“I don’t want to marry.”
“You will.” Thinking about Samantha marrying anyone made him angry, but he also knew it was likely inevitable.
“No, I won’t.” She coughed, and he felt bad for annoying her.
Warwick slid down on the mattress so he could rest his head on the pillow. He’d just stay with her until she slept, then go back to his hard bed on the floor. Not that he hadn’t slept on worse in his lifetime, but still, this mattress was lumpy but a great deal more comfortable.
She inched closer and lifted her head onto his shoulder. As his arm was already behind her, he settled it around her, giving her more of his warmth. He then started to sing. Her lips tilted up into a small smile as her lashes fluttered shut. That small smile made his chest warm.
A shaftof gray light was coming through a crack in the curtains when Warwick opened his eyes. He’d thought he’d snatch a few minutes of comfort lying with Samantha in his arms. The light told him he’d taken more than that.
Looking down he saw blonde tousled curls but little else of Samantha. She lay half on him now, having moved closer at some stage. Her hand rested on his chest, her fingers splayed as if holding him in place. It was a hand that would fit inside his if he held it, which he had done so many times in their life together.
He traced a finger down her thumb and then up the forefinger. She didn’t move. Samantha had always slept like a dead person, even considering the hell of uncertainty and fear that had been her childhood. Thinking about Samantha’s father who had brought so much pain and suffering down on his children made Warwick angry. The man had died before anyone could see retribution.
Dev, Warwick’s oldest brother, said retribution came in the full and happy lives the late Duke of Raven’s children all lived.
Pushing her curls aside, he looked at the slumbering face of Lady Samantha. She’d been a thin, terrified little girl when first they’d met. Subdued, beaten, and a shell of the woman they saw today. A woman with spirit and a capacity for love and kindness that both awed and infuriated Warwick.
She moved slightly, and her eyes opened. She blinked a few times and then tilted her head up to look at him. Her eyes were unfocused and bloodshot, and she should not look as sweet as she did.
“You dribbled on me.”
She rose up, pressing her open palm to his chest, and stared at the damp patch on his shirt.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice came out as a rasp.
He sighed. “It’s all right. As you know, I’ve had worse. My nieces and nephews do that and more constantly.”
There should be tension between them. She’d slept in his arms, but as he looked at the crease down her cheek, and mass of curls, he felt something else. A rightness to this moment.
Which meant what? Bloody hell, he didn’t want to want this woman, as that would complicate everything.
“Warwick?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes locked on his, and whatever she’d been about to say was forgotten because as he leaned toward her, she pushed herself up to meet him.
The first brush of his lips to hers and he knew this was a grave error and yet his hand went to cup the back of her head and hold her there, even angling her slightly so he could deepen what he’d started. Her fingers gripped his shirt, holding him close.
Her lips were soft, and he wanted to pull her closer. Take the kiss deeper and touch her. God, he wanted to touch her.
What was he doing?
“Sorry. I-ah, I’m tired.” He rolled her off him and then leapt off the bed, not looking at her again. “Right. Well, we need to get moving. Breakfast. Then we are leaving. The journey will take two or three days depending.”
“Warwick?”
He turned to glance at her when he’d put distance between them. She sat on her knees now, in the middle of the mattress. A rumpled, sultry temptation.
Damnation.
“That was folly and should not have happened. We will never speak of it again.” His words came out gruff.
“Agreed.” Was that wistfulness in her voice? Her expression gave nothing away.
“As I was saying, the time it will take to travel to London will depend on you and your maid.”
