The Bride Thief

Chapter Twenty

From the London Times:

The search for the Bride Thief is intensifying, as the reward for his capture has grown to eleven thousand pounds. The Bride Thief Posse boasts nearly six hundred members, and it has been reported that wagers are flying fast and furious in White's betting book that the Thief will be apprehended before the week is out, even sooner should he attempt another rescue.

Two days later, Sammie stood still as a statue in her sunlit bedchamber while the seamstress tucked and pinned, making final adjustments to her wedding gown. The hum of female voices floated toward her from where her sisters and Mama sat perched along the edge of her bed, resembling a quartet of pastel-hued doves. They alternately discussed the plans for the wedding, pointed out places where the hem appeared uneven-earning them reproving glares from the seamstress-and beamed at Sammie with a pride that would indicate she'd done something wonderful, when in actuality, she'd trapped an unwilling earl into marriage.

Sammie turned a deaf ear to their excited chattering, an art form she'd perfected long ago, and stifled a sigh. She glanced in the cheval glass, and a lump lodged in her throat. The gown was beautiful, a simple creation of cream silk with short, puffed sleeves. A delicate satin ivory ribbon tied beneath the bust, trailing down the unadorned skirt. Mama had wanted a much fancier dress, covered with lace and flounces, but Sammie had adamantly refused.

She wondered if Eric would like the gown, and a blush immediately heated her cheeks. The day after tomorrow she would be his wife. Sadness washed over her when she considered how different, how joyous this occasion would be if he loved her and actually wanted to marry her, instead of being forced to do so. But over the past two days, since her last conversation with him in the drawing room, she'd realized that while their situation was perhaps not heaven-made, it was not completely hellish either. She loved him. They were friends and shared common interests. He was kind and generous, patient and intelligent. Surely many marriages were based on less. And the way he kissed her, touched her…

A breathy sigh puffed from her lips. Good heavens, sharing his bed would be no hardship. He did not love her, but she would try her very best to be a good wife to him. Of course being a good wife to him entailed becoming a countess, and her stomach knotted at the daunting prospect. Trying to fit into his social world would be like attempting to shove a square peg into a round hole.

She cringed at the thought of all the blunders she knew awaited her, and offered up a prayer that she wouldn't bring shame upon him. Hopefully her sisters and Mama could instruct her, thus enabling her to sidestep total disaster. Eric deserved happiness and a wife he could be proud of, yet she seriously questioned her ability to be that woman. But she would try. For him. And perhaps, given time and a very large miracle, the friendship he felt for her would blossom into something deeper.

Hugging that hope close to her heart, she glanced toward her escritoire. Her pulse leapt as she thought of the note hidden in the top drawer. The missive had arrived this morning, containing a single line scripted in an elegant, yet obviously masculine hand: Please come to the lake tonight at midnight.

Her pulse involuntarily jumped at the thought of seeing Eric, and she shifted her gaze toward her mantel clock. Only ten more hours to wait. Looking toward the bed, she encountered four beaming, proud smiles and knew it was going to be a very long ten hours.

Early that afternoon, Lady Darvin called on Sammie. As they settled themselves in the drawing room, Sammie hoped her unease did not show. Although Eric's sister appeared perfectly pleasant, Sammie wondered about the purpose behind this visit. Did Lady Darvin know the truth behind Eric's proposal? Would she accuse Sammie of trapping Eric into marriage?

Once they were seated on the settee, Lady Darvin reached out and squeezed Sammie's hand. "I know you are busy preparing for the wedding, so I won't take much of your time. I just came to extend my best wishes to you. I realize we barely know each other, but I'm hoping that will change. I've always wanted a sister."

Relief flooded Sammie, and she offered Eric's sister a smile. "Thank you, Lady Darvin."

"Please, call me Margaret. And may I call you Samantha?"

"Of course. And I am honored I shall soon be your sister."

"Thank you. Although, I know nothing about being a sister to a sister, I'm afraid. But since you already have three, I'm certain you can teach me everything I need to know."

"I shall do my utmost." Then, determined to allay any concerns Margaret might harbor, Sammie said, "I want you to know I shall also do my utmost to be a good wife to Eric and make him happy and proud of me."

A gentle smile curved Margaret's lips. "You've already succeeded in making him happy, and I know he's proud of you. He told me in glowing terms about your experiments, and your hopes to develop a warming cream. I think that such a pursuit is fascinating. And very commendable." Sadness clouded her expression. "I wish I'd had something useful like that to occupy my time when I lived in Cornwall. Oh, I tended my garden and embroidered countless handkerchiefs, but nothing of any importance."

Sympathy washed over Sammie. Hoping she was not overstepping, she clasped one of Margaret's hands between both of her own. "Would you like to learn how to make the honey cream?"

