The Bride Thief

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  She exited the room, and as soon as the door closed behind her, Eric dragged his hands down his face and huffed out a long, slow breath.

  You've found someone to care for.

  Yes, it seemed he had indeed. A woman who appealed to him on every level. He loved the look of her. The feel of her. The scent and taste of her. Loved her laugh and her intelligence, her wit and caring nature. He loved her loyalty and…

  He loved her.

  A groan rose in his throat, and he plopped down in a wing chair with a thud. Propping his elbows on his knees, he lowered his face into unsteady hands. God help him, he loved Samantha.

  How had he allowed such a thing to happen? He'd always carefully guarded his heart, but in truth, no woman had ever come close to touching it. It was not difficult to protect a citadel that had never been stormed. But Samantha had somehow reached inside him, scaled his walls, and grabbed his heart in her fist.

  Damn it, he never should have made love to her. If he hadn't, he might have avoided this debacle. Yet even as the thought entered his mind, he realized it was untrue. He hadn't fallen in love with her because of last night. Last night's lovemaking had happened because he loved her.

  Yet how could he have fallen in love and not realized it until now? When had it happened? He tried to pinpoint the exact moment he'd tumbled into this emotional abyss and could not. He'd been fascinated with her from the beginning, unable to forget her in spite of his best efforts to do so.

  She cares for you as well. Margaret's words reverberated through him, and he rubbed his throbbing temples with his palms. He knew Samantha cared for him, but hell, she cared for everyone. But she's never made love with anyone but you. Was it possible she loved him?

  He turned the matter over and over in his mind, but finally decided no. She'd wanted an adventure, nothing more. And it was good that she didn't love him. He would not want to leave her heartbroken, as he would be. For even if she did love him, and for her sake he prayed she didn't, a future for them together was impossible.

  Marriage was not in his plans. He'd seen it cause nothing but misery. Yet, if he believed Margaret, if two people loved each other, then marriage could be wonderful. For one impossible minute he allowed himself to consider the unthinkable. Samantha as his wife. Sharing his life and his bed every night. Bearing his children.

  An ache of loss such as he'd never known rushed through him, and for the second time that evening, the irony of a situation hit him like a backhanded slap.

  Bloody hell, he wanted all that. Love. Children. He wanted to marry her.

  But the life he'd chosen as the Bride Thief made it impossible. Even if he never rescued another woman, he could still hang for the abductions he'd already committed. He could not subject Samantha to the horror her life would become if her husband were arrested and hanged. And their children would never escape the shame of having an executed criminal for a father.

  No, he could never marry. The farther away he remained from Samantha the better for her. But God, how would he bear the rest of his life without her?

  Lifting his head, he glanced at the mantel clock. Two hours until he was supposed to meet her at the garden gate.

  Two hours until he told her their affair was over.

  Two hours until his heart broke.

  Sammie breathed in the cool night air, allowing the flowery fragrances of the garden to infuse her ruffled nerves as she walked along the path leading to the rear gate. Ten minutes remained until she was to meet Eric, but she'd had to escape the stifling confines of her bedchamber. Shortly after dinner, Mrs. Nordfield had arrived for an evening of cards and gossip. As Sammie rarely participated in such gatherings, no one thought it odd when she retired early.

  Indeed, she'd detected a gleam in Mama's eyes that made it clear she could not wait to inform Mrs. Nordfield about today's guest for tea. Sammie could only pray that Mama would heed her pleas and not hint that the earl was courting her. Of course, she could well imagine Mama not directly saying the man was a suitor, but alluding as much with a well-timed lift of her brows. And naturally Mama would not disabuse Mrs. Nordfield of any incorrect notions she might inadvertently assume.

  The potential for humiliation was overwhelming. She could hear the gossips now. Oh, how utterly ridiculous that poor, odd, Samantha Briggeham and her mother would entertain the notion that Wesley would pay court to that plain chit! No doubt the gossip would reach Eric's ears, and a deep ache of mortification throbbed through her at his inevitable response: Court Miss Briggeham? What nonsense. Why on earth would I do that? Oh, he would try to couch his denial in kinder terms than that, but the end result would be the same.

