Rogue Countess (39 page)

Jude released the top few buttons of her shirt and pulled the edges back over the curve of her shoulders so he could admire how the necklace rested on the upper swells of her breasts.

His gaze lifted to meet hers and she nearly sighed as delicate spears of desire flew unheeded through her blood. He smiled knowingly with a masculine twist of his lips that may have irritated her in its arrogance if not for the fact that it told her what was to come next. As his fingers released the rest of the buttons that ran down the length of the shirt, she leaned forward to press her lips to his bare shoulder.

Jude pushed the shirt down her arms until she was naked in his lap. Her stomach fluttered with anticipation when he gently laid her back on the bed and rose over her to align his body atop hers. His hips settled snuggly between her parted thighs and heat infused her flesh as the hot silken length of him slid along the seam of her moistened sex.

She arched her back beneath him and her eyelashes fluttered as her senses tuned in to shifting movements of his body and the steady rhythm of his heart beating against hers. He dropped a soft kiss on her collarbone just above the double strand of pearls.

“I suppose we will have to find another way to amuse the gossips,” he suggested, “since they will no longer have our estrangement to speculate over.”

Anna gasped when he pressed another kiss on her skin, this time to her sternum, below the largest of the three sapphires.

“We could always fade out of sight and force them to find someone else to talk about,” Anna suggested.

Shivers coursed over her skin and quiet little licks of pleasure spread out from where the smooth tip of his erection pushed into her ready sheath.

“Not a chance,” he argued as the full length of him came to rest inside her and he started the rhythm of retreat and advance. “I want the world to know of my victory.”

Anna was fast losing touch with her power of speech. The pleasure triggered by the deep and deliberate strokes of Jude’s hardened flesh within her body intensified with every wonderful thrust of his hips. But she simply couldn’t let his last comment go without rebuttal.

“You’re mistaken,” she whispered between fitful gasps. “You didn’t get your annulment. You lost.”

The breath of Jude’s throaty moan was warm across the crest of Anna’s breast, nearly sending her into ecstasy.

“I won,” he insisted. “And to the victor go the spoils,” he murmured and then closed his mouth over her nipple, pulling long and hard on the sensitive peak.

It was all she needed to lose her last remaining coherent thought. She willingly succumbed to the luxurious pulse of racing pleasure, no longer caring that he had managed to claim the last word after all.

About the Author

Amy’s love of romance began one summer when she was thirteen and complained of boredom. She ended up with one of her mother’s Barbara Cartland books and an obsessive interest that expanded from there. Her affinity for writing began with sappy pre-teen poems and led to a Bachelor’s degree with an emphasis on creative writing from the University of Minnesota—Twin Cities.

She writes in the early mornings while her young kids are still asleep and dreams of a future when she can write all day instead of going to her “other” job. In the evenings, Amy is a full-time wife and mother who enjoys pizza, wine and dark brooding heroes—namely, her husband.

Follow Amy’s tweets at
www.twitter.com/AmySandas
or visit her blog
amysandas.wordpress.com
.

Her heart longs for justice, but her body clamors for sin.

The Runaway Countess

© 2012 Leigh LaValle

Once the darling of high society, Mazie Chetwyn knows firsthand how quickly the rich and powerful turn their backs on the less fortunate. Orphaned, penniless and determined to defy their ruthless whims, she joins forces with a local highwayman who steals from the rich to give to the poor.

Then the pawn broker snitches, and Mazie is captured by the Lord Lieutenant of Nottinghamshire. A man who is far too handsome, far too observant…and surely as corrupt as his father once was.

Sensible, rule-driven Trent Carthwick, twelfth Earl of Radford, is certain the threat of the gallows will prompt the villagers’ beloved
Angel of Kindness
to reveal the highwayman’s identity. But his bewitching captive volunteers nothing—except a sultry, bewildering kiss.

And so the games begin. Trent feints, Mazie parries. He threatens, she pretends nonchalance. He cajoles, she rebuffs. Thwarted at every turn, Trent probes deep into her one vulnerability—her past. There he finds the leverage he needs and a searing truth that challenges all he believes about right and wrong.

Warning: The delicious, if left-brained, hero might forever change all you think you know about the Robin Hood legend. Contains razor-sharp wordplay, skinny dipping and tortured hearts.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Runaway Countess:

Meek. She would play meek.

She would absorb all his barbed anger and give him nothing to fight against. She would be honey and molasses, everything sweet and slow.

A lock scraped open and Radford filled the doorway, all broad shoulders and dark mood. He brought the mud and rain with him on his clothes.

From the corner of her vision, Mazie watched him step into her room and close the door. He studied her for a long moment. “Miss Mazie, I presume.”

She let her feet shift nervously on the floor but did not move her eyes. “Yes, my lord.”

He walked closer. His muddied boots reached up to his knees and gave way to powerful thighs. He was strong, of a physical nature. “I’ve been dragged all the way from London for this unfortunate bit of business.” Low and firm, his voice played across her nerves like drums before a battle. “My magistrate Harrington tells me you have refused to assist our investigation into the Midnight Rider.”

She lifted her chin and looked up at him, let her expression be round and guileless. She was everything worried and intimidated.

His frown cut deep groves into his otherwise handsome face. The years had changed him, enough that she wouldn’t have recognized him passing by on the street. Gone was the distracted young man she remembered, replaced by sharp angles, dark hollows and glittering grey eyes entirely too piercing for her comfort. His damp hair—almost black in the wan light—let go of a drop of rain. He swiped it away with a rough hand. “It is unfortunate that your reticence is my inconvenience, Miss Mazie.”

