The Rogue (8 page)

Her eyelids fluttered, a downward tick, and her pupils seemed to lose focus. The dagger dropped to the floor and her hand slipped away from his throat. Her palms flattened on his chest.

She rocked her hips into his groin.

Lashes dropping low, her lips parted. With her hooded gaze in his, she rocked against him again.

Then again.

The sigh that issued from between her lips swept his anger away.

Dipping her head, she caught his lower lip between her teeth. Before he could seek her, she released his lip and threw her head back. Her eyes were nearly closed. With a
perfectly intentional thrust, she ground into him—once—twice—her body undulating. And she sighed again.

He grasped her hips and jerked her to him. Upon a soft moan, she went with it, pushing harder. Then faster. He helped her, working her tighter against his cock, feeling her against the base and the tip and entirely. She rode him, quick breaths bursting from her, surprised at first and then desperate, punctuated with short, delirious moans.

He felt it when her release overpowered her, the loosening of her body, the shudders. She whimpered, her cries soft and thick with relief. There was pleasure in her voice, her eyes tightly shut, a pink flush suffusing her skin.

His heartbeats were a cacophony of lust and astonishment. Gulping in air, he slid his hands from her hips to her waist.

Her eyes snapped open.

For an instant she seemed disoriented. Then aware.

She clambered backward and off of him, and stumbled to her feet. Grabbing up the bow and quiver, she fled.

T
here was no sound in the stable for some time except the usual snufflings of horses and the rustle of barn swallows. When Saint finally drew his hands away from his face and sat up, he discovered the cat perched again where it had been when Constance startled it, now cleaning its paws.

He climbed to his feet and tried not to think of whether she had returned to the house with her skirts snared up behind her and speckled with bits of straw. He tried not to think of her at all as he sheathed the dagger in the inner pocket of his boot and batted the dust from his own clothing. He failed. He thought of her sighs and moans, the strength of her thighs, and her hands gripping his shirt, and had little success at defeating his arousal. But some discomforts must be endured. He had learned that with this very woman years ago.

The duke's daughter required a word from the duke's hired employee. But not yet. A man should not enter into battle with a chest full of anger. Instead, he saddled his horse again and set out to cool off.

“D
OCTOR, YOU ARE
a sharp.” Lord Michaels slapped his cards onto the table and chortled. “How do you do it?”

Dr. Shaw gathered the baron's coins. “I am humbled by your praise, my lord.”

“Papa does not like to boast.” Libby offered a nod that was far too wise for a girl of fifteen.

“Stuff and nonsense, Miss Shaw! Lady Constance, tell this sawbones he shan't cozen me with talk of humility. If I am to lose, I prefer losing to an arrogant man. At least then I can imagine myself bested only in game rather than in character as well.”

“I won't tell him any such thing, my lord.” Constance lingered by the bookshelf, trailing her fingers across leather and gold bindings. Here she could partially face the door. The man she had attacked in a stable had disappeared, and despite the rain that had begun to fall with dusk, he had not returned for dinner. “Dr. Shaw is truly humble.”

Dr. Shaw pocketed his winnings. “Thank you, Lady Constance.”

As long as she could remember, he had been a frequent guest at the castle. With a handsome smile and a measured mind, he was just the sort of man she liked best: the sort that did not turn her inside out.

Years ago she had felt that sort of admiration for Jack Doreé, her intended from birth. With his boyish teasing and careless affection he had bruised her tender feelings any number of times when they were children. But he had never made her want to abandon everything proper and plunge into delirium. He had never made her feel any strong emotion at all—never until that morning a month before their wedding when he discovered her on a footbridge toe-to-toe with another man. Then she had felt shame deeper than Hades.

In the stable, Saint had barely touched her and the need she had taught herself to deny awoke into full, spectacular wantonness. Apparently she had in fact changed very little in six years.

“Lord Michaels, I should like to measure your cranium.” Libby scribbled in a small notebook. The manner in which she bent her golden head over her task was entirely reminiscent of the Duchess of Read. With the same guinea curls and pale blue eyes, Libby exactly resembled the portrait of Constance's mother as a girl that hung in her dressing room. Yet no one ever spoke of it.