A combination of uncertainty and pleased surprise shimmered in Margaret's eyes. "Do you suppose I could learn?"

"But of course. If you have the fortitude to embroider, you can master making hand cream in no time. In my experience, science is not nearly as complicated as working with a needle and thread."

There was no mistaking the gratitude in the half-smile Margaret offered her. "I shall look forward to our first lesson." She studied Sammie for several seconds, then said, "I cannot tell you how pleased I am that Eric took my advice."

"What advice is that?"

Margaret hesitated, then instead of answering, she asked, "Has Eric spoken to you about our parents?"

"No. I only know that your mother died when Eric was fifteen."

"Yes. She was very beautiful. And desperately unhappy." Her gaze bore into Sammie's. "Our father was a greedy, selfish man. He humiliated our mother with his indiscreet liaisons and gambling debts. He set impossibly high standards for Eric, yet would fly into rages when Eric exceeded his expectations. As for me, I was a useless girl, and therefore Father roundly ignored me… until he decided I was to marry Viscount Darvin, another greedy, selfish man whom I disliked from the moment I met him."

Sammie squeezed Margaret's hands. "I'm so very sorry."

"As am I. But because the two marriages Eric was most exposed to-our parents' and mine-were both unhappy, he'd convinced himself he did not ever want to marry. Even as a young boy, he found the idea of marriage distasteful, and when our mother died, he swore he would never enter into matrimony.

"Still, when I saw the way he looked at you, saw that he cared for you, I told him not to allow those two miserable marriages to destroy his future happiness." A smile curved her lips. "He took my advice, and I'm so very glad he did. He brought joy into what otherwise would have been a miserable childhood for me, and he deserves every happiness. He has always been a wonderful, caring brother. I'm certain he'll be the same sort of husband. And father."

Sammie forced herself to return Margaret's smile, but her insides churned with turmoil and guilt. Margaret clearly thought Eric had proposed out of an actual desire to have a wife. How horribly wrong she was. And only now did Sammie understand exactly how horribly wrong.

Dear God, he'd hated the idea of marriage his entire life! His deep-seated honor would bring him to the altar, yet the idea of marrying had to be torturous for him.

Now more than ever, she loathed the thought of trapping him.

But there was nothing she could do to free him.

Dressed for his final rescue in his black cape and mask, Eric sat astride Champion, concealed behind a wild thicket of bushes. Crickets chirped all around him, and an occasional owl's hoot sounded. He kept his gaze steadfastly trained on the path, refusing to look at the lake, unwilling to relive the memories the sight induced. He'd have the rest of his life for those memories… after she was gone.

At that instant, a figure rounded the bend. He could not distinguish the features, but he'd recognize that purposeful stride anywhere. As she drew closer, he noted her nondescript dark-colored gown with a wry half-smile. Only his Samantha would dress so plainly for an illicit rendezvous.

His Samantha. His lips compressed and a dull ache thudded in his chest. After tonight he would-never see his Samantha again. At the moment, the fact that she would be safe and free offered little consolation to the pain squeezing his heart.

She paused near the huge willow, her gaze riveted on the water, and his mind filled with the memory of standing beneath that tree the first day he'd come across her at the lake. He'd ached to kiss her, just once, believing a single taste of her would satisfy his appetite. He couldn't recall a time in his entire life when he'd been more wrong.

He watched her for a moment, his insides clenching when she briefly buried her face in her hands. Damn it, it killed him to see her so unhappy. The time had come to free her.

He dismounted then approached her on silent feet. Clearly occupied with her thoughts, he stood almost directly behind her before she detected his presence. Her shoulders stiffened and she appeared to draw a bracing breath.

"You are early, my lord," she said, then turned around. A gasp escaped her, and she stumbled back a step, her hand flying to her throat.

He grabbed her upper arm to steady her. "Do not be afraid, lass," he whispered in his raspy brogue.

"I-I'm not afraid, sir. You merely startled me."

"Forgive me. Ye were lost in thought."

Even the darkness could not obscure the sadness that passed over her features. "Yes." She suddenly glanced quickly around. Grabbing his hand, she pulled him under the willow, concealing them behind a curtain of voluminous leaves. "Why are you here, sir? It is dangerous for you to be about. The magistrate has new information-"

He pressed a gloved fingertip against her lips. "I am aware of this information, lass. Fear not." Moving a step closer to her, he whispered, "Just now… were ye thinking about your upcoming marriage?"

She stared up at him, her eyes shining like two pools of distress. "You know about my wedding?"

Before he could answer, an owl hooted nearby and she started, looking wildly about. "I am supposed to meet my fiancé here, and he is as intent upon capturing you as the magistrate. You must leave at once."

"I wrote ye the note." Her expression turned to surprise, then confusion. Her hand still clutched his, and he flexed his fingers, savoring the contact. "Your wedding… 'tis the reason I am here, lass. To save ye from it."

