“Am I?”
“Yes,” she said with exasperation. “I expect you to start drooling at any moment. It’s not nice.”
He turned his head and focused on her face. “Is it that bad?”
“Probably not to others, but I’m your sister. I see things.”
“Yes, you do.” He studied her a moment. The yellow of her gown seemed to make her shine. He suddenly realized that his sister was probably among the most lovely of the ladies assembled here. “Are you enjoying the party? I haven’t asked.”
“It’s...interesting.” She looked down, avoiding his eyes. “I was afraid at first that no one would talk to me, but that hasn’t been the case. The other ladies have been nice. Mostly.”
He frowned. “Who hasn’t been nice to you?”
She flicked her hand impatiently. “No one. It doesn’t matter. Don’t fuss.”
“I’m your brother; I’m supposed to fuss,” he said, trying to make it a jest.
His words must not have come off well, because she didn’t smile. Instead she just gazed at him quizzically.
He inhaled and tried again. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been keeping company with Mr. Green.”
“Ye-es.” Rebecca drew the word out, her voice cautious. Her head was down-bent, but she darted a glance at that gentleman now. Mr. Green was among the card players in the corner.
Sam felt like an ass. Rebecca had asked him to play cards. She must want him to give her an excuse to approach Green. He smiled down at her and extended his arm. “Shall we go play cards?”
But she squinted up at him. “I thought you didn’t want to play?”
“Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.”
She sighed as if he’d said something incredibly simpleminded. “Samuel, you don’t want to play cards.”
“Yes, but I thought you wanted to play cards,” he said slowly. He felt as if he were searching for a hidden path. Or perhaps that he’d wandered off the path altogether.
“I did, but not for the reason you think. Have you heard Mr. Green’s laugh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” she said as if that decided the matter. She clasped her hands together as if bracing herself. “I heard Mr. Craddock was dead when you went to question him?”
He looked at her warily. “He was.”
“I’m sorry. I suppose his widow knew nothing?”
“No. We’ll have to wait until our return to London to continue the quest.” And then he’d corner Thornton. Over Rebecca’s shoulder, he saw Emeline turn and stroll from the room. Dammit! “Excuse me.”
“She’s fled again, I suppose,” Rebecca said without even looking over her shoulder.
He bent and brushed a kiss across her temple, just where her dark hair was pulled back. “You are much too perceptive for a sister.”
“I love you, too,” she muttered.
He paused and looked at her, startled. She was a grown woman, his sister, and he didn’t always understand her, but he did love her. He grinned down into her worried eyes.
And then he was out the door, on the hunt.
THIS WAS THE problem with engaging in an affaire de coeur with a colonial: he obviously didn’t know when the thing was over.
Emeline darted a glance over her shoulder as she scurried into a dim servant’s passage. She couldn’t see the dratted man, but she could feel him somewhere behind her. Any other gentleman would know by now that he’d been given his conge. She’d been careful to not look at him, to not engage him in any conversation all this morning. She’d all but cut him dead, and still Samuel would not give up. And the terrible part was that something inside her thrilled at his determination. How he must want her to pursue her like this! She couldn’t help but be flattered.
In a very exasperated way, of course.
Emeline rounded a corner, completely lost now, and shrieked when a large hand shot out of the darkness to grab her. Samuel pulled her behind a dusty curtain. There was a little alcove here in the passage that was used as a storage space—she could make out the shapes of barrels stacked against the wall. Nevertheless, it was a very small space, and she was forced up against his chest, which made her squeak.
“Hush,” he murmured into her hair in the most provoking manner, “you are so loud.”
“You nearly gave me apoplexy,” she growled at him. Pushing at his chest was having no discernible effect at all, so she gave up and peered at him in the gloom. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Trying to talk to you,” he muttered. There was an edge to his voice, and she could feel, even through the miles of fabric between them, that he was quite hard. He sounded frustrated, and a small, not very nice feminine part of her rejoiced. “It’s not been easy.”
“That’s because I haven’t wanted to talk to you.” She shoved at his chest, despite her vow not to, but he didn’t give an inch.
“You’re such a prickly little thing,” he said.
“I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” Her frustration boiled over, and she slapped him on the chest. “Let me go!”
“No.”
“We can’t go on like this.” She set her jaw, making her voice hard. “It was pleasant while it lasted, but it’s over now.”
“I don’t think so.”
“This was nothing but a country affair. We will be going back to the city soon, and then all shall be as it was before. You must be on your way.”
“Does that often work?” He sounded amused, not at all put out by her hurtful words.
“What?” she asked irritably.
“Ordering men about.” His voice was low, but in the dim alcove it sounded loud to her ears. “I bet it does. They probably creep off, their tail between their legs to lick the wounds your sharp tongue cuts into them.”
“You’re impossible!”
“And you’re spoiled by getting your own way all the time.”
“I am not.” She reared back, trying to see his features. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
She felt him still against her, and there was a sudden silence in the alcove.
When next he spoke, his voice was grave and horribly intimate in the dark. “I know that you have a cutting tongue and a quick mind that doesn’t always think pleasant thoughts. And I know that you try to hide all that, as if you were like every other lady, a pretty thing made of meringue—sugary sweet and nothing but air.”