The Rogue Not Taken (20 page)

Yes. Yes.

She stood on a precipice, feeling as though this decision, more than all the others of the past week, would change everything. But there was no question. She wanted this bit. This piece.

And she wanted it from him.

“Yes,” she said. And before the word gave way to silence, he was there, his fingers pressing, parting the folds where she wanted him most, exploring in delicious strokes and slides.

He groaned. “So wet,” he said in between kisses to the soft skin of her inner thighs. “Were you wet then?” he asked, wickedly. “In the hayloft?”

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“No?” he said, stilling, torturing her with the lack of his touch. Punishing her for her lie.

“Yes,” she said. “I was wet.”

He spread her wide and she closed her eyes at the touch—lewd and lascivious and lovely—at once thankful for the darkness and quite desperate for the light. “Did you touch yourself?”

She shook her head, her hands searching for him. Find
ing his soft hair. “No.” He stopped again and her fingers curled against him. “It’s true. I didn’t. But—”

He blew softly on the exposed center of her. “But?”

She inhaled, the breath ragged and not enough, and though it was he who knelt, it was she who confessed. “But I wanted to.”

He rewarded the honesty with his mouth, consuming her like fire, his tongue stroking in long, slow licks, curling in a slick promise at the hard center of her pleasure, and she lifted her hips to meet his remarkable mouth, not caring that the action could be called nothing but wanton. She did want.

She needed.

And he gave without purchase. The fingers of one hand holding her wide as those of the other explored, pressing deep, curling, finding a spot that made her writhe without care for anything but him and his wonderful touch. “King,” she whispered, and he lifted his mouth from her.

“Tell me what you like.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

He licked, long and slow and devastating. “You do, though.” He set his tongue to the hard bud at the top of her, working until she gasped his name again. “You like that.”

“I do,” she groaned. “More.”

He laughed, the sound like sin in the dark. Like the devil himself. “As you demand, my lady.” And he set his