“Whatever for, Miss Shaw?” Lord Michaels said.

“I am doing a study.”

“Ah, I see,” he said thoughtfully, then winked at Constance. “Are you studying men's heads only?”

“Women's too.” Libby dipped her pen into the inkpot. “When I was here at Christmastime I measured everybody in the castle and the village. I should like to add your measurements and Mr. Sterling's to my calculations.”

“Where
is
my cousin?” Lord Michaels looked toward the door. “I could win a pony off of him tonight and recoup my losses.”

“Does he lack talent in card games?”

“Rather, he lacks interest in games in general,” the baron said. “Except of course swordplay. Has he agreed to your father's proposal, my lady?”

“Not to my knowledge.”
Not likely.
Not after the stable.

“Terribly sorry he didn't show for dinner,” he said, frowning. “Too used to coming and going as he pleases, I suppose. But he's an unpredictable fellow at best. I've been thinking, and it occurs to me that if my cousin continues in his nonsensical obstinacy, I would be delighted to show you a fencing trick or two.”

“Are you also proficient with the sword?” Libby asked.

“I'm not nearly as fine a swordsman as my cousin. But no one is. Still, if Saint doesn't relent, I'll be happy to stay on for a bit and share my humble skills with you.”

“If you're not very good, I don't know why she would take you up on the offer,” Libby said.

“For courtesy's sake, Miss Shaw.” His smile broadened and he added sotto voice, “Ladies don't like to wound a gentleman's pride, what?”

“I am for bed,” Dr. Shaw said, rising. “I delivered twins before dawn this morning and am fading swiftly. Libby?”

His daughter rose too.

“I am dreadfully fatigued as well,” Eliza said, abruptly rousing from a sitting slumber. “Constance, come along.” She linked an arm through Constance's and they went out.

Before the tower, Constance released her. “I will say good night here, darling.”

Eliza grasped her elbow. “I shall accompany you to your bedchamber.”

“Thank you.” She tugged away. “But I do know the way.”

“Does the route you prefer require you to accidentally encounter any of your guests?”

“I have forgotten my book in the drawing room. Really, Eliza. You speak as though I could not have misbehaved in London all the many times you left me alone with men over the past five years. Why your particular concern now?”

“Because
he
is the only one you have wanted in all five of those years. Rather, six.”

Constance stared at her. “I thought you had forgotten.”

“You nonsensical girl. How could I have? Constance, I shall not mince words. I firmly believe that you will be better served if he leaves at once. Let us hope that then your father will turn his attention fully to your impending nuptials and forget his latest autocratic whimsy. Fencing lessons,
indeed
.”

“
Now
you think I should marry the duke? Because Father demands it?”

“Of course not. But removing to town will allow you to consider other suitors. If you choose a suitable gentleman, I suspect your father will not deny your wishes. Now go to bed, child.”

She watched Eliza disappear into her bedchamber then returned to the empty drawing room. Crossing to the sofa, she took up her book and heard a step behind her.

He wore the same breeches and coat from earlier, now sodden. They accented his lean frame and the breadth of
his shoulders, and his damp hair was swept away from his brow as though he had run his fingers through it. She wanted to do that—run her fingers through his hair. And then all over him.

He came directly to her and she thought he meant to grab her. But he halted just shy of her, surrounding her with the familiar scent of rainy Lothians nights that she loved.

“I thought you meant to depart without speaking to me,” she said.

“Earlier, in the stable, that was not well done of you.” Reflecting the firelight, his eyes were jewels. “I am not an object to be used at the whim of a coquette, then abandoned as swiftly. I am a person, with wishes of my own, and I haven't a fondness for being used like a slave.”

Her throat was tight. “Haven't you?”

He tilted his head, uncertain now.

“You were aroused,” she said.

