To Seduce a Rogue (11 page)

If it was anyone else, he would be damned if
he
did.

He stopped rotating the flask and stood, clutching the decanter like a lifeline. “No.” He shook his head.

The barn door hinge creaked, ending his blind contemplation. Lila stood in the doorway. He thanked God for the semidarkness that shielded his expression. Unfortunately, he could see her pout from a mile away.

“What are you doing in here in the dark all alone?”

“I wanted to get away for a moment. To write a bit.”

She frowned. “You have to write? Today?”

“Lila, writing is my job. I don’t make excuses for the time I put into it.” He knew anger over her stunt with Tom entered into their conversation. He didn’t stop to ponder if that was fair.

“Why are you hovering in the doorway like some frightened child?”

She looked at him like he was mad. “I can’t come in here with you.
Alone
.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Do you?” 

Ah...here we go. He had known she would not let the incident with Charlie pass; it would have been better for her if she had. He smiled—wanting the battle, tasting it. Slipping the flask into his pocket, he walked to her, his quiet footfalls and a horse’s high-pitched whinny the only sounds. He stopped just before their bodies touched. A slight tremor rolled through her. She was not as brave as she let on.

She intended to push him away. Before she could, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the barn, her body bumping against his. The door slammed shut behind them. She opened her mouth.

He didn’t waste the opportunity.

Grasping her head with one hand, he dropped his lips to hers. Now, he wouldn’t have to waste weeks trying to get her to open them.

She didn’t fight, but moaned and leaned into him.

Still holding her wrist, he wrapped his arm behind her back and plunged his hand through the stiff mess on her head; a hairpin pitched to the ground.

He knew she no longer cared if they were alone in the barn.

He used what he knew. His hands, his mouth; hot and demanding one moment, gentle and coaxing the next. He brushed his lips along her jaw, to her neck, took a bit of skin between his teeth and sucked.

Her breath leaked out in choppy puffs. “Please, again.”

“Like this?” His mouth returned to cover hers. All he could think was how much she tasted like strawberries.

He didn’t care for strawberries.

Fine, he wanted something from this. He wanted to frighten Lila; tell her without words he was not a man to toy with...or gossip about at some country picnic.

As he had come to understand with his first sweet taste of passion—there were many ways to get a message across. Lila’s kind learned much faster this way...and certainly with marked retention.

Surprisingly, this method of persuasion embarrassed him.

Though he
was
pretty good at it.

He favored talking openly...exploring ideas...exchanging thoughts, but hell, when had he ever had the chance to do that with a woman?

A tremor glided across his skin. For the first time in his life he was experiencing that...and he found he thrived upon it, upon
her
.

Upon Charlie.

What was he doing in response to this new emotion? This new...friendship? Standing in some damned barn kissing the hell out of her cousin.

He let his hand fall free and stepped back. He bent to gather her hairpin, allowing her time to gather her senses.

Lila arranged her hair as best she could and smiled at him. “My, you’re full of surprises.”

He glanced toward the barn door. He wanted to flee. From the smell of witch hazel, which clung to her skin; from her coy smile and smug response; from the watchful, premeditated gleam in her eyes.

Disappointment filled him. He could not stay in the hollow, dank, odoriferous barn another minute.

He brushed past her, flinging the door open with a slap.

Acquiescence

Giving tacit assent; reluctant agreement.

Charlie glanced about, hoping Tom was still occupied with organizing the horse race. She grabbed her pencil—Chase’s pencil—and hurried past the people laughing and talking as if they hadn’t seen each other in months. All but a few lived within a mile of town and saw each other on a weekly, if not daily, basis.

As she crossed the tobacco field, she knew whispers would follow. About the scene in the barn earlier today, or perhaps her flight from the festivities. They wondered why she didn’t want to stay and acquaint herself with the other ladies, make plans to join the next sewing circle, or agree to attend a Beautification Society meeting. She smiled as she imagined their words: “Look at her running off, with a damn pencil in her hand no less.”

Her smile vanished. It was not really very amusing. Her discouragement didn’t come from the way she
was
. She was proud of her skills. Proud to be strong, intelligent, driven. She liked herself. She only wished someone besides the Lamberts appreciated her.

She looked into the distance, aiming to sit beneath the shade of the solitary oak sitting atop the hill. Whenever she had visited the farm as a child, she and Chester had scrambled along its thick limbs, laughing as they dropped to the ground. That was before she grew into a person too different for most of her neighbors to accept.

A chicken, obviously an escapee from the coop, pecked and clucked its way across her path. She lifted her arms and inhaled, admiring the poignant fragrance of wildflowers and moist earth.

Her steps faltered. A hint of black stood out among the tall blades of grass.