"Save me…?" Confusion filled her gaze, followed by stunned amazement as comprehension dawned. "You're here to help me escape."

"I offer ye the gift I've offered the other women, Miss Briggeham. Freedom from an unwanted marriage." His voice grew raspier. "Ye shall have all those adventures ye told me about."

Her eyes widened to saucers. "I… I don't know what to say. I must think on this. Logically." Releasing his hand, she pressed her fingers to her temples and proceeded to pace in front of him with short, jerky steps. "I never considered I'd have such an opportunity to free him. I hate the thought of leaving my family… but dear God, for me to disappear would certainly be the best thing for him. The best gift I could give him."

A frown formed behind Eric's mask. " 'Tis ye I'm seeking to free, lass."

She paused in front of him. "I understand. But it's actually Lord Wesley you'd be freeing."

"What are ye talking about?"

Looking at the ground, she said, "He is only marrying me because Society dictates he must."

"He compromised ye," Eric rasped in a harsh tone.

Her head jerked up. "He did nothing I did not want… Nothing I did not ask him to do," she whispered fiercely. "Yet he is shouldering all the consequences by being forced into a marriage he does not want."

"That ye do not want either," he said, then waited for her to confirm it.

Instead, moisture that looked suspiciously like tears glistened behind her spectacles. Then, pressing her lips together, she averted her gaze. "What makes you think that, sir? Indeed, I have to wonder why you're here. It never occurred to me that you would attempt to rescue me again as you only help unwilling brides."

An odd feeling he could not name prickled through him. Touching his gloved fingertips under her chin, he gently brought her gaze back to his. "That first night, ye told me ye had no desire to ever marry. Have ye changed your mind since then?"

A single tear trailed down her cheek. "I'm afraid so."

Confusion broke over him like a tidal wave. "Are ye saying ye want to marry the earl?"

"More than anything."

Bloody hell, he might have been more shocked in his lifetime, but he'd be hard-pressed to recall the time. "But why?"

"Because I love him."

Time seemed to halt, bringing his breath and his heart along with it. Her words reverberated through his brain like the echo in a cave. I love him. I love him.

By God, he hadn't thought he could be more shocked than when she'd said she wanted to marry him, but this… this knocked him sideways like a blow to the head. Damn it, he actually felt a strong need to sit down. But first he had to clarify a few things.

He grasped her by the shoulders. "Ye love the earl," he stated, thankful he remembered to speak in his raspy brogue.

"Completely."

"Ye want to marry him."

"Desperately."

Elation flashed through him like a bolt of lightning.

"But," she said, "he doesn't wish to marry me. He's only doing so because he must. To save my reputation. He is kind and decent and honorable…" A sad half-smile curved her lips. "Those are only a few of the reasons I love him so much."

She drew a deep breath, then bobbed her head with a single, decisive nod. "I would have tried my best to make him happy, to be a good wife, but you have given me the unexpected opportunity to free him." A tremor ran through her, and her voice dropped to an aching whisper. "Even though it breaks my heart to do so, I love him enough to let him go."

He could do nothing but stare at her, emotions stabbing him from all sides, ambushing him like a brigade of bayonet-wielding soldiers. The enormity of her words, of what she was willing to sacrifice for him-her family, her entire existence-humbled him in a way that left him shaking. Overwhelmed.

"Samantha," he whispered around the lump clogging his throat. "God, Samantha…" Her name ended on a groan, and he hauled her into his arms and kissed her with all the passion and need hammering through him. She gasped, effectively parting her lips, and his tongue possessed her mouth with desperate demand. He crushed her closer, his arms wrapped around her like bands of steel. She melted against him with a low moan, returning his urgent kiss, and his blood pounded through his body.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Nothing existed except her… This woman in his arms. This woman he loved so much he trembled with it.

This woman who loved him.

Ending their kiss, he gently cradled her face… The unique, imperfect face that had captured him, fascinated him from the start.

Her eyes slowly slid open and their gazes collided. She blinked several times, then frowned. Very slowly she lifted her hand and touched his face. His masked face.

At that instant sanity returned, and he recalled where he was. Who he was.

Damn it to hell! What was he thinking? Obviously he wasn't thinking. But what the hell was she thinking? Kissing another man like that, seconds after she'd professed to love him.

He released her as if she'd turned into a column of fire and took two hasty steps backward. "Forgive me, lass," he rasped. "I don't know what came over me."

She simply stared at him, eyes round with shock, somehow managing to appear still as a statue yet limp as an overcooked noodle at the same time.

He braced himself, waiting for her outrage, for a barrage of angry words. But she merely looked at him with tears slowly rolling down her cheeks, and whispered one word.

"Eric."