  Shame burned her, and she hurried along the flower-lined path. She arrived at the gate several minutes later, out of breath. Settling herself on a stone bench flanked by fragrant rose bushes, she closed her eyes. A series of images from last night instantly bombarded her, and she buried her heated face in her hands.

  Lord above, what have I done? She'd only wanted to share the wonders of passion, with the only man who had ever inspired them. A man she respected and admired. A man who had been her friend.

  But he was also a man, as she'd discovered today, who held some basic beliefs that were diametrically opposed to her own. Just one more reason to end their affair.

  A half-sob, half-laugh erupted from between her lips as she blessed her luck that no one suspected the true extent of her relationship with Eric. Good heavens, the man had simply taken afternoon tea with her family, and now Mama clearly hoped for a marriage between her bookworm daughter and an earl. If Eric were to call upon her again for any reason… well, there would be no stopping Mama. As it was, Mama's inevitable disappointment would reverberate through the halls of Briggeham Manor, no doubt for decades.

  If only she hadn't fallen in love with him! Yes, she would have her memories, but she'd also condemned herself to the agony of a broken heart. Lowering her hands, she drew a shaky breath. Clearly she could not risk another night with Eric. When he arrived, she had to tell him immediately their affair was over-for both their sakes.

  Her heart rose into her throat and she fought back the hot tears flooding her eyes. There would be no last night of passion spent in his arms. No chance to touch him again. Taste his kiss. Show him, with the words she could not say, how much she loved him. No one more time to make the memories to sustain her for a lifetime. They had no future. He was the wrong man for her in every way.

  Her passionate adventure was over-and she'd paid for it with her heart and soul.

  In the drawing room, Cordelia Briggeham gazed at an extremely out-of-sorts Lydia Nordfield and expertly hid her smug smile behind her teacup. The evening had gone even better than she could have hoped. Not only was Lydia all but seething about Lord Wesley's visit and his interest in Samantha, Cordelia had also soundly trounced her nemesis at piquet. She peeked at Lydia from under her lashes and swiftly took another sip of tea to swallow her mirth. Indeed, Lydia resembled a cat who'd just been given a most unwanted bath.

  With her triumph rendering her unable to sit still, Cordelia rose and crossed to the French windows. A cool, flower-scented breeze drifted toward her from the gardens. A flash of color caught her eye, and she turned toward a side path leading into the gardens. Her teacup froze halfway to her lips and a frown bunched her brows. What on earth was Samantha doing traipsing about in the gardens at this time of night? Why was she not asleep as she'd retired several hours ago?

  Fustian, the girl and her unorthodox behavior would be the death of a mother. No doubt she'd take a chill and be ill the next time Lord Wesley called upon her…

  Peering through the darkness at her daughter, Cordelia's heart skipped a beat. There was something decidedly odd-and perhaps furtive?-about this late-night stroll. Cordelia's eyes narrowed briefly, but then she mentally scolded herself for her untoward suspicions. Surely Sammie would never… and Lord Wesley wouldn't think to…

  No, an assignation was out of the question. Wasn't
it? Of course, if they'd made arrangements to meet, why that would be positively wonderful-er, worrisome.

  Walking swiftly back to the settee, she set her cup on the mahogany table. "Lydia, it is a lovely evening. Let us go for a walk."

  Lydia stared at her as if she'd grown a third eye in the center of her forehead. "A walk? It's nearly eleven o'clock!"

  "Hubert planted a new flower in my garden-something he developed in his Chamber. I quite forget the name of it, but it supposedly only blossoms at night. I'm most anxious to see if it has bloomed."

  "A night-blooming flower?" Lydia asked, interest sparking in her eyes.

  "Yes. If it has flowered, I'll supply you with some clippings." Surely such enticement would convince Lydia. It would kill the woman if Cordelia possessed a flower she did not.

  "Well, I suppose as long as we brought lanterns we'd be safe from turned ankles-"

  "We absolutely cannot bring lanterns. Nor can we talk above a whisper. Any such light or noise and pffth!" She snapped her fingers under Lydia's nose. "The flowers will instantly close up."

