovemaking with Chance was an all-new, wondrous experience. Fancy was becoming aware, for the first time in her life, of the pleasure to be derived simply from touching, her fingers trailing over Chance’s back and daringly down to explore his hard buttocks. She was thrilled when he groaned at her naive caresses, elated when her actions seemed to arouse him even further, and thoroughly bedazzled by his unstinting pleasure in her body. He could not seem to stop touching her, first with his hands and then with his lips. Every place in which he touched her, her flesh came to life, wickedly pleasurable sensations flowing over and through her, making it harder and harder to concentrate on anything but the intoxicating magic between them.

  “You are a witch, sweetheart,” Chance muttered suddenly, his lips traveling from her mouth to her cheek and then her brow. “Such a sweet, sweet witch. So very sweet and so utterly irresistible that I fear you have me completely in your power.”

  Fancy’s eyes were wide and luminous as she stared up at him, her mouth softly swollen from his passionate kisses. He felt something stir within him, something more than just desire.

  Fancy couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight, with him looking at her that way, his blue eyes hot and intent upon her face. Her gaze fixed helplessly on his mouth, she said thickly, “If I am a witch, then, sir, you must surely be a warlock.”

  A twisted smile crossed his face. “If that be true—shall we see what sorcery we can find in each other’s arms?”

  Her eyes locked on his, Fancy nodded slowly, and with a low growl Chance fell upon her, his lips capturing hers in an urgent kiss. Snared by the age-old spell he evoked between them, she returned his kiss with equal fervor, the fire in her loins flaring higher and hotter with every second.

  He kissed her a long time, his lips hard and hungry on hers, his tongue bold and plundering. She gloried in her body’s wild response to him, the trembling of her limbs, the swelling of her nipples, and the melting ache between her thighs. When his mouth, hot and demanding, settled on her breast and his teeth lightly scraped the tender flesh, an arrow of sharp delight speared through her, making her gasp and arch up under his caress. She was dazed at her reaction, the ache in her belly and between her legs becoming fiercer, more demanding, the need to have it assuaged dominating her thoughts.

  Helplessly she twisted against him, her hands gripping his hair as he fed at her breast, her legs moving erratically on the mattress. She wanted . . . she wanted him to take her again to that exquisite pinnacle they had shared on the bluff.

  As his hand slid slowly down her body, her breathing quickened, and when he touched her, when his fingers parted that secret flesh between her thighs and began to probe the damp heat he found there, Fancy moaned aloud her pleasure. She had no thought of denying him, no thoughts of shyness or modesty. The feelings, the dizzying sensations, he created as he effortlessly brought her to the peak made her oblivious of all but what he was doing to her and how very much she wanted it to continue.

  It was a powerful storm he brewed within her with every caress and kiss he lavished upon her welcoming flesh. Her entire body was taut with longing, every nerve yearning for the final phase of these sweet teasings. Fancy’s hands roamed over him with increasing wantonness. She grazed the tiny hard buds of his nipples with her fingertips, explored the lean length of his back and the shape of his buttocks, his ragged, encouraging sounds driving her to finally seek and touch the rigid bar of flesh that so fascinated her.

  Her caress was light, almost shy, but it sent Chance to the edge. There was a wildness, a feral demand, in his movements as his mouth crushed hers, his fingers delving deeper and more urgently into her. Lost in her own erotic world, Fancy reveled in his reaction, welcomed the frantic stoking of the fire that raged within her, her thighs instinctively splaying farther apart and her tongue meeting the warm invasion of his.

  Unable to bear her gentle, uncertain touches a second longer, afraid he was going to shame himself, Chance muttered something—an imprecation, a warning, and slid swiftly between the heat of her thighs. He lifted her and with a muffled groan buried himself in her softness. Wedged tightly in her silken sheath, he trembled, the pleasure so sweet, so fierce, that he thought he would explode into a million pieces of ecstatically satiated flesh. His mouth found hers, and crushing her lips to his, he began to move upon her, the elemental need for completion of this act overpowering.

  Mated with her husband, Fancy clung to him, her senses reeling, her body ardently dilated and filled with him. Dazed by the voluptuous sweetness of this joining, she arched and writhed beneath his driving body, matching his increasingly frantic rhythm, and, oh, the pleasure. Everything—Chance’s scent, the deeply erotic sensation of skin sliding against skin, the hungry, almost desperate kisses—was so wonderful, so exciting, so thrilling, that the sudden clenching and wild throbbing deep within her tore a soft, surprised scream of ecstasy from her.

