thirst for adventure and she tilted her chin defiantly. "We will fight this fire together."
"In a pig's eye we will, missy," St. John growled, as he dove for one of his wife's dramatically outflung arms. Samantha had already anticipated his move, and was yards from the bed and halfway to the already open cabin door before the Earl recovered sufficiently to intercept her.
"You are going to go up on deck with me and allow me to assist you into the boat I have waiting. You are not—I repeat, not—so much as even to be allowed a glimpse of the fire," he bit out succinctly, as his coal dark eyes tried to bore a hole in her defiance. "Not only is your presence not wanted, it is not needed, for the last thing the crew should have to concern themselves with right now are the hoydenish proclivities of an immature, sensation-seeking, irresponsible brat who would probably only succeed in hampering their efforts and losing me my yacht. Is that clear?" he ended, punctuating each word with firm shakes of the strong tanned hand that held Samantha's upper arm.
She directed a long, cool stare down at the offending hand, then raised her head to impale Zachary with a full dose of her potent emerald-green eyes—showing him, he thought randomly, just how truly fitted she was to be his Countess. Her face, indeed her entire tall, slim form, was etched in lines of outraged dignity, her expression a virtual potpourrie of angelic innocence, injured sensibilities, shocked disbelief, and a well-defined, all-over glazing of superior disdain or even contempt.
But it was within those emerald eyes that the Earl found the true center of the storm that he could almost feel building up rapidly inside Samantha, for her eyes showed one emotion he could readily understand—that overpowering desire for adventure, the chance to dare the fates and even risk life and limb, just to see if it were possible. He had felt the same when he jumped his first six-bar fence, milled down his first man, broken the Faro bank at Lady Devonshire's and—yes, even then—when he pinked his man in his first duel. Samantha's expression brought it all back to him: those mad, frantic days of his grasstime, when any excuse was good enough to send him racing neck-or-nothing into adventure.
Slowly, St. John relaxed his grip on his wife's arm, saying almost kindly, "Poor infant, you really do so want to go play with the fire, don't you? Ah, but I must tell you, sweetings, much as I feel for your frustration, it's beyond the question. Perhaps some other time, preferably on dry land and with a convenient escape route nearby, I will set you a fire and allow you to exercise your whim to the limit. But for now," and all traces of humor left his countenance, "you will do as I say."
"But—"
"No more, Samantha," the Earl commanded in a voice that would brook no denial.
"But my clothes, all my beautiful new clothes! What if they were to burn? I must take them with me. Please," she pleaded with uncustomary humbleness. Samantha may have been guilty of an unladylike interest in subjects and activities more common to the masculine gender, but deep down she was still—after all was said and done—very much a female.
St. John had sprung for a monstrously expensive and plentiful trousseau for his bride, and Samantha—loving every stitch of it—had brought the entirety of her new wardrobe along on her honeymoon. She was proud of her finery; it was as outrageous as its owner, who happily was also probably the only female in the entirety of the British Isles with the face, figure, style, and downright devil-take-the-hindmost attitude able to carry off such unusual styles and colors as she had chosen. There was no way she would sit idly by in a leaky old scow while her major (and, to date, only) benefit of marriage went up in smoke!
By now the sounds reaching them from the passageway far at the stern end of the ship—as well as the few ominous looking, thin trails of smoke that snaked past
"In a pig's eye we will, missy," St. John growled, as he dove for one of his wife's dramatically outflung arms. Samantha had already anticipated his move, and was yards from the bed and halfway to the already open cabin door before the Earl recovered sufficiently to intercept her.
"You are going to go up on deck with me and allow me to assist you into the boat I have waiting. You are not—I repeat, not—so much as even to be allowed a glimpse of the fire," he bit out succinctly, as his coal dark eyes tried to bore a hole in her defiance. "Not only is your presence not wanted, it is not needed, for the last thing the crew should have to concern themselves with right now are the hoydenish proclivities of an immature, sensation-seeking, irresponsible brat who would probably only succeed in hampering their efforts and losing me my yacht. Is that clear?" he ended, punctuating each word with firm shakes of the strong tanned hand that held Samantha's upper arm.
She directed a long, cool stare down at the offending hand, then raised her head to impale Zachary with a full dose of her potent emerald-green eyes—showing him, he thought randomly, just how truly fitted she was to be his Countess. Her face, indeed her entire tall, slim form, was etched in lines of outraged dignity, her expression a virtual potpourrie of angelic innocence, injured sensibilities, shocked disbelief, and a well-defined, all-over glazing of superior disdain or even contempt.
But it was within those emerald eyes that the Earl found the true center of the storm that he could almost feel building up rapidly inside Samantha, for her eyes showed one emotion he could readily understand—that overpowering desire for adventure, the chance to dare the fates and even risk life and limb, just to see if it were possible. He had felt the same when he jumped his first six-bar fence, milled down his first man, broken the Faro bank at Lady Devonshire's and—yes, even then—when he pinked his man in his first duel. Samantha's expression brought it all back to him: those mad, frantic days of his grasstime, when any excuse was good enough to send him racing neck-or-nothing into adventure.
Slowly, St. John relaxed his grip on his wife's arm, saying almost kindly, "Poor infant, you really do so want to go play with the fire, don't you? Ah, but I must tell you, sweetings, much as I feel for your frustration, it's beyond the question. Perhaps some other time, preferably on dry land and with a convenient escape route nearby, I will set you a fire and allow you to exercise your whim to the limit. But for now," and all traces of humor left his countenance, "you will do as I say."
"But—"
"No more, Samantha," the Earl commanded in a voice that would brook no denial.
"But my clothes, all my beautiful new clothes! What if they were to burn? I must take them with me. Please," she pleaded with uncustomary humbleness. Samantha may have been guilty of an unladylike interest in subjects and activities more common to the masculine gender, but deep down she was still—after all was said and done—very much a female.
St. John had sprung for a monstrously expensive and plentiful trousseau for his bride, and Samantha—loving every stitch of it—had brought the entirety of her new wardrobe along on her honeymoon. She was proud of her finery; it was as outrageous as its owner, who happily was also probably the only female in the entirety of the British Isles with the face, figure, style, and downright devil-take-the-hindmost attitude able to carry off such unusual styles and colors as she had chosen. There was no way she would sit idly by in a leaky old scow while her major (and, to date, only) benefit of marriage went up in smoke!
By now the sounds reaching them from the passageway far at the stern end of the ship—as well as the few ominous looking, thin trails of smoke that snaked past
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