  When Lydia hesitated, Cordelia heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, well I suppose if you're too weary, Lydia… quite understandable for a woman of your advancing years."

  Lydia popped to her feet as if a giant spring were attached to her buttocks. "I am merely two years older than you, Cordelia. I assure you I am very fit."

  "Of course you are, dear. Now why don't you just sit down again before you injure your delicate self." She reached out a helping hand toward Lydia, who nimbly sidestepped her and shot her a dark glare.

  "I most certainly will not sit down. Your suggestion of a walk merely startled me. Now that I've thought upon it, I believe a silent, unlit stroll in the gardens to search for night-blooming flowers is a smashing idea."

  "Well, if you insist, Lydia…"

  "I most certainly do."

  Lydia lifted her chin, then sailed toward the door like a queen approaching her throne. Cordelia followed close behind, biting the inside of her cheeks to stifle her triumphant smile.

  At precisely eleven o'clock, Eric dismounted Emperor, tethering him to a tree a short distance from the Briggehams' garden gate. As he approached the garden, he caught sight of Samantha sitting on a stone bench, and he paused. She seemed lost in thought. Was she thinking about last night? He stared at her profile, allowing the memories of their passionate evening to fill his mind. Every sensual touch, every exquisite taste, replayed in his brain, simultaneously filling him with longing and a thudding ache of loss.

  He resumed walking toward her. He'd nearly reached her when a twig snapped beneath his boot, and she jumped to her feet, turning toward him. She stood bathed in a pale shaft of moonlight, and his heart performed a crazy roll as his gaze roamed slowly downward, taking in her slightly disheveled chignon and her modest muslin gown. He then returned his gaze to her face. She peered at him through her thick spectacles with serious eyes. Her tongue peeked out to wet her lips, and he involuntarily mirrored the gesture, imagining her honey-sweet taste.

  He walked slowly toward her, stopping when only two feet separated them. His pulse pumped through him at double its normal pace as his hungry gaze devoured her… the woman he loved. The woman he could not have. The woman he would most likely never see again after he walked away from her tonight.

  God help him, he wanted nothing more than to drag her into his arms and take her away. Repeat the passion and pleasure they'd shared last night. He looked into her eyes and felt his resolve slipping like sand through a sieve. He had to tell her their affair was over. Now. Before the wants and needs of his heart overrode everything else.

  "I have something to tell you," they said in unison.

  They stared at each other for several surprised seconds. Then, relieved to postpone the inevitable for a few more moments, he inclined his head. "Ladies first, my dear."

  "All right." She drew a deep breath and looked up at him with emotion-filled eyes. "I've spent hours trying to find the right words, but I'm not certain they exist, so I shall have to simply say it. I wish to end our… liaison."

  Eric felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs. She wished to end their affair? Here he'd been agonizing, so concerned about hurting her, and she no longer wanted him! A bark of stunned disbelief lodged in his throat, and he would have laughed at his own conceit if he'd been able.

  Certainly he should be relieved by this unexpected turn of events, which released him from the responsibility of breaking off their relationship. All he needed to do was agree, then walk away. He stood motionless, waiting for the happiness he should be feeling to wash over him, but happy was definitely not the "h" word to describe the emotions roiling through him. Hurt was much closer to the mark, damn it.

  "May I ask why?" he asked stiffly.

  She clasped her hands in front of her, then pivoted to face a tall, perfectly pruned hedge, leaving him to stare at her back. At her nape. At the delicate curve of her neck that he knew tasted like honey and felt like silk.

  "Many reasons. I fear we risk discovery if we prolong our affair, and as it was only a temporary arrangement anyway…" She paused and squared her shoulders. "Your visit today gave my mother false hope that you are pursuing me. I did my best to convince her that she was wrong, but Mama is most persistent in these matters. In addition, I have been neglecting my work in the Chamber. I wish to devote my energies to furthering my experiments, and perhaps even plan a trip to the Continent. Therefore, I believe it is the wisest, and most logical, decision for us to no longer see each other. In any capacity."

