The Rogue and the Rival (12 page)

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Authors: Maya Rodale

BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
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Phillip
had lied. He did care very much. This new discovery of this new feeling, caring, was so absolutely terrifying that he couldn’t recall ever being so struck dumb with fear in his entire life—including the moment when he sat still and tall in the saddle, waiting for them to take their shot.
He cared, and she knew it.
Instinct urged him to flee. With his injuries, that was not an option.
And so he kissed her instead. Because a kiss would make her stop talking and make her stop putting into words truths that he didn’t want to know. A kiss would put a stop to the fear and would put a stop to his thoughts. He didn’t want to think, and he didn’t want to be afraid, and he didn’t want to care.
And so he kissed her, hoping that it would make her hate him so that it wouldn’t matter if he cared or not.
Phillip had never been struck by lightning before, but he imagined that it might feel something like this. The second their lips touched, he felt a hot, sharp sting rocketing through him, followed by an intense surge of heat and energy and the sensation of every nerve in his body vibrating.
Inflamed
was such an inadequate word to describe the fire he was feeling. It was a fire so roaring, so uncontainable, that there was nothing to do but let it burn.
Still, he tried to control it. He struggled not to completely consume her, because God knew he wanted to, and because she was right. He didn’t want to hurt her.
His lips parted, as did hers. He slid inside, and she did the same. To taste her, to be inside her, was like adding gunpowder to that fire that was burning him up. A blinding, deafening explosion. The kiss deepened. Phillip gave himself up for lost. But if he was going to be burned alive by this kiss, then he was going to take her down with him.
She did not resist. Not in the slightest.
He cupped her cheeks in his hands—God, her skin was soft—because he needed to hold on to something. He needed an anchor, because he was starting to feel lost and adrift. And if he was going to feel lost and adrift, then she would have to go with him. Angela placed her hand on his chest, right above his heart, which was beating double time. Her hand slid higher to rest at the nape of his neck. She pulled him closer. Another explosion.
And then oblivion. Sweet, sweet, pure oblivion. No thoughts at all. There was no past and no future, just pure bliss in this moment.
It could have been an hour, or it could have been a minute, Phillip knew not. He just knew that it was not long enough.
Angela murmured his name, once, twice. It took him a second or two to recognize it.
Reluctantly, he pulled back so that she could speak.
“We . . . I . . .” she stammered and then gave up trying to form words and just looked at him, wide-eyed and wondering. Words were beyond him, too. So Phillip just nodded to say,
Yes, me, too. I can’t speak because I can’t think of anything but kissing you again.
He leaned in toward her, because the idea of kissing her again had taken hold and refused to go away. Not that he wanted it to.
He stopped inches from her mouth; she placed her finger over his lips.
“I must go now,” she whispered. “I must go,” she said again as she stood. The cards that had been resting on her lap fell to the floor. “I can’t stay here anymore.”
She hurried out of the room without another word, and Phillip blew out the candle burning on the bedside table and reclined back on the bed.
Phillip closed his eyes, and all he could think was that she was going to hate him in the morning, all because of that kiss. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it, but he questioned it and himself. What if he had waited a little longer? What if he had never pressed his mouth to hers at all? What if she didn’t hate him in the morning after all?
Why the hell did he have to give a damn? Why here, why now, and why her?
Phillip opened his eyes, but it was so dark that he might have just kept them closed. He could see nothing. But he continued to lie on his back, eyes open, staring up at a ceiling he couldn’t see.
He had never had a kiss like that one before. And that made him think of Esme. She had no last name that anyone knew of, which didn’t matter. All she needed was one name: Esme. She was a Parisian courtesan and reputed to be the best lover on the Continent.
Phillip had not been in Paris long before he heard of her. He had been there for three weeks before he had seen her. Three months passed before she agreed to take him as a lover.
“I don’t care for bad lovemaking,” she announced to him after he had been shown into her bedroom. She was reclining on her large feather bed, dressed in some silky, lacy thing that seemed very easy to remove. Esme indicated that he should join her on the bed, and Phillip did not need much persuasion. She spoke with such a mixture of accents, it was impossible to discern her origins. Not that Phillip cared about her past at the moment. He was going to bed the best lover on the Continent.
“Do you agree?” she asked.
“Of course. Whatever you say,” he answered. Phillip knew that agreeing with whatever a woman said was the quickest way to get under the sheets with her.
“Exactly,” she answered with a proud smile on her rouged lips. “Some men, they do not listen to what a woman says, and that is bad. Sometimes, she does not speak with words. But still, you must learn to listen, and to give her what she wants. And then, Phillip, she will give you want you want.”
He didn’t understand, at first, how that made for a better romp in the sheets. But she was a legend, so he assumed that she knew what she was talking about. He wished they could stop talking, though.
“What do you want?” he asked, forgetting to make his voice husky and seductive.
“I want you to kiss me.”
He did. It lasted a second before she stopped him. “
Non.
A woman knows within seconds of seeing a man if she would take him to be her lover. A kiss, however, can change her mind. You, your kiss is too strong, too fast.”
“It’s just a kiss.”
“No, it is more. You kiss to dominate, to conquer, to obliterate an obstacle in your way. I am not a locked door you must break though; I am the key that will open that door. You must think of kissing as coaxing, convincing, seducing a woman to surrender. You must imagine, with every kiss, with every touch, that it is all you will ever have. Now kiss me again.”
He did. Esme taught him how to kiss that night. Every night for a week, she taught him a great many things, too. She certainly delivered on her reputation as the best lover in all of Europe. All of Esme’s teachings had done nothing to prepare him for this. And even Esme could not compare to Angela’s kiss.
And as he thought about it, comparing the kisses was like trying to compare the Sistine Chapel to a drawing done in the dirt with a stick.
But Angela had cut the kiss short, Angela had stopped, and Angela had fled.
Had he done something wrong? He hadn’t been able to think at all during that kiss, and maybe he forgot all the things he had learned from Esme. What if it had not been good for Angela? God knew that woman needed to be thoroughly and completely kissed. She needed to be reminded of what she was giving up with that vow of chastity.
 
