Spanish bowline hitch.
No. Absolutely not. There would be no later.
Nicholas frowned. Until this morning, he had been convinced there would be nothing wrong with taking his pleasure of her and then taking his leave. Why should she be different from any other woman he had known? It wasn’t as if he’d never had a virgin before. He’d sent more than one maiden on her way with a few new skills in her feminine arsenal and a smile on her face. Never had he hesitated in bedding a willing lady.
Until now. Until Samantha. It seemed important to him, somehow, to protect her innocence. To avoid taking the treasure she offered.
That was a first for Captain Nicholas Brogan, he thought with a rueful twist to his mouth—protecting a treasure instead of taking it.
No one would ever believe it.
He watched her walking just ahead of him, infinitely fascinated by the way she moved, the way her hair caught the light. He couldn’t puzzle out his reasons, but he intended their first moment of physical intimacy this morning to be their last.
He didn’t dare trust himself to touch her that way a second time, to hold her lush, naked body in his arms and not take her.
His gaze lingered over her, his thoughts drifting back to the glade. He still could not believe what had happened between them. Not the way she had responded to him so perfectly. That didn’t surprise him.
No, what baffled him was that her dazzling release had been as pleasurable for him as it had been for her—even though he had been in torment, raked by need, longing to bury himself in her depths. It had taken every ounce of will he possessed not to claim her. She had been like melted honey in his arms, yielding, open, ready. And he had restrained himself.
It had been the first time he’d ever given pleasure without taking some in return. And it had made him feel unbelievably... good. More than good.
Happy.
He shook his head, reminding himself that more pressing matters required his attention. Matters of life and death. He needed to concentrate. York. The blackmailer. Five days left.
Less than five days.
Damn it, Brogan, concentrate.
They kept walking, each lost in their own thoughts, the forest passing by in a monotonous parade of tree after tree, branch after branch, evergreen after evergreen.
The afternoon sun slanted low through the canopy of leaves when he thought he heard a sound up ahead.
“Wait a moment.” He stopped Samantha, coming up to stand beside her. “What’s that noise?”
They both stood still, listening. The wind carried the sound toward him: voices.
“Bloody hell.” Grabbing her, he darted into the underbrush.
“Who do you think they are?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer, knew what they were both thinking. Lawmen.
But the sound didn’t grow louder. Whoever it was, they apparently weren’t moving. And he heard no dogs or horses.
And some of the voices were undeniably feminine. “I’m not sure,” he whispered. “Care to take a closer look?”
She nodded. They crept forward, cautiously, staying within the shadows of the trees.
A few yards further on, they could see them: a group of people camped in a clearing ahead.
Nicholas stopped and slipped behind the broad trunk of an oak, pulling Samantha with him. Cautiously, he peered around the curve of the tree, wishing he had a spyglass.
He could hear her breathing rapidly. “If they aren’t lawmen,” she hissed, “then who are they? Who else would venture into Cannock Chase?”
He studied the camp. There were at least forty people—men, women, and children. Travelers of some sort. Their camp was made up of a motley assortment of carts and wagons, many brightly painted.
“Gypsies,” he said at last. Outcasts, like all the other people who sought sanctuary in this forest.
Samantha seemed to relax. “We should probably go before any of them see us.”
“Not so fast, angel.” He was still studying the camp. Where there were carts, there were bound to be horses.
After a moment, Samantha made a sniffing sound. “Can you smell that?” She crowded in beside him to get a better view, inhaling deeply of the wind. “Oh, I wonder what they’re cooking.”
The spicy scent made his stomach growl. “Some kind of stew.” There was a large cookfire at the center of the circle of wagons, and a pair of women were tending a black iron pot suspended over the flames.
But even more tempting to him were the horses. He spotted them on the far side of the camp, about two dozen of them, picketed at the edge of