He had come to drag the information from her. Of course he had. She had to wonder at the tactics he would use, how far he would push. She slumped in her chair, giving the impression that he need not try hard at all. “I do not wish to be difficult, my lord.”

He circled her chair and his muddy boots brushed her skirts. It did not matter. Her dress had been ruined days ago.

“The highwayman will be hanged for acts of treason.” He stopped behind her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She should have known better than to leave the chair in the middle of the room. “You do understand the danger you are in?”

“Yes.” She whispered the word. It was not hard to fake her fear.

Radford did not say anything more. He would wait to see what she did next, give her space to expose something about herself.

She played into his hands. Stood, as if uncomfortable with him behind her—which she was—and smoothed her sweating palms over her coarse black skirts.

He reached across the chair. “What’s this?”

Touch. He was touching her face. Rage jolted to her fingertips. She almost betrayed herself by lashing out.
Not now, Mazie. Wait.
Digging her fingernails into her palms, she let him turn her face to the window and examine the bruise on her cheek and cut on her lip.

“Who hit you?” he demanded.

She did not reply. She wouldn’t be able to say anything without revealing the depth of her fury. Harrington would pay for his cruelty, not only to her but to others in the village. For now, she concentrated on being fluid like melting snow, and not the blaze of fire she wanted to be.

Radford’s grey eyes scrutinized her. The hot stroke of his attention was everywhere on her skin, from her face down to her bare feet. She would not let herself worry. He would not recognize her. Placing her in that very different context—the context of her past life—would make matters even worse. She would push the thought aside.

She shifted her gaze to the slide of raindrops down the windowpane. Radford smelled of the rain, she noticed. The out-of-doors clung to his skin, as did the sweet scent of wet horse and wet wool. And something else, the musk only a man has after a day of physical exertion.

“You have the look of a Frenchwoman.” Still, he touched her. Held her face in his hand. “Where are you from?”

“I was born in England.” She modulated her words to be perfect, sloppy English. Nothing of her maman and her delicious French accent remained.

Finally, he let go of her chin. He paced to the door and she thought he might leave, but he simply opened it and instructed the footman to go to the kitchens and fetch a salve for her cut.

That, she had not expected.

Whether it was a kindness or a strategy on his part, she did not care. His misjudgment would be her gain. In three days, never had her door been without an armed guard. Radford exposed himself in a dangerous way—one she would take advantage of.

He turned back to her, his face set in hard edges—square jaw, sharp cheekbones and slash of brow. Yes, he looked different than she remembered. His handsomeness had power behind it now. “My dear woman, you will fare much worse in prison. Tell me what I want to know and perhaps I could be persuaded to view your crimes with leniency.”

“I-I,”
Meek, Mazie. Softer
. She lowered her voice. “I would like to assist your investigation, my lord.”

“A wise choice. I am glad we shall play this out the easy way.” He leaned back against the wall, his eyes narrowed on her. She knew what he was thinking, his wariness spoke volumes. Harrington would have told him she was a hellion, “all spit and fire” he’d called her. And she was. That Radford watched her with such consideration heartened her. She must be playing her role well.

“The hard way is much more unpleasant,” he warned.

“I regret my earlier defiance against Mr. Harrington, and I…I thank you for offering me protection. He explained it was your choice to hold me here rather than at Radford gaol.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and hunched her shoulders. Inside, she was fair to bursting with anticipation.

She had but one chance. She must play it out to perfection.

A knock sounded and Radford opened the door, took the salve.

“I am desperately hungry.” Her voice shook with nerves. He would assume it was fear. “And some tea.”

Radford paused for a moment, and she feared he would refuse.

“Something to eat for the woman.” He closed the door, walked across the small room and offered her the jar of salve. “For your lip.”

He motioned for her to take it, and she flinched as if frightened.

“I won’t bite,” he said on a long breath.

Mazie stepped forward and took the jar from his hand. Her fingers brushed his palm, such a large and warm hand. It would make a heavy fist.

Don’t think on it.

The salve smelled of calendula and comfrey, and she smoothed some on her lip. Radford watched her as she gently dabbed the bruise and cut at the corner of her mouth.

She was close enough now. She would hit him once, as Roane had taught her. A strong, flat hand to the underside of his jaw, hard enough to stun him, incapacitate him.

His head would snap back. Maybe it would hit the wall. Maybe it would make a sound. She should be prepared for such unpleasantness.

Her heartbeat thundered. She needed to stop thinking and just do it already. She lowered her hand and his eyes jerked to hers, gauging her.

He was too alert, and she was too nervous. She must stop trembling. She must distract him. She must remember he would hang her. He would hang Roane.

Mazie slid her finger over her lower lip as she had seen the barmaids do. She had no idea if her gaoler would be so easily diverted. But, well, he was a
man
.

She watched Lord Radford watch her. A lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead and made him appear much more innocent than he was.

His dipped his gaze to her lips again. Now. It was time to act now, before the footman returned. She stepped back and half-turned away. Her chin dropped down, shy. She hoped she looked coy. She was not much of a flirt, had never had cause to be one. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d been kissed.

The best liars were not actors. One had to believe in their story. Mazie peeked up at her captor, pushed aside her fear and studied him as a man. A very fine man. Dark hair, grey eyes and a face worthy of marble. He was a head taller than she, his shoulders broad and thick with muscle. If it came to a battle of might… She ignored the thought and slid her eyes over him, sought something innocuous to admire. A broad chest and flat belly. Long fingers and an uncanny ability to remain still.