Naughty in Nottinghamshire 02 - The Rogue Returns (2 page)

She had no choice but to fight. She jumped out from behind the tree.

“Stay back.” She poked her shovel into the air. “Go away.”

R
OANE GRANTHAM COULD NOT BELIEVE HIS EYES
. There was a woman in the shadows. He half thought she was a ghost. An apparition of his fantasy—blonde, wet, and disheveled. The top of her gown fell open as she raised her shovel, exposing the pale, lush curve of her left breast.

Welcome home to England, old boy.

He stopped in place and lifted his hands, assuring the beautiful and wild chit that he was not a threat. Not yet, anyway.

“I’ll not hurt you.” He kept his voice calm and low, as if she were a wood creature easily startled.

“Go away.” She jabbed her shovel in the air again. That lovely swell of feminine flesh bounced.

His pulse bounced as well. Some men appreciated a shapely arse. Others just wanted a bit of fluff. Roane enjoyed the whole of a woman but loved breasts most of all. And this woman had a luscious pair. “What are you doing here, sweetheart? Are you in some kind of danger?”

“I am perfectly well. Now take yourself off.” Her body betrayed her words. She was scared out of her wits. Shaking and breathing fast.

“Are you alone?” She seemed to be alone. There was only one set of prints in the muddy clearing.

She stood taller. He tried, he really did, to keep his gaze on her face. But her dress slipped lower and, lord, her corset was threaded with some kind of pink ribbon that played peekaboo with the lace covering her nipples. It’d been years since he’d seen anything so delicate and so utterly feminine. Blood surged to his muscles and fired them with one purpose.
Want. Her.
He swiped a hand over his eyes, forcing himself to look away. Did she realize her bodice had fallen open? He should tell her, if only so he could think.

“Who are you?” She stepped forward and poked his shoulder with her shovel.

He dropped his hand from his eyes and batted the shovel away. “A friend.”

“You are no friend of mine. My brothers will be back soon. They will be looking for me. ‘Twould be best you are gone before their return.”

“I see.” Hopefully, she lied. He hardly needed to fight off a pack of angry brothers. And fight he would. This clearing—more specifically, the treasure within it— was his.

And the woman, with her flashing eyes and pink ribbons, he wouldn’t mind making her his as well.

He shot her a wide grin.

She frowned.

“You’ve been digging today, sweetheart. What are you looking for?”

Her gaze flicked to the meadow behind him. Guilty, guilty. “’Tis none of your concern.”

“Ah, now, I hate to argue with a woman, especially a beautiful one. But this meadow, and everything in it, is very much my concern. Including you.” He winked at her but received no response.

Her face, with its flawless color, high cheekbones, and pert little chin, was set in flat, hard lines. She was obviously cultured—from London, he would wager—and a long way from home. But she looked down her nose at him as if he’d trampled mud into her drawing room. “I am not your sweetheart,” she said. “Neither am I your concern. Best you climb atop that great beast of a horse and take yourself off before my brothers return.”

She jerked her chin toward his mount. Everything about her demeanor said
leave
. But her breasts were half-bared and her hair falling from her pins. She was coming undone before him and it was erotic as hell. Everything within him said
stay
.

Pinecones crunched beneath his boots as he took three steps to the right. She followed his movements with the tip of her shovel, her disquiet palpable. There was nothing in the woods behind her. Only a thick stand of pines and no sign of a camp. He took a few steps to the left. The trees were more open here but showed no indication anyone would be spending the night.

Roane propped his shoulder against the closest pine, the picture of nonchalance, and smiled. He was docile as a puppy.

There were no brothers.

And she
would
tell him who she was and what she was doing here, alone in his clearing. Her cultured speech and ruined dress certainly piqued his curiosity. Not to mention other parts of her anatomy currently hidden from view. What if she came
totally
undone? Now there was a thought worth pondering. “Why don’t you put your weapon down, darling, so we can talk this through. Because, you see, I cannot leave.”

“And you cannot stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Have you eaten? I have a fresh loaf of bread in my pack, and a bit of—”

“I’m not hungry.”

“No? You look hungry.”

She frowned at him. “Are you always this charming?”

He grinned. “I do try.”

“Well, don’t try. I do not need nor want your
charm
. Leave.”

He didn’t move. Her long, pale neck still glistening with drops of water. His eyes dropped lower—to her plump breasts and those pink ribbons.
Christ
. He would untie her corset slowly, like a present, then take her in his—

“Cad.” She must have realized her state of undress, for she yanked up the front flap of her gown. Ah, well, probably for the best. “You, sir, are no gentleman,” she muttered, holding her bodice in place with one hand.

Finally, he dragged his gaze back up to hers. “Never in my life have I claimed to be a gentleman.”

Her cheeks pinkened. “Will you
please
go away?”

“What were you digging for in the meadow?”

Her sigh was long and hard as she relaxed the tip of her shovel to the earth.
Victory
. “Oh, very well. If we truly must talk, at least turn around that I might…ah…” Her face flushed brighter.

Roane rubbed a hand over his eyes and turned. He wondered if she would smack him across the head with her shovel and kept his ears open for her approach. Instead, she walked away.

Would she flee?

“How did you know to look here?” he asked. If he could hear her voice, he’d know where she was.

“Look here for what?”

So they were to play this game. He had no patience for it. Not after visiting his aunt’s grave earlier that day. “You are obviously digging for something of great value. Unless this is your penance? Have you done something naughty, darling?”

She huffed in annoyance. Fabric rustled. He imagined how she might look beneath her wet gown. Her pink-laced corset. A sheer, damp shift clinging to her curves. The darker V between her legs. The shape of her waist. Sweat broke out over his skin.

