Sam's Creed. Sarah McCarty

      “Yeah, I think we can do without that for a bit.” Sam took the hat and hooked it over the saddle horn. His fingertips replaced hers at her throat. Just the tips, tracing the spot where the sensation of a noose lingered. As if he knew. She went breathless again. He moved his hand to her shoulder, just under the collar of her shirt. For no reason she could discern, she apologized. “I’m sorry. I do not like my throat touched.”

      His eyes lingered where his fingers had been.

      “So I noticed. Any particular reason?”

      She shrugged her shoulder, rubbing against his chest. It was a scandalous thing to feel his chest on her arm, his thighs under hers. “I just dislike it.”

      The callus on his fingertips tickled her skin. She was almost grateful when his hand left her shoulder and moved to the fabric of her shirt. The rough callus caught on the fabric, dragging just a little as his fingers traced down her arm, over the bend of her elbow before arriving at her hand. For some silly reason she expected him to hold it. He didn’t, but his fingers did move from her hand to her skirt, opening and closing as they gathered up the material. His gaze was so intent, his eyes so beautiful, the tingles that stretched from her neck to her hand so fascinating, she didn’t realize what he was doing at first. But when cool air hit her knees, reality came crashing back.

      “What do you do?”

      “Well, I could be planning on tossing up your skirts.”

      “We are on a horse.”

      “I’m not getting your point.”

      People could do that on horses? “You cannot be serious.”

      It was hard to tell with her vision blocked by the setting sun as it was, but she was pretty sure the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened, which meant he was amused.

      “Duchess, someone has sadly neglected your education.”

      “Women are not educated in such things.”

      “Uh-huh.” His response was low and deep, sensual nuance thickening his accent. She loved his accent. It was so different from her natural language, and different from the English spoken by the few white people she’d seen. His word choice was fuller, his grammar better. “Mine would be.”

      She gasped, and not because it was such a forbidden thing to say, but because it found such a home inside her. She could imagine this man doing wild things with his woman. She could imagine his woman enjoying it. She could imagine being his woman.

      Just the imagining sent the tingles in her arms leaping to her thighs, sensitizing the skin that seemed to swell into the curve of his palm. Between her legs her private parts swelled, too, and her heartbeat picked up the pace. This was desire, she realized. The evil thing that kept her on her knees in church. The downfall of mankind. This was the reason Tejala chased her. To feel this with her. To be the only one to feel this with her. It would not happen.

      She closed her eyes as Sam’s hand continued to pull up her skirt, drawing courage from her purpose, but not brazenness. She could not just smile and make nice while Sam exposed her legs. There was enough of her upbringing still healthy to make that impossible.

      “What’s going on in your head, Isabella?”

      “Is it really possible to have relations on a horse?”

      His hand stopped moving. Against her side, his chest expanded on an indrawn breath and then stopped. She had actually shocked him. She had the feeling not many people did that.

      He let the breath out on a slow, even expulsion. “Feeling adventurous?”

      Adventure implied risk. “Are having relations on a horse more difficult than relations elsewhere?”

      His eyes narrowed and his head canted to the side. “I’d feel a whole lot better about answering that question if you didn’t keep referring to things as ‘relations.’”

      “My grasp of your language is not that good. I do not know another word.”

      “I’ve picked up a bit of Spanish here and there—why don’t you run the words you do know by me?”

      And admit she did not know any words at all? She did not think so. “I do know one word in English, but I do not think it is one a lady uses in front of a gentleman.”

      His eyebrows rose. “You don’t say?”

      “Do not look so eager. It is not a word I will say.”

      He grinned. A real one. “Chicken.”

      Yes, she was. In many ways.

      She caught her lip between her teeth. This was a big step she was taking, probably one she shouldn’t be taking without a lot of thought—one that would have her forever banished from her family, ruined in society’s eyes, fallen in God’s. But Tejala’s men were close, and tomorrow might be too late. She was not foolish enough to think she could win in this game with the outlaw forever. Someday she would be outmaneuvered and her innocence would be taken from her. And she would still be banished from her family, ruined in society’s eyes, still be fallen in God’s eyes. So either way there were consequences, but one way she made the choice. The other, the choice was made for her.

      She licked her lips again. Sam’s eyes dropped to her mouth. There was a tension in his muscles that hadn’t been there before. A hardness under her buttock that hadn’t been there before. In contrast, everything in her body softened.

      This man who’d risked his life for her interested her. She did not fool herself that Sam was a gentle man. There was a razor edge to his personality, a coldness to his expression that spoke of purpose, but there were also those flashes of humor, and moments of softness. But what she noticed most about him was the lack of cruelty. He was kind to his horse, kind to his dog. Kind to her. Taking him as a lover might not be her worst choice.

      She closed her eyes, daring and apprehension rippling through her at the same time, riding the same thought. A lover. She shivered. She was considering taking a lover. And not just any lover, but the infamous Sam MacGregor.

      It seemed so much more brazen when she thought in specifics. But the alternative was losing her virginity to rape and becoming the trophy of a man she hated. That was by far more horrifying. She didn’t want the only things she knew of relations between a man and a woman to be taught to her at Tejala’s hands. She didn’t want to hand him one single victory, especially the prize of her virgin’s blood. Taking a lover accomplished many goals. Taking a lover was practical. Her mother had raised her to be very practical.

      She opened her eyes. Sam was still watching her mouth. In an experiment, she ran her tongue over her lips again. His gaze followed every movement. Taking a lover was also going to be very fun.

      “Do you find me pretty, Sam?”

      “Anyone would find you pretty.”

      He was still watching her mouth. The dying scream of her mother’s lectures on the dangers of being promiscuous echoed in her mind as she placed her hand over his on her thigh. “That was not what I asked. Do you find me pretty?”

      “You’re beautiful.”

      It was so hard to be brazen with the sun shining in her eyes, exposing her to every nuance of Sam’s expression. So hard to be confident with Sam watching her as if she were a prisoner intent on escape, his hand on her knee a vivid distraction. Her diaphragm constricted. She took a careful breath and asked, “Beautiful enough to have relations with?”

      “Why?”

      She was prepared for a simple yes, had her next line rehearsed. She was not ready for “why.” Men did not ask why. They just leapt on the opportunity. Asking why was an insult.

      “What do you mean, why?”

      Chapter 5

      Bella forgot herself and pushed at Sam’s shoulder. It was like