“I would have had to be dead to be otherwise. But how an unwed woman of your status should know such a thing—”

“Come now. I am no longer a downy girl to be transported by a longing glance alone. My father has allowed me considerable liberty.”

He didn't like that; his eyes retreated. “Liberty?”

“Liberty to learn what I should not,” she finished more quietly than she intended. But her tongue would not obey her entirely, nor her lips that once had learned an innocent intimacy with his.

He stepped back from her. “Forgive me, madam, but I have no right to these confidences, nor interest in them.”

“And yet you began it. You must have heard the gossips' speculation about me.”

“I ceased seeking news of the inestimable Lady Constance Read five years ago when I was barred from her door.”

She found she could no longer look at him. “I was in mourning.”

“I knew the very hour you came out of mourning. From
an impatient yet respectful distance I had anticipated that moment for a year. But I would like to know now, finally, if it was by your order or another's that I was not permitted to call upon you then. Your father? The marquess?”

“They never knew.” The old shame pawed at her.

“I see.” He nodded, slowly. “But the past is done with. Over. Today's adventure, however, is another story. I have no complaint with a woman taking her pleasure where she will. In truth, I am flattered.” His eyes scanned her face. “But if you aim to accost a man, ask first. Or at least give him some warning. Then allow him the tender palm as well as the sharp claws.”

“Claws?”

He bent his head, so close that she felt the air stir upon her skin.

“I shouldn't have minded the teeth if you had offered the lips as well,” he murmured. “If I am to suffer pain, I would like to enjoy the pleasure too.”

She jolted back from him, and her cheeks became ghosts, her eyes like in the stable when she had been startled.

“What have I said?” He had expected raillery from her, more taunting, brazen flirtation—not shuttered fear.

She went around him and swiftly toward the door. “I will inform my father that you will depart tomorrow morning.”

Watching her walk away from him was its own unique blend of respite and torture.

“I will teach you.” His throat felt strangled. “I will teach you how to fight with a dagger.”

She pivoted around. “You will? Despite my claws?”

“I will.” This was a mistake. Only a day in her presence and he was again putting himself at her mercy.

“Why this change?”

Because the memories of his mother's body covered in bruises would never leave him. “A woman—all women should know how to defend themselves.”

Relief came into her eyes, tentative but sincere enough to clear away any doubt.

“You understand?” she said in a whisper.

“I think I do. But I have one condition.”

She was silent a moment. “I suppose I should have expected this, after what I did today.”

“What do you expect?”

Moving again to the door, she spoke without feeling. “If you are no slave to be used by a coquette, I am no prostitute to trade my body for your acquiescence. Good-bye, Mr. Sterling.”

Good God
. What had she been through?

“That isn't my condition,” he said.

She turned to him.

“I am willing to teach you upon the condition that Mrs. Josephs, my cousin, or a servant be present at all times.”

Her eyes widened. “A chaperone? Isn't it too late for that?”

Six years too late.

“I cannot be alone with you,” he said.

“You don't trust yourself.”

“I trust myself entirely. I don't trust you.” He went to her because it was too difficult to remain at a distance. “You are an unpredictable, complicated woman, Constance Read. But I needn't understand you to teach you what you wish to learn.”

“You disarm me,” she only said.

“Beginning tomorrow, I mean to do the opposite.”

“A pun now?” Her lips curved just a bit. “You aren't truly angry with me, about earlier, are you?”

“Admittedly, I am ambivalent. It was the best time I have ever had in a stable, after all.”

Her cheeks were pink and the light had returned to her eyes.

“After you breakfast,” he said, “meet me in the hall.”

“The hall? But—”

“Here is your first lesson: a student does not ask impertinent questions of her teacher.”

“Then I'm certain I meant to say yes, of course, Master
Sterling, tomorrow after breakfast in the hall. Shall I hang my head now like a chastened schoolboy?”

“Yes.” He allowed himself a smile. “If you know how to.”

She curtsied, pressed her book against her midriff, and went to the door. There she paused.

“I mean to become invincible, you know,” she said.

“You will.” Even if it killed him.