Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed (42 page)

“Don’t I just?” She cradled his dear, scarred face between her palms. He tried to break free, but she didn’t release him. “Kiss me, Jonas.”

“No.” He raised his hands to remove her from his path but at the last minute didn’t touch her.

Her smile broadened, although her heart ached for him. Her betrayals were only the most recent of hundreds of betrayals, large and small, starting with his father, that had taught him to mistrust love, hope, and happiness.

She meant to teach him otherwise.

Thank God and every angel who offered sinners a second chance, she had an inkling she’d get her opportunity. No matter how he fought. No matter how near she’d come to letting him dismiss her. “Then I’ll kiss you.”

She stepped so near, her breasts skimmed his chest. Immediately her nipples puckered and her blood swirled with need. She ignored the siren call of pleasure. This battle wasn’t about desire. Desire they’d always had. This battle was about trust which needed time to build. A lifetime.

She could hardly wait.

He was still shaking and the hand holding the ring dropped to his side. His other hand splayed against the white wall behind him. He could easily push her away but he didn’t.

Holding his poor, disfigured face, she rose on her toes to press her lips to his. His mouth remained unmoving. The skin beneath her hands burned as if a flame devoured him from inside.

She wasn’t discouraged. She’d been taught seduction by a master. And she’d always been stubborn. Poor Jonas was about to embark on married life with a difficult woman. She smiled against his mouth and kissed him again, nipping lightly, tracing the seam with her tongue.

Still he didn’t relent.

Nor did she. She could kiss him like this all night, she thought dreamily, warmth seeping through her for the first time in months.

“Leave me alone,” he muttered, pulling a few inches away.

“Never.”

“I can’t trust you.”

“Yes, you can.” She stared into his eyes, hoping he could see her eternal, steadfast love, a love that would never let him down.

“How the hell do I know that?” he asked savagely.

“Look in your heart, Jonas. Your heart knows the truth but you have to trust yourself first.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “You have to trust yourself as I trust you. Forever.”

His expression remained forbidding. But she wasn’t giving up. She fought for her life here. And his.

She leaned in to kiss him again. He placed his left hand on her waist. It tightened and she braced for rejection.

For the space of a breath, the world stopped turning.

Almost imperceptibly his touch curled into a caress. The pressure changed from pushing her away to pulling
her forward. He made another sound deep in his throat. This time it sounded like delight.

Finally the stern mouth relaxed, then parted so her tongue flicked into the interior. “Damned witch,” he groaned in surrender.

“Oh, Jonas,” she whispered and yielded to his kiss as he sagged against the wall and dragged her into his body. Under her hands, his cheeks were wet and she’d long ago given up any attempt to stop her tears.

He kissed her endlessly. He kissed her as though he never wanted to let her go. He kissed her as though he loved her more than his life was worth.

Slowly, still kissing, they sank to the Turkish rug. Eventually he pulled away. He grabbed her left hand with a roughness born of extremity and shoved the ruby ring back on her finger so clumsily that he bruised her. She didn’t mind. The unashamed need in his silvery eyes flooded her heart with love.

“Stay,
bella
,” he choked out.

“Always, my love.”

Merrick House, London, August 1827

L
amplight glowed soft and golden on the woman sitting up in the bed. Jonas stepped quietly into the room, his eyes on Sidonie and the child she cradled so tenderly to her breast.

She smiled at him, the beautiful smile that always made him feel like a king and not a scarred disaster. He didn’t care what the rest of the world thought. Sidonie loved him. Now, he prayed, he had a daughter to love him, too. Because he loved both of them more than he could ever say.

“Jonas, come and see. She’s perfect.”

He’d ventured in earlier after an excruciating day of waiting downstairs. His wife had been tired and drawn but happy. The baby had been small and black-haired and inclined to scream. The nurse had chased him out,
insisting she needed to prepare Lady Hillbrook before she saw her husband.

Good thing he was used to difficult women.

As he looked down into his daughter’s tiny face, he knew that here was another stubborn female to trouble his peace. The baby yawned without opening her eyes and settled to sleep. Jonas’s heart lurched with an astonishingly powerful tug of love. He’d protect this child as long as he lived.

“You’re both beautiful.” When he leaned down to kiss his wife, Sidonie stroked his scarred cheek. The caress had become so familiar, he hardly noticed it anymore, although the first time she’d touched his scars without revulsion it had moved him so deeply, it nigh broke his heart.

“You’ve had a terrible day, haven’t you?”

He laughed softly and turned his head to kiss her hand. The ruby signet ring glinted in the lamplight. The sight of his ring on her hand always filled him with satisfaction. She was his heart’s blood after all. “I suspect yours was worse.”

“I’m not sure.” She spoke quietly so as not to wake the baby. “At least I was busy.”

“You were at that.” He looked down at his daughter again. “With good purpose.”

“I’m rather proud of myself.”

Jonas kissed her again. “So you should be. She’s quite the masterpiece.” His voice lowered. “I love you, Sidonie.”

She stared at him, her eyes glowing. “I love you, Jonas.” She blinked. “Curse these tears. I hoped once I had the baby, I wouldn’t be such a watering pot.”