  Unreasonable, unjustified anger gripped him like a vice. "Look at me," he grated out through clenched teeth.

  She slowly turned around until she faced him. Her eyes appeared huge, but she seemed otherwise perfectly composed, a fact that annoyed him further.

  "So you wish for our friendship, as well as our affair to end?" he asked.

  Her head bobbed in a jerky nod. " 'Tis for the best."

  Silence fell between them. She was perfectly right, of course. His mind told him to bid her farewell and depart, but his voice and body refused to cooperate.

  After what felt like an eternity but was surely no more than half a minute, she asked, "What did you wish to tell me?"

  That I love you. That I want you to be my wife. My love. The mother of my children. I want to see the world with you and share all those adventures you dream of. Explore the ruins of Pompeü. Trek through the Colosseum, visit the Uffizi, and view the works of Bernini and Michelangelo. Swim in the warm waters of the Adriatic… I want to tell you that I do not want one day of my life to pass without seeing your smile, hearing your laugh, and touching your skin. And that I'm dying inside knowing that I shall never have those things with you.

  He attempted to force his features into a sheepish expression, completely unsure if he succeeded. "Oddly enough, I'd intended to suggest we end our liaison… for much the same reasons as those you gave."

  "I… I see." She looked at the ground for the space of several heartbeats, then raised her chin and offered him a small smile. "Well, then, it appears we are agreed. I wish you a long and prosperous life. It has been my… very great pleasure to know you."

  She moved, clearly intending to leave him like that. Simply wish him well then saunter away.

  Before his better judgment could stop him, his hand shot out, grasping her upper arm as she walked by him. Raw hurt seethed through him, scraping his insides. How could she just walk away?

  She glanced down at his restraining hand, then raised her gaze to his. "Was there something else, my lord?"

  Something inside him snapped at her dispassionate tone and her formal use of his title. Damn it, he wanted to hear his name pass her lips. As she'd whispered it last night, heavy with want and need for him. When he'd been deep inside her. Before the world and its dictates and his responsibilities conspired to rob him of her.

  "Yes, Samantha, there is something else." Hauling her up agains
t him, he covered her lips in a searing, explosive, angry kiss.

  She stood motionless and unresponsive for several seconds, but then she moaned, rose up on her toes, and returned his kiss. Sanity fled as he wrapped his arms around her in an iron grip, reveling in the feel of her soft curves crushed against his body. He explored her mouth with a rough possession and utter lack of finesse that under other circumstances would have appalled him. His tongue stroked hers with a rhythmic desperation that matched the mantra pumping through his head. Mine. Mine. Mine.

  He had no sense of how much time passed before their kiss changed from that out of control meeting of lips, breath, and tongue, to a slow, languid, deep mating that pumped thick, hot need through his every vein. He eased one hand up her nape and into her hair, scattering pins that fell silently onto the ground. Her soft, fragrant curls sifted over his fingers as his other hand drifted down to caress the feminine curves of her buttocks. A pleasure-filled moan sounded in her throat. She moved against him, and his erection jerked in response.

  "Samantha," he whispered against her lips. "I-"

  A loud gasp cut off his words. He and Samantha turned toward the sound.

  Cordelia Briggeham and Lydia Nordfield stood not ten feet away, both ladies slack-jawed and bug-eyed.

  Samantha drew in a sharp breath and jerked from his embrace as if he'd burned her. But the damage was done.

  Mrs. Briggeham's lips formed a perfect O from which puffed a series of staccato chirping sounds. Touching the back of one hand dramatically to her brow, she staggered a few feet to the curved stone bench, then flowed downward in a graceful, chirping faint.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sammie stared at her artfully fainted mother in horror. Humiliation and shame crashed upon her like rocks falling from the sky, crushing her until she could barely draw a breath. She wanted to scream denials, claim misunderstandings, but there was no refuting the damning evidence. Even if she and Eric had not been caught in a passionate embrace, neither could disguise their disheveled hair and clothing.