A pair of gleaming, black boots to be exact.

Chase. Leaning against the oak. Asleep. Fast asleep.

Long, muscular legs. Trim waist. Solid chest. Her travels abruptly halted at the gaping neck of his shirt. Muscle and dark hair peeked through the open collar. She swallowed as her face got hot. Of course, she had seen a man’s chest before. Not a chest like this one, no, but she had seen a few.

Lean, firm—and tanned.

Tanned
. Well, hellfire. Chase obviously sat in the sun without proper clothing.

She jumped as he shifted, his lips moving as he dreamed. His hand closed around the pencil still locked between his fingers. The pad of paper had fallen to the ground. She did not question that he caught sleep where he could—the intensity with which he worked exhausted him.

She contemplated whether to wake him.

Not yet, Charlie
. She could take a moment to look like you can’t possibly do when he’s awake.

She had already decided that he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Patrician features: sculpted nose with just a hint of a bump marring its surface, slender lips, square jaw. The dimples she was gradually becoming used to slept with him. He muttered something, and she moved closer, a guilty thrust warning her she intruded upon his dreams.

* * *

The dream was the same.

A stench. Pine trees, wet earth, blood. Always blood. His nostrils flared. Thorns pulled at his clothes as he ran. The sounds of boyhood games reverberated in his ears, echoing unnaturally. The sharp tang of brandy sat upon his tongue.

“Eaton? Where are you going? Wait!” He stopped among the trees. Their home sat just before him. His father was going to be angry if they were late. He started to run again, Eaton’s footfalls ahead of him, loud, thundering in his ears. He placed his hands over them, trying to block the sound. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, the sun struck his face. Dunes rose like waves around him.

He stumbled, looking with wild eyes for his mother. This was
her
beach.

Fear danced along his skin. The water his feet kicked up coated his face; salt stung his eyes.
Where were they
?

“Eaton, wait!” Panic-stricken, he glanced down to find a pair of legs that belonged to a boy. They were incapable of matching Eaton’s long strides. He watched in horror as Eaton disappeared over the horizon.

“Chase.” A soft caress, fingers brushing through his hair. His mother?

His mother had never called him Chase.

“Chase, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

Whose voice? He swallowed and turned his head. His surroundings began to come together. Without opening his eyes, he inhaled deeply.

The scent?

Roses.

He blinked, not needing them to know who was there. He had known the minute his nose joined the game.

“You were dreaming,” she said, as if this explained her presence. Black hair whipped about her face like a storm cloud.

Her blue candor beckoned: let me in. He didn’t want to let her in. But he was tired, and he would never find anyone more willing to listen, never find anyone whom
he
was more willing to tell.

He patted the grassy area beside him. Charlie hesitated, her gaze sliding from where his hand lay to his face. Seeming to make the decision, she sat.

He smothered a smile as he noticed how wrinkled her dress was becoming. He guessed she would rather be dressed in those beat-up britches that looked as if they should be dust rags, but fit her like a tight, inviting glove. Taking a deep breath, he determined not to let his mind veer into
those
waters.

With a forced smile, he glanced at the pencil in his hand. Placing it beside him, he drew his legs close to his body and crossed his arms on his knees. His stared at the toe of his boot as he twisted his hands around his elbows. “What was I saying?”

She shot a quick glance at his face, then lifted her gaze to the sky. “You were mumbling. But I did hear you calling—”

“Calling to whom?”

“Eaton.” She cleared her throat. “I believe you said the name Eaton.”

He dropped his forehead to his arms. The touch to his hand was light, warm; he didn’t look up but closed his fingers over hers. “I was running...trying to catch him to tell him, I don’t even know what. I never know. Then I look and see that my body is a boy’s body, while Eaton’s is a man’s. Then the panic really hits me, because I know I will never be able to outrun him.”

He stared at the grass at his feet. A piece of peach fabric had gathered between the heels of his boots. “Eaton was my older brother. By three years. He was always there for me.” He struggled to put his feelings into words. He had never talked to anyone about this. “My mother died when I was ten, Eaton thirteen. My father remarried very quickly.” He heard the tremor in his voice but forced himself to continue. “Eleana was much younger and probably no more prepared to be a substitute mother than my father was to be a devoted father. At a time when you need guidance, Eaton and I were on our own.”

How could he describe the pain of losing a part of himself, losing his only remaining family, on that black, rainy day? When the dirt and blood
still
stained his hands? “My father...my father was a bastard.” He lifted his gaze as he heard her gasp. “Harsh words, I know, but true.” He shook his head, after all this time hardly able to believe how true they were. “He let us grow up in a cold, pitiless home, no expressions of love, no fatherly encouragement. And we needed that. I guess we needed him.”