Very carefully, Jonas perched on the edge of the mattress, never shifting his gaze from his wife and child. Who would think he’d turn into a family man? Who would think love could transform a life as barren as his?
Sidonie had created a miracle when she arrived in his life—turned a desert into a lushly flowering oasis. He’d never been so happy as he’d been since she’d forced her way into his house last February and fought for her love.

He thanked God every day for difficult women.

“Have you thought about names?”

She contemplated the baby with a tenderness that made him ache. “Of course. Haven’t you?” Her eyes glinted with teasing humor as she looked up. “Richarda? Camdenette?”

“No.” Although among the rich threads in this new life was the privilege of calling fine men like Camden Rothermere and Richard Harmsworth his friends. “And not Roberta.”

When it became apparent that Roberta’s offer to stay and care for Sidonie during her pregnancy translated into a return to the gaming tables, Jonas had denied her room in Merrick House. Roberta had retired in high dudgeon to her villa in Richmond, where apparently she now dazzled a rich merchant. Over the last months, she and Sidonie had re-established a frail connection that he hoped, for his wife’s sake, would strengthen over the years. As far as he was concerned, he and Roberta would never be friends, but he wished her well. As long as she didn’t intrude into his life, he was happy to let her go to hell her own way.

Sidonie muffled a huff of laughter. “Not Roberta.” She paused and her expression sobered. “I thought we’d call her Consuela after your mother.”

The breath wedged in his throat. One by one, Sidonie healed his old injuries. Now she healed another. He tried to smile but was too moved to succeed. “That’s… that’s perfect,
bella
.”

Little Derrick, Oxfordshire, September 1827

D
amnation!”

A loud thud followed by a low masculine curse stirred Genevieve from deep sleep. Even then she needed a few seconds to realize she was slumped over her work table in the vicarage library, her candles had gone out, and the only light in the room was the dying fire. By that low glow, she watched a dark shape below the windowsill lengthen and rise until she recognized a man’s form blocking faint starlight from outside.

Choking fear held her motionless. Fear and outrage. How dare anyone break into her home? It felt like a personal affront. Her father was out, dining with the Duke of Sedgemoor at his local estate. She’d been invited too but she’d wanted to stay and work on her latest article. The servants were away for the evening.

The man at the window remained still, as if confirming that the room was empty before he started his nefarious activities. The charged silence extended. Then she saw the tension ease from his long, lean body and he stepped across to the fire. From her dark corner, Genevieve watched him bend over the coals to light a candle.

Blast his impudence, he’d soon learn he wasn’t alone.

Quickly her hand slipped down to the desk’s second drawer and tugged it out, not bothering to mask the noise as she reached for what lay hidden inside. The candle flared into life, he turned his head sharply in her direction. Genevieve lurched to her feet. As she stepped toward him on shaky legs, she forced a confidence she didn’t feel into her voice. “You’ll find nothing worth stealing in this house. I suggest you leave. Immediately.”

Instead of reacting with the horrified dismay she desired, the man took his time straightening. He raised his candle to illuminate Genevieve where she stood beside the desk. His face was mostly covered with a black silk mask such as people wore to masquerade balls. Not that she had any experience of such events. “You’re dashed well protected if there truly is nothing worth stealing.”

Her hand steady, she raised the gun. “We live on the edge of the village, as you no doubt noted when you chose this house for your depredations.” A horrible thought struck her and she waved the pistol at him. “Are you armed?”

He stiffened with apparent shock, as though the question offended him As if to demonstrate his lack of violent intentions, he spread his hands wide. “Of course not, dear lady.”

This rapscallion was a most bizarre burglar. Her knowledge of the criminal classes was limited, but this
man’s easy assurance in her company struck her as remarkable. He spoke like a gentleman and didn’t seem particularly concerned that she pointed a weapon at him. Her lips tightened and she firmed her grip on the pistol. Nerves made her hands slippery. “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. In your line of work, you must be prepared for opposition from your victims.”

“I make sure the house is empty before I start work.”

“Like tonight,” she said coldly.

He shrugged. “Even master criminals make the occasional mistake, Miss Barrett.”

Her belly lurched with dread and this time not even her strongest efforts kept her voice steady. “How do you know my name?”

The lips she could see below the mask twitched and he stepped closer.

“Stay back!” she snapped. Her heart banged so hard against her ribs, surely he must hear it.

Ignoring her pistol with insulting ease, he lifted the candle higher and subjected her to a lengthy and unnerving inspection. Genevieve’s sense of unreality grew. Everything around her was familiar. The shabby comfort of her favorite room. The jumble of articles spread across the desk. The pile of pages covered in her writing. All was as it should be, except for the tall masked man with his indefinable air of elegance and his smile of indulgent amusement. She had an irritating inkling that the reprobate played with her.

Sucking in a shaky breath, she made herself study him as she would one of her artifacts. Although with his face covered, she’d never be able to describe him to the authorities. The candlelight glinted on rich gold hair and
found fascinating shadows under the open neck of his loose white shirt. He wore breeches and boots. Despite this basic clothing, his manner screamed rank and privilege. And while she couldn’t see his face, something about the way he carried himself indicated he was a handsome man.