Author's Notes: I'm going to try and resume daily updates again. Reviews are very much appreciated and help to inspire and motivate me to update.

Chapter 22

As Jack walked towards the house, he stopped and turned back towards the pavilion. While he had a couple days to absorb the fact he was occupying his ancestor's body and Samantha was a virgin, she had not. Maybe he had overreacted and she simply needed a few minutes to consider what he told her. After all these years of waiting for his Samantha, he couldn't give up so easily. One way or another he would charm, coax or seduce her into becoming his in every way. Even if she wouldn't admit him to her bed immediately, without her friends influence he could perhaps persuade her in time.

Walking back towards the pavilion, Jack stopped short behind a trellis of climbing roses as he heard the damning words fall from Samantha's lips, "Yes, there is something you can do, Phillippe. I need you to fuck me."

Jack turned from the pavilion and walked away, Samantha's words echoing in his mind. There was no point in waiting for Phillippe's response, what man would refuse such a request? So much for hoping Samantha would give him a chance, she barely learned of her restored innocence and was offering it to his valet. Later, perhaps he would kill Phillippe, but his heart hurt too much to do justice to the matter at the moment.

Returning to the house, Jack went into the study and shut the door. Sitting at the desk, he poured himself a large glass of brandy from a decanter and lit one of his improvised cigarettes. Smoke curled around him as he exhaled and he stared at the amber liquid in his glass. He would stick around long enough to give her the protection of his name and then- Jack was uncertain of what he would do, but he couldn't stay and watch Samantha with other men. True he'd killed Tom and had a hand in Coop's demise, but how many would he have to suffer through watching her with and then kill?

But could he leave Samantha? From the moment he saw her, he loved her and knew she was his. Any doubts had been settled when she killed the doctor. No, he couldn't give up on her, Jack concluded. Since they ended up in the 18th century, things had been chaotic, but it was a golden opportunity and he couldn't waste it. In Atlanta Jack had been the master of the game because he set the rules and designed the board. It was time he regain control, time and location may have changed, but not the game. The rules remained the same and the only rules, were his rules.

Taking a drink, Jack noted with annoyance the absence of roses from his desk and the absence of images of his Samantha. While there weren't photographs, he would have to see about having her painted. Searching through his desk, Jack found paper, quill and ink. He might might not have his computer, but he could still get organized and the sooner the better. Pushing aside the pain of Samantha's betrayal, Jack focused on making plans.

Several hours later, Jack had filled many sheets of paper, when Phillippe entered the room and bit out, "We need to talk."

Clenching his jaw, Jack stood up and countered, "Do we now?"

"I want to know what the hell is going on," Phillippe demanded.

"I believe that would be my line," Jack responded and scowled at his valet. "If you are hear to tell me about my fiancé asking you to service her, then spare me because I overheard her request."

"I see, so is it to be swords at dawn?"

"More like I'll eviscerate you in your sleep tonight," Jack replied with a vicious smile.

Ignoring Jack's threat Phillippe walked up to Jack and retorted, "You're a fool if you imagine Mademoiselle Samantha actually meant that. If you'd stayed to listen to the rest of our exchange, you would have heard her sobbing because she's convinced you don't want her."

"What do you mean not want her! How in God's name could she think that!"

"Telling her you don't plan to consummate your marriage may have something to do with it," Phillippe speculated dryly.

Picking up his glass from the desk, Jack drained the contents as he considered his valet's words. When Samantha hadn't responded he'd taken it as rejection and had tried to be gentlemanly about giving her an out. Had he inadvertently hurt her instead? Jack was disturbed, both by the idea of hurting her and that he'd so misread her. He always knew what his Samantha was thinking, how could he have misjudged her emotions so completely?

"Phillippe, what's wrong with me?" Jack asked. Then continued, "Samantha and I are the same. Why is it I'm suddenly misunderstanding her?"

"Perhaps because you're getting married in two days time?" Phillippe offered. "It is my understanding that when a couple marries, if love is part of the equation that it can muddy the waters of rational thought."

Jack sat down and poured himself another glass of brandy, then poured one for Phillippe and motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs on the opposite side of his desk. "Perhaps you're right. Tell me, are you married Phillippe?"

Phillippe's eyes narrowed and he studied Jack as he responded, "No, Viscomte I am not."

"Jack."

"Pardonne moi, Viscomte?"

"When we're alone or in the presence of Samantha, you may drop the title and call me Jack."

"Very well, Jack," Phillippe agreed, carefully masking the suspicion in his eyes.

Picking up one of his lists, Jack requested, "I'd like you to arrange to have my study filled with roses at all times and have one long stemmed rose placed on Samantha's pillow with the thorns every day, starting tomorrow morning when the maid makes her room up."

"I'll speak to the butler for you and convey your wishes, Vis- er- Jack."

"Good," Jack responded and drew lines across those two items on his list. Then he continued, "Next I'd like your opinion of my estate manager, is he honest and discreet?"

Considering for a moment, Phillippe answered, "Honest yes, but discreet no."

"Have to see about remedying that."

Phillippe took a sip of his brandy, something seemed very odd, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something had felt off for days, ever since the night of the engagement announcement. It wasn't all pre-wedding jitters, both the Viscomte and the mademoiselle had been acting peculiarly. Between the murderous escapade with the doctor and his master seeming put off by his fiancé's virginity, something wasn't right and it was gnawing at Phillippe.

"Who would you say is the best portrait painter in all of France?" Jack inquired, breaking Phillippe's reverie. "I wish to find an artist who can do justice to my Samantha."

"Are you teasing me?"

Jack looked slightly annoyed as he replied, "Don't be ridiculous. I want to have Samantha painted by a great portrait artist."

"Who are you and what the hell have you done with my brother?" Phillippe demanded, slamming his glass down on the desk.

"Brother? How would I know anything about your brother?"

"You of all people should know," Phillippe shot back.

Standing up, Jack commanded, "Explain yourself."

"My brother or rather half-brother is the greatest painter in France."

"Excellent, I'll commission a portrait of Samantha from him. Who is he?"

"You," Phillippe retorted...