  Chance fought to prolong the pleasure, fought to avoid that final burst, but at the sound of Fancy’s cry, and the violent clasping of her flesh around his, he lost the battle with himself and plunged blissfully into that waiting cloud of scarlet delight.

/>   Chapter Fourteen

  At that particular moment, just down the hall from Fancy and Chance, there was nothing blissful for Morely Walker as he sat in Sam’s sitting room, enjoying a last snifter of brandy before seeking his own quarters in another wing of the house.

  For more than thirty years Morely had wrestled with his terrible suspicions about the circumstances surrounding Chance’s birth, and his conscience bit at him every time he saw Sam and Letty with Chance. But he’d allowed his uncertainties to seal his lips—that and the fear of unnecessarily ringing down a nasty, nasty scandal. Today’s incident with the rattlesnake, coupled with his illness last winter, had changed all that. It had suddenly become clear to him that if he were to die, there would be no one else who knew that Chance was more than likely the legitimate son of Sam and Letty Walker and that Constance had tried to kill their infant son. If he died, that knowledge went to the grave with him, and this he could not allow to happen. His own mortality had stared him in the face this afternoon, and he knew that no matter what Sam and Letty might think of him for holding his tongue all these years, he had to speak out or damn himself as the blackest coward in the colony of Virginia.

  It wasn’t supposed to have worked out this way, he thought glumly. When he had first picked up the infant Chance on the bluff all those years ago, he had known exactly what he was going to do: get the baby to a place of safety and the instant Sam returned from Philadelphia to Walker Ridge lay the whole affair in Sam’s lap. He would not even have had to give voice to his uneasy conviction that Sam’s stepmother had conspired to murder an innocent babe; he would have been able to recite the bare facts of what he knew and what he’d done, give Sam the knitted blue-and-white blanket the baby had been wrapped in, and then leave everything in Sam’s capable hands. Sam would have known what to do. But all unknowingly Sam had confounded his simple plan by returning to Walker Ridge before him and leaving immediately for England with Letty ... for four long, interminable years. Years in which Morely had uneasily watched Andrew and Martha grow inordinately fond of the baby they were only supposed to have had the care of for a few weeks, a month at the most. Years in which Chance had grown from a squalling infant to a chubbylegged charmer who adored his “Papa Andrew” and “Mama Martha,” while Morely had wrestled constantly with himself, wondering if his suspicions were true or just precisely that—suspicions.

  Morely had many times considered writing to Sam, but whenever he had finally brought himself to the mark and sat down to actually commit to paper the distinct possibility that this child whom Sam and Letty had no idea even existed was their very own offspring, his courage had failed. His convoluted conjectures weren’t something he felt comfortable attempting to put on paper, and there was the fact that letters continually went astray. Who knew whose hands the possibly damning information might fall into? If the letter even reached its destination. Besides, with every month that had passed he had told himself that surely the next ship from England would bring word of Sam’s planned return to Virginia and then he’d be able to tell Sam in person. But months had become years, and Morely’s dilemma had only increased. He’d told himself that he was doing the right thing, waiting for Sam’s return. It was best, he had consoled himself, for there not to be anything put on paper about the ugly crime he suspected had taken place. What if he were wrong? What if Chance was simply a by-blow of Sam’s? Sam wouldn’t take kindly to Morely throwing proof of his infidelity in his face. And Morely owed everything to Sam.

  Morely was a good man, a simple man, but he wasn’t a strong one. He was, unfortunately, indecisive, inclined to vacillation and easily swayed, and all of those traits had combined to create his current, painful dilemma.

  Staring across at Sam, as the other man sat relaxed in a comfortable chair covered in a plum-and-gray canvas-stitch embroidery, Morely grew even glummer. Sam was his best friend in the world. Because of Sam and Sam’s belief in him, he was now a wealthy planter in his own right; he had a loving wife and a family any man would be proud of, and he owed it all to Sam. And how have I repaid him? he mused bitterly. By taking the coward’s way out and keeping silent about my certainty that Chance is a twin to the infant buried in the family graveyard.

  What he suspected about Chance was never far from Morely’s mind, especially when he was with Chance or at Walker Ridge with Sam and Letty. Today had been no different; he had been happy to see Chance marry the Englishwoman, but his happiness had been tinged by regret and uneasiness. Bitter, bitter regret that in the beginning he had not been bold enough to write Sam in England about finding the infant on the bluff and great uneasiness about the future. His own death aside, the situation was becoming even more complicated; no doubt Chance and Fancy would have children. He had struggled with this same question when Chance had married Jenny, but he had convinced himself to wait until a child was actually on the way. He considered doing the same now, simply waiting to see what the future held, but after the incident with the snake, his conscience nagged at him unbearably. The knowledge that Sam and Letty were both growing older with every passing day lent a new urgency to his dilemma. Was he willing to keep his mouth shut forever? Deny not only Sam and Letty the knowledge that Chance might be their son, but also the joy of watching their grandchildren grow?

