"Absolutely not." This he could give her. "It was very much the other way around. I took you to bed only after I'd decided our future."
"How dispassionate. You decided our future. You made love to me. You proposed. Tell me, Rem, where do feelings factor into your plan?"
"I think you know how much I care for you."
"Care for me," Sammy repeated, chewing her lip. "What about love?"
This was the part Rem had dreaded most. "Love," he repeated woodenly.
"Yes. Love." She stared down at her clasped hands. "It would be foolish at this point for me to lie. I want to be your wife. I want that more than anything on this earth, and I have from the moment you walked into Boydry's. But I want you to wed me out of love, not duty." She raised her head. "Do you love me, Remington?"
"Samantha—"
"Do you love me?" she persisted.
"I care for you more than I've ever cared for anyone in my life, more than I ever dreamed possible. I want you with an insatiable intensity that astounds me. But love? The kind of love poets write about, men give their souls for, live for, die for ... the kind of love I know you want of me ... I'm just not capable of so vast and absolute an emotion."
"I won't accept that." Her lips quivered.
"Sweetheart..." He reached for her.
The carriage came to a halt.
Pushing open the door, Sammy climbed down, battling desperately not to cry. "It's late, Rem. Or rather, early. We can't have this conversation now."
He caught her arm. "We can't turn back, Samantha. It's too late for that. And not only because of what happened tonight. Even if I hadn't made love to you, it wouldn't stop me from burning for you, from craving your sweetness, from killing any other man who touched you."
Sammy's anguished expression tore at his heart. "Imp ..." He cupped her chin. "I'll give you all I have to give; my devotion, my fidelity, my protection. You'll never want for anything—including an unlimited stream of novels from Hatchard's." Tenderly, he caressed her cheek with his forefinger. "And I'll bathe your senses in pleasures you've never even dreamed possible."
"Don't, Rem." Sammy shook her head to ward off the effect of his promise. "I need to think. And I can't do that when you seduce me with words."
"Don't think. Just consider us betrothed. Let me talk to your brother."
"No ... not yet." A lone tear slid down Sammy's cheek. "Under the circumstances, I'm not ready to deal with Drake."
From somewhere inside the Town house a door closed.
Sammy jerked around. "I have to go."
Rem couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so frustrated, so emotionally raw. "Meet me later today, then. We'll ride through Hyde Park." When she refused to answer, struggling instead to free herself, Rem's grip tightened. "Please, love," he added softly, "tonight was too beautiful to end like this. Please don't cry."
The tenderness in his voice was Sammy's undoing. She stopped struggling, staring up at him, a hard knot forming in her throat. She hadn't been wrong, her heart cried out. It was there; in his eyes, his tone, his touch. All his words, his professions of inability, were for naught, and she refused to accept them. Whatever in Rem's past had scarred him so deeply, tainted his ability to care, she would discover it. And, oppressive though it might be, she would combat it. Because she knew something Rem did not.
He might not think he loved her ... but he did.
"I'll be ready at five." Gently, Sammy disengaged her arm, feeling even more a woman now than she had during those pivotal moments in Rem's arms. "Good night, Rem."
"So you actually heard Summerson say he planned to keep an eye on Samantha?" Boyd asked, leaning forward.
"Yes." Rem paced the length of his sitting room, brow furrowed in worry. "It was clear that her relationship to Drake made her a threat ... to whatever illegal dealing Anders and Summerson are involved in."
"Atlantis." Boyd tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Sounds like the name of a ship."
"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" Rem came to a halt, exchanging a meaningful look with his friend.
"You're obviously thinking exactly what I am—that Anders and Summerson could be the culprits responsible for all the lost vessels."
"Responsible or merely working for those who are. I tend to favor the latter, at least in Anders's case. He hasn't the intelligence or the cunning to devise and carry out such a sophisticated scheme on his own. I don't know Summerson well enough to make the same judgment. But whether they're working alone or with others, the motive is there."