Seven Nights In A Rogue's Bed. Anna Campbell
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The girl—Miss Forsythe, Sidonie—stared back without shying away. “Yes, she is. You don’t understand.”
“I daresay I don’t.” If the wench was determined to rush to perdition, who was he to argue? Especially as she smelled agreeably of rain and a faint evocative hint of woman. When he slid the cape from her shoulders and let it fall in a sodden heap, he revealed a body pleasingly curved to fit his hands.
She gasped as the garment slipped, then stood quivering. Her jaw set with truculent determination. “I’m ready.”
“I doubt you are, bella.” He paid closer attention to her clothing and spoke with genuine horror. “What on earth have you got on?”
The look she shot him indicated virulent dislike. “What’s wrong with it?”
He cast a disapproving glance over the ruffled white muslin, too young for her, too light for the wretched night, too unfashionable, too…everything. “Nothing, if you’re dressing to play the virgin sacrifice.”
“Why not?” she said with a revival of spirit. “I am a virgin.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. Which begs the question why you’re presenting me with your maidenhead instead of letting your fool sister clean up her own mess.”
“You’re offensive, sir.”
He muffled a laugh. She proved more amusing than Roberta. At the very least, Roberta would have treated him to a display of hysterics by now. He couldn’t picture this grave goddess resorting to such dramatics. Perhaps this was his lucky night after all. His lurking frustration at Roberta’s maneuvers, fading under the influence of this lovely girl’s defiance, vanished. Trapping Roberta had been no great challenge, however satisfying the prospect of swiving his loathed cousin’s wife. Seducing Sidonie Forsythe promised fine sport indeed.
“It’s my best dress,” Miss Forsythe said huffily.
He subjected the limp frill at her décolletage to a derisive flick. “Perhaps when you were fifteen.” His gaze sharpened. “Just how old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” she muttered. “How old are you?”
“Too old for you.” At thirty-two, perhaps he wasn’t too old in years but he was a million years too old in experience. And he hadn’t spent those million years wisely.
Sudden hope lit her expression. “Does that mean you’ll let me go?”
This time he laughed openly. “Not on your life.”
Her spiking fear might send her scarpering. He curled one hand around her shoulder, bare under her flimsy bodice. At the contact, something inexplicable arced between them. When startled pansy eyes shot up to meet his, he tumbled headlong into soft brown. She trembled as his hold gentled to shape the graceful curve of bone and sinew.
“What are you waiting for?” she forced through stiff lips.
He should be horsewhipped for tormenting her, but still curiosity was paramount. He raised his other hand to her jaw, angling her face. This close, he could make out each individual eyelash and the gold striations in her rich irises. Her nostrils flared as though she took in his scent just as he took in hers.
Or perhaps she was so frightened, she struggled to breathe.
“The question is whether debauching my enemy’s sister-in-law has quite the same cachet as debauching my enemy’s wife,” he murmured.
“You bastard,” she hissed, her breath warm across his face.
He smiled as dread lit her eyes. “Precisely, belladonna.”
Slowly he bent to place his mouth on hers. Her rain-fresh scent flooded his senses, made him giddy with anticipation. She didn’t move away and her lips remained sealed, but the satiny warmth intoxicated him.
He slid his lips against hers in what was more the hint of a kiss than an actual kiss. Even as arousal pounded through him, insisting that he take her, that she was here to be taken, he kept the contact light, teasing. Nor did he tighten his grip on her shoulder to keep her under his mouth. The agony of suspense bordered on the delicious as he waited for her to wrench free, to curse him for a scoundrel. But she remained still as a china figurine. Except the subtle heat under his lips belonged to a woman, not unresponsive porcelain.
Before more than a second passed, he raised his head. Astounding how reluctant he was to end the unsatisfying kiss. He dragged in an unsteady breath and struggled against the powerful urge to kiss her properly. There mightn’t be much cachet in fucking Lord Hillbrook’s sister-in-law, but he had a grim feeling that wouldn’t stop him.
Her eyes were wide and dark with shock. Because he’d kissed her? Or because for a fleeting instant, she might have enjoyed it?
“Why the hesitation?” Her tone was raw. “Get it over with.”
He tapped her cheek with a chiding index finger. “I haven’t had my dinner yet,” he said mildly and released her.
She staggered but found her balance with impressive speed. Breath escaped her parted lips in unsteady gasps. He preferred her outrage to her vulnerability. Against his will, her vulnerability ate at his ruthlessness like rust on iron. “Won’t you join me?”
She regarded him with well-deserved hatred. “I’m not hungry.”
“Pity. You’ll need your strength later.”
He let that sink in while he sat and rang the bell. Mrs. Bevan appeared with astonishing speed. She’d probably been listening at the door. Entertainment at Castle Craven was so lacking, he hardly blamed her.
“You may serve dinner, Mrs. Bevan,” he said with a cheerfulness that earned him a puzzled glance from his housekeeper.
“Aye, maister. And for yon lady?”
Miss Forsythe remained standing where she had when he’d kissed her. She was back to looking like a marble statue, but now that he’d touched her, he knew she was flesh and blood, all right.
“Two?”
The girl didn’t react. Good Lord, had that kiss silenced her clever tongue? He hoped to coax her into using it again. Not for idle conversation.
He addressed Mrs. Bevan. “No, for one. Please show the lady to her room. Mr. Bevan can serve my meal.”
“Aye, maister.” The woman shuffled out and after a brief hesitation, the girl collected her meager luggage and followed.
Jonas wished he could be there when Miss Forsythe discovered that in this ramshackle pile, her room also served as his.
In the elaborate four-poster bed, Sidonie huddled under the covers. Outside, the gale tore at the castle walls. Its roar made her feel even more defenseless. Fear had hounded her since Roberta had come to her at Barstowe Hall two days ago and begged for help. Fear cramped her stomach and lodged like a boulder in her throat. Fear tasted foul in her mouth.
Second thoughts came too late. Whatever Merrick did to Sidonie couldn’t compare to the consequences if William discovered his wife had shared his enemy’s bed. Roberta’s recklessness had placed them all in jeopardy. Sidonie. Roberta. Roberta’s two children, Nicholas and Thomas. But how could Sidonie maintain her anger? Roberta had been more mother than sister when the two Forsythe girls had lived under their parents’ negligent regime. Then Roberta had exchanged her father’s cold, sarcastic tyranny for her husband’s cruelty. Over eight years of marriage, Roberta had changed from a vivacious, affectionate girl into a nervy shadow. The only time Sidonie glimpsed a trace of Roberta’s former gaiety was if she won at the gaming tables.
When