  I did my best, Morely told himself unhappily. Didn’t I make certain that Sam and Letty were a large part of Chance’s life? Didn’t I foster a relationship between them? And haven’t I always denied that Chance was mine? Didn’t I pray that Sam or Letty would demand to know more about Chance? Haven’t I longed and looked for a clear opportunity to arise for me to tell what I knew? And haven’t I always done my best for the boy? Convinced Sam to take an interest in the fine young man Chance has become? And scrupulously told what I could of the truth about Chance’s parentage? Have I ever denied that he was a Walker?

  Morely’s thoughts gave him little comfort, and again he reminded himself that he’d never planned for this to happen, but somehow . . . somehow events had conspired against him and, he admitted wearily, he had often found it easier to drift than to speak up, especially when to speak up was going to cause a great rift in the family—no matter what the truth was.

  Morely took a deep draft of his brandy, getting up his courage. He had to speak. And now, when he and Sam were alone, and Sam was in a mellow mood, was the perfect time. Several minutes ago, when Sam had heard the noise in the hall and had returned laughing, explaining about seeing Chance carrying his new bride off like a piece of booty, Morely had known he must seize the moment. It had been a sign. An omen. Just like the snake. He had been seeking a way to gently introduce the subject ever since.

  Smiling fondly across at Morely, Sam said suddenly, “You are looking most solemn, my friend. Is something troubling you?”

  Morely took a deep breath. He must speak. “Yes, there is”—he swallowed nervously—“and it concerns Chance.”

  Sam chuckled. “If memory serves, it seems as if that young devil is always in trouble or on the verge of it. Full of spirit he is, and I am quite certain that his new wife is going to find life with him an adventure of no mean order.”

  Some of Sam’s amusement faded, and he sent Morely a thoughtful look. “You should be proud of him, you know. He is a fine son, a son any man would be most proud to acknowledge. Don’t you think ’tis time that he knows his true parentage?”

  Morely met Sam’s gaze squarely. “You think that Chance is my son?”

  Sam shrugged. “If he is not your son, I would be hardpressed to fathom a reason why you have never told anyone who his parents are.”

  Morely took another gulp of brandy. “Suppose there was a reason? And suppose there were other reasons why I held my tongue?”

  “My dear fellow, you are not making a great deal of sense.”

  Morely surged to his feet and took several agitated steps around the room. Swinging back to face Sam, he said gruffly, “I have got something to tell you, something that is going to shock you and make you
think ill of me. But Sam, I swear on my mother’s breast, I never meant for it to turn out this way. I have wanted to tell you, but . . .”

  It was obvious that Morely was laboring under great stress. Deeply concerned for his friend, Sam leaned forward in his seat. “What is it? You know that there is nothing you could tell me that would make me think less of you.”

  Morely gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, I think there is, and I can only say in my defense that I have been guilty, most grievously guilty, of forever waiting for the ‘right’ time to tell you. I realize now that there is never going to be a right time and that with my cowardly procrastination, I have made a bad situation much, much worse.”

  Alarmed now, Sam stood up. “What is it, Morely? What has you in such a fret?”

  Before Morely could answer, there was a flurry of sudden rapid knocks on the door. An impatient look on his face, Sam walked to the door and flung it open. “What is it?” he snapped.

  Standing before him was a young man; Sam vaguely recognized him as one of the Sinclair branch of the Walker family. His young face worried, he blurted out, “S-s-sorry to disturb you, sir, but Jeffers Walker is determined to call out my brother, Nathan—despite all our efforts to stop him. Jeffers is at present waving his sword about and threatening to run through anyone who attempts to interfere.” He gulped and added, “They have both been drinking, but Nathan was still enough in command of himself to whisper for me to get you.” He fixed big, pleading eyes on Sam’s face. “Jeffers will listen to you, sir.”

  “I am certain of that,” Sam growled. Glancing back over his shoulder at Morely, he said, “Come along, Morely, I may need your help. We can continue this conversation later. For the present we need to stop a hothead from needlessly spilling blood.”

  With a sinking heart, Morely followed Sam out of the room. The opportunity was lost—for now. But at least he had started to tell Sam. Telling himself gamely that he would not let his courage fail him again, that he would demand an interview with Sam at the earliest convenience, Morely, as he had done so often in his life, pushed away again the words that had been locked in his heart for over three decades.