Though Angela sat in the first pew of the chapel, facing the statue of mother and child, she did not draw it tonight. Her sketchbook was open on her lap, and her pencil lay idle as she looked at the drawing she had started recently.
It was just a rough sketch of bold lines and no shadows, depicting Phillip in the bath. She had outlined his broad shoulders and his back. She had drawn the line of his profile. (She was getting to know that broken nose of his quite well now.) His hair was slicked back. His mouth was held in the slightest smile. She had somehow managed to make him appear wicked and inviting all at once.
Or perhaps she had just managed to draw him exactly as he was.
“There you are,” a voice said, and Angela shut her book and turned to see Helena.
“Right where I always am,” Angela said.
Helena sat in the pew beside her.
“Sometimes I wonder at how much time we spend in this chapel,” Angela said. “All the hours of one’s life in this one room, when there is a whole world just outside.”
“And yet we don’t really tire of it,” Helena added.
“Do you miss it, Helena? Your life before . . .”
“The life of a soldier’s wife? Not really. Sometimes I miss John, though, even though he left me.” John was Helena’s husband, who had died at war on the Continent. She so rarely spoke of him, and when she did, Angela was never sure of what to say. So she simply placed her hand on Helena’s and kept silent.
“I confess,” Helena started, “it does feel different here with Lord Invalid. Having a man around and all.”
Angela laughed, and the sound echoed throughout the room. “Yes.”
“Is he still so awful?”
“No,” she answered, ducking her head so that Helena might not see her smile. That kiss had been the opposite of awful.
“Be careful, Angela. Men always hurt us in the end. But you already know that.”
Angela did indeed know that, as sure as she knew her own name. But at the moment, with Phillip’s kiss still burning on her lips, the pleasure a man could give a woman was far more vivid, visceral, and real than some foggy notion of eventual hurt.

 

Chapter 7
Contrary
to all expectations, Angela was not racked with self-loathing after that kiss. Troubling as it may be, she did not hate Phillip because of it. And how could she feel guilty when she felt so . . . giddy?
There was nothing, she thought with a sigh, like a first kiss, even if it was one’s second first kiss. Angela was beyond pleased to have discovered this. That she had now experienced two first kisses, when she probably should have only had one, if any, did not dishearten her. She just felt lucky.
But it would be her last first kiss, she vowed. It had to be, because she wasn’t going to leave the abbey, and Phillip certainly couldn’t stay. Angela might be sad about that later, but at this moment, she was just too happy. Because there was nothing like a first kiss, and nothing in the world like a perfect first kiss that made a girl feel hopeful and more alive than ever.
Thus were her thoughts the following morning as she knelt in the chapel, along with the other nuns, with her head bowed and her hands folded in prayer, until the sound of a door slamming open gave her reason to lift her head and turn around.
Phillip leaned in the doorway to the chapel. There was a collective gasp from all the sisters and, a moment later, a collective exhale when it seemed that the chapel would not burst into flames or collapse upon them because a man, a very bad man, had entered.
The abbess, who had been leading the prayer, paused briefly and then returned to her task. She was going to ignore Phillip. A few other women did so, too, while others merely pretended to. Angela watched openly as he limped, slightly, down the aisle. He paused when he came to her pew, inconveniencing Helena, who merely arched one of her dark eyebrows at him as he shuffled past. Penelope, however, stared at him with wide eyes. There was the faintest blush on her cheeks when she moved aside so that Phillip could sit between her and Angela.
Angela was mortified. She thought of the advice not to feed stray dogs, for then they followed one everywhere. Twice now Phillip had sought her out.
Secretly, she was pleased. Just a little bit.
Phillip sat on the pew beside her. After a moment, he spoke to her in a whisper.
“Hasn’t anyone here heard of upholstery? These seats are deuced uncomfortable.”
“They’re not supposed to be comfortable.”
“Like those dresses of yours? I should like to see you in silks or satin. Or, really, I’d like to take some silk or satin dress off of you.”
“Hush.”
Phillip clasped his hands and bowed his head. But then he leaned in closer to her and whispered again.
“What are we praying for this morning?”

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