He wandered a few steps away, to the open clearing, and studied the location of the holes she had dug. A better use for his thoughts. No, not better, but less torturous. A moment later, he heard her approach.

“I am not your sweetheart, nor your darling,” she grumbled from behind him. “Nor your honey.”

Roane turned to find her dressed in the same wet, muddy gown with the bodice securely in place. Over that, she wore an emerald green cloak of very fine wool with embroidery around the hood and sleeves. Her hair was tucked up in a silk bonnet, and ruined gloves finished her unlikely ensemble. Her outfit, though stained and torn, was elegantly tailored and obviously expensive.

In an instant, he knew who she was. “What is your name?”

She narrowed her eyes—her blue eyes, he could now tell in the brighter light. Ah, well, this would make sense. “Why?”

“Are you a Gladstone, perchance?”

She drew back, startled.

His comment had hit the mark. “You have the look of James.”

Keeping her expression blank, she considered her response. He wondered what reaction she would choose. In the end, curiosity won out. She tried to peek under the wide brim of his hat. “You knew James?”

“Yes. And you would be his…sister?”

“In what manner were you acquainted with him?” she asked, evading him with her own question.

“Forgive me.” He swiped his hat from his head and made an elegant bow. “Roane Grantham, at your service. James Gladstone and I were friends. I just recently learned of his passing and was sorry for it.”

And he was truly sorry. James had been a raucous companion with a loyal heart. One did not find many friends better.

“But…” She swallowed back the rest of her words and swept her gaze over his muddy attire.

“Don’t say he never mentioned me.” Roane pretended amused affront. “Not once? Nothing of my horse? James always coveted the beast.”

Her angry eyes flashed to his. “James had many friends. Most of whom boasted an unsavory nature.”

“Surely you cannot refer to myself.”

“Surely I could.”

Roane ignored the insult. “Yes, I think his sister.” He studied her. “You have the same inflection, did you know?”

She looked away from him, kept her gaze trained out over the meadow where sixteen thousand pounds lay buried in the earth.

Roane tried to remember what he knew of the Gladstone’s. They were an old, aristocratic family with a reputation for fast living. James never talked of his mother, and Roane had assumed she’d passed away years ago. When the old earl had died in his mistress’s bed, James had mourned quietly; then he’d thrown a wild party and insisted everyone call him “The Earl of Girls.” On a few occasions, Roane had met the younger brother, Harry, who was just as wild as James. But he knew nothing of any sisters. “It seems there is a bit of a misunderstanding. I fear you may be disappointed, my lady.” And she would be that,
a lady
. Daughter of an earl.

She planted her hands on her hips and gave him her best glare. She was obviously used to holding her own. With brothers like hers, she’d need to be. “And why, exactly, will I be disappointed?”

“Half the money is mine.”

“And why should I believe you?” she scoffed.

“You don’t need to believe me. I believe it enough for both of us.”

She looked him up and down again, from his scuffed, muddy boots to the top of his wet hair. He knew he was disheveled. He’d come straight from the docks in London to Nottinghamshire, a hard two days ride on a borrowed horse. When he’d discovered his sister Mazie and her family were on the Continent, he’d suffered a great disappointment. He was eager to see Mazie and meet his niece and nephew. But no part of him wanted to stay at Giltbrook Hall. He’d collected Zeus from Mazie’s stables and been on his way again as quickly as possible.

“What claim do you make on the coin?” James’s sister demanded.

He appreciated that she no longer dithered or denied the issue at hand. Here was a woman who knew how to argue. “James and I were at the Royal Ascot together the summer of 1821. We both placed bets on the same horse. In fact, I was the one who picked the winner. Your brother was three sheets to the wind that night. He could barely ride his horse. I’m certain he could not locate the gold.” Roane spread his arms open. “Thus, your searching. You’ve had a time of it, by the looks of things.”

“You know where the gold is?”

“Of course. I am the one who buried it.”

“Wonderful. Where is it?”

He clicked his tongue and looked around the clearing. He
thought
he remembered where it was. He hadn’t exactly been sober himself. “You expect me to just tell you? Without so much as a
please
or
thank you
?”

She stared at him with her cunning blue eyes. He could see her mind working, trying to figure out how to get rid of him. He knew that look, had been on the receiving end of it many times in his life.

He smiled wide. “You should be heading back to the village, or wherever it is you are staying. It will be dark soon and I anticipate more rain.”

Her gaze darted up to the thick clouds overhead, then back to him. “And leave you here alone? Hardly.”

Her voice was shaking now. Beneath the bravado, she must know what a dangerous situation she was in. “I promise I’ll only take my half of the gold. I will happily give you James’s portion. Have you a room in Cromford? Go take a bath. You will feel better—”

“Yes, I have a room in Cromford, but I am not leaving the gold.” Her breaths were coming faster again. Little pants of air that betrayed her fear. She must be desperate for the money, to risk her safety.

Roane leaned in, close enough that he could smell her. Rose water and wet earth. “If you want to spend the night with me, buttercup, you need just ask. No reason to argue about it. I always welcome a warm bed partner.”

She jerked back. “You are a rogue.”

“Of the worst sort.” He winked.

“Well, you’ll not scare me off. I’ve dealt with worse knaves than you.” She threw her shoulders back. He could see the effort it took to cast off her fear. “Show me where the gold is.”

His cheeks ached with the force of his smile. How had James never mentioned this interfering, annoying little sister of his? “If you do not go to town now, it will be too dark. You’ll have to sleep here. With me.”

“Very well. I am sure I can manage one night in the forest.”

She didn’t know what she was getting into, obviously. The woman looked as prepared to sleep in the out-of-doors as he was prepared to meet the Queen. “Where is your bedroll?”