I Kissed a Rogue (Covent Garden Cubs) (30 page)

He picked her up and carried her to the bed, then stood on the side and pulled off his shirt and trousers. Her gaze slid down his body and now his cock did harden. Her tongue darted out to touch the tip of her lip, and he could hardly restrain himself. Her legs parted slightly, her body unconsciously welcoming him.

“Again?” she asked, her voice low and sultry.

In answer, he threw his shirt aside and climbed in beside her.

Later, she rolled over and gave him a drowsy smile. “I’ve gone all liquid inside. I shall never be able to rise from this bed.”

“Good. I want to keep you here.”

Her fingers trailed over his chest, her touch light but no longer tentative. “We have to eat again. In fact, I do believe we forgot to eat supper.”

“You’re right.”

“I’ll make us something.” She began to rise, but he caught her arm and kissed her.

“Stay. I’ll fetch us something. We can eat in bed.”

“How decadent.”

He winked. Brook found bread she hadn’t burned to cinders, a bit of cold meat, and the last of the cheese. He gave the mother cat a bit of the meat and brought the rest to the bed with a flagon of wine.

He hadn’t bothered dressing, and when he returned, her appreciative gaze was on him. He did enjoy the way she looked at him—as though there was one sugared plum left and he was it.

“This is the last of the wine,” he said, hefting the container to test its weight.

“I’ll sip sparingly.” She took it from his hands and, pulling the sheet around her breasts, tried to drink it delicately. It dribbled down her chin. She tried to catch it with her hand, but it was a feeble attempt.

Brook took the wine back. “This is no time for delicacy. Drink like you mean it.” He gulped from the flagon, exaggerating the gesture by throwing his head back. She laughed, took the bottle, and attempted to mimic his gesture. She looked ridiculous, but he admired her willingness to try.

They shared the simple meal, Lila brushing crumbs from the sheets and Brook telling her they could just shake them out and not to bother.

“I can’t help it. When I was young I’d sneak cake into bed, and I was always so afraid of being caught, I’d try to erase all evidence.”

“You were a wicked child,” he teased.

“Not as wicked as Ginny.”

“Your young sister? I thought her rather adorable.”

“Ginny? You met her?”

“We played a brief game of hide-and-seek.”

“Her favorite. You’re right. She’s not a wicked child. She’s actually very sweet and good-natured. At least, I think so. The Vile Valencia won’t allow me be near her for more than a few moments for fear I might contaminate the child.”

“Contaminate her?”

“I’m infected with a horrible disease—the inability to marry.” She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She had lovely ears, small and shaped like shells.

And if he was admiring her ears, he was truly daft.

“Ah. That is a dreadful ailment,” he said with mock seriousness, “but I hardly think of concern to a child of three or four.”

“It’s an excuse. My stepmother hates me, and she would keep me from my father and my sister as much as possible.”

“What crime did you commit?”

“I’m the daughter of my father’s first wife.” She looked down at the mention of her mother, but not before he saw the sadness.

“You still miss her.”

“Every day. She was the most kindhearted woman. She might have been a busy duchess, but she always made time for Colin and me. I remember her sitting on the floor with us in her silks and satins, playing with a wooden ball. She doted on me, gave me anything I wanted.”

That explained quite a bit, Brook thought, although as the daughter of a duke, Lila would likely have been spoiled regardless.

“But do you know what I remember most?”

“What is that?” he asked, admiring the way her wide eyes shined.

“She always listened to me. I must have been a silly child, always prattling on about imaginary balls and gowns and princes. I hear Ginny playacting, and it makes me smile. I’m sure I was the same. But unlike Valencia, my mother listened to me. When I’d concoct some story about a knight and a dragon, she would crouch down, look into my eyes, and focus all her attention on me.” Lila’s gaze had drifted to the fire, and he knew she was far away. She’d gone back to the time when her mother was alive, when her life was still simple.

“She made me feel important,” Lila said. “She made me feel loved.”

Brook kissed her then because he could imagine her as a pampered but lonely child. All she’d wanted was love. That was all she still wanted, and damn him if he was another person who could not give it to her.

* * *

The rain woke him. The steady patter of it made him want to roll over and settle himself next to the warmth of Lila in the bed with him. But when he tried, he realized she wasn’t beside him.

He sat, finding her immediately. She stood near the door, fastening a cloak over her shoulders.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

She started and cut a look at him, her expression one of surprise but not guilt. “I’m thirsty,” she said. “I thought I’d go to the well and draw a bit of water. Since I was up, I built up the fire and put more wood on it.”

Brook stared at her. She’d stoked the fire and would go out into the night in the rain to fetch water? They should have had water inside the cottage, but he’d dumped it over her head. If anything, he should be the one to fetch water.

“I’ll get it,” he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“No.” Lila held up a hand. “I’m already dressed and ready. Besides, the rain has slackened for the moment. By the time you dress, it’s likely to start pouring again.”

“Do you know the way?”

“Of course.” She reached for the handle on the door, unchaining the lock. Then she peered back at him over her shoulder. “And when I return, you can warm me up again.”

Brook watched her go, trying not to give in to the deluge of erotic thoughts that suggestion elicited. Instead, he lay back and closed his eyes. For the first time, he didn’t look forward to the annulment of their marriage. He didn’t want her to go, didn’t want her to leave his bed. But he could hardly keep her as his wife until he tired of tumbling her and then seek an annulment. Even though the king had promised him an easy annulment, Brook could hardly justify treating the daughter of the Duke of Lennox—or any woman for that matter—in such a manner.

They could always stay married. They had passion, and in time he might grow to feel more for her. He might one day forgive her. She had a title and wealth and a long line of prestigious ancestors. That would please his mother. She’d give him children one day, which would also please his mother.

If he remained married to Lila, he’d have fulfilled his obligations as the second son of an earl quite sufficiently. He didn’t care much about such matters, but he knew how Society worked and knew what was expected. Brook had never been against marriage. Even after the debacle with Lila when he’d been four and twenty, he knew some day he would propose again.

He just hadn’t thought it would be to the same woman.

Now that he had her, why not keep her?

His chest tightened at the thought.

Why not? Because she hadn’t wanted him. Because she’d laughed at him. Because she’d made him hate himself.

And yet, she was outside now—in the cold and the rain—fetching water. She’d tried to warm bread for him. She’d tended him when he’d been injured. She wasn’t the same woman who’d refused his proposal.

And if he was honest with himself, he was beginning to like her, despite himself. He’d never spent much time talking to the women he bedded. For the most part, they were vapid actresses or widows. They wanted a bit of fun and not much more. Brook had thought he wanted the same, but was that all he wanted? He hadn’t realized what it would be like to whisper secrets and confide intimacies with a woman. He hadn’t known he wanted anything more than a tumble.

And perhaps he hadn’t.

Until Lila.

He wanted to know everything about her, from the time she’d fallen off her pony jumping a fence to the first time she’d been kissed. And he’d found himself telling her about his life too, about his favorite dog when he’d been a boy and how he and Dane had played at Colonists and Red Coats. Brook, being the younger, had always had to be George Washington.

Even worse, in Dane’s version, Washington surrendered to Cornwallis.

Brook hadn’t known he wanted someone to share his life with, not simply his bed. Lila had shown him that. But why the devil did it have to be her to show him what he was missing? The one woman he could never forgive, could never love.

The mother cat padded over to the door and made a soft meow. Brook sat. He supposed that meant the cat wanted out, but why would she want out in the rain and cold of the middle of the night? The cat lowered her head, sniffing at the base of the door, and Brook realized something had attracted her attention. Had she heard a mouse or did she anticipate Lila’s return?

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Shouldn’t Lila have returned by now?

Heart beginning to thud, Brook pulled on his trousers, boots, and coat, not bothering with a shirt. She’d gotten turned around on her way to the well or back. He’d find her and bring her back before the rain started in earnest. Pushing his feet into his boots, he opened the door.

“Lila?” he called.

No answer.

The wind blew rain into his face, and he wiped it out of his eyes and squinted at the darkness. “Lila!”

The tree branches swayed, and in the distance, thunder boomed. The storm was coming closer. He needed to bring her inside before it worsened. He kept his gaze on the yard, fixed in the direction of the well, and when a burst of lightning lit up the sky, he was ready. But the lightning revealed nothing more than what he’d seen in the gloomy darkness.

The yard was empty.

Lila was gone.

Eighteen

From behind the kitchen building, Lila saw the weak glow of light from the direction of the cottage. She’d known he’d look for her. She’d known he’d come. He might not love her, but he would fight for her.

Over the howl of the wind and the growl of thunder, she heard his voice calling her name. She tried to answer, but the man tightened his hold over her mouth.

Beezle.

She didn’t know how long he’d been lying in wait, crouching in the shadows behind the cottage. Had he been there when Brook had put out the fire in the kitchen? Had he been there when they’d made love?

He’d been waiting for his chance, and she’d inadvertently stepped right into his clutches. He hadn’t grabbed her when she’d first stepped outside, though he must have been watching. Instead, he waited until she’d made it all the way to the well, used precious energy to attach the bucket and draw up water. She’d carried the partly full bucket almost all the way to the cottage when he’d come up behind her and grasped her around the waist with one hand, his other coming up to cover her mouth.

She’d never even had a chance to scream.

The bucket had fallen from her hands, the water spilling out as it rolled aside. Beezle had dragged her behind the kitchen building and shoved her against the rough wood.

“Thought you could get away, didn’t you?” he said, his fetid breath near her ear.

She tried to scream, but his hand on her mouth held fast. She’d known who he was. She remembered his voice and the smell of him. He had the stink of Seven Dials on him, an odor she would never forget.

She fought to loose her arms, and even managed to free one before he caught it again, wrenching it viciously to her side.

Tears stung her eyes.

How had he found them? Would he kill them both, first her and then Brook?

No, he could never kill Brook. At least she’d die knowing Brook would win in the end.

And yet she held on to the sliver of hope that she might be saved. When Brook had called a second time, she fought with everything she had to break free of Beezle’s hold. It was no good. He was too strong.

Lightning flashed, and Beezle used the burst of light to his advantage. He yanked her to her feet and dragged her away from the kitchen and toward the wooded area behind them. In this darkness, it would be almost impossible for Brook to find her among the trees and bushes. Beezle could slit her throat and leave her for dead, and she’d be cold and stiff by the time Brook stumbled on her body.

If some wild animal didn’t eat her first.

She shivered from cold and fear, dragging her feet in an effort to slow Beezle. She squirmed and fought and slowed their progress as much as she could. His arms were thin but wiry, and his grip almost painful. She could feel the indents of his fingernails in her cheek, where his hand still covered her mouth, and he’d pressed her injured wrist hard against her body. The ache from her smashed wrist threatened to overwhelm her. But she’d feel much more pain if she didn’t keep fighting.

The rain came down harder, the water running over her face and obscuring her vision. She blinked it out of her eyes, seeing the tracks her boots had made in the soft dirt behind the kitchen. All Brook need do is walk that way, and he would know where she’d been taken. But of course, he’d look for her at the well. By the time he thought to circle around to the kitchen, it might be too late.

Fighting the feeling of helplessness, she dug her elbow back and into Beezle’s stomach. It wasn’t a very good blow, but it was enough to dislodge his grip slightly. His rain-slicked hands slipped when he grasped her again, and for a moment, she broke free. Lila stumbled forward, lurching back toward the kitchens and Brook. But her feet caught on the hem of her dress, the slight delay giving Beezle enough time to catch her again.

Her grasped her injured wrist, twisting it behind her back. Lila screamed in pain. Beezle’s hand clamped down on her mouth, but she shook her head until his hand slipped away.

“Brook! Here! Broo—”

Beezle covered her mouth again. For a moment the agony of her bent wrist subsided, and then pain exploded in her head. The blackness of the night widened and darkened, and when she saw the next flicker of lightning in the night sky, it was from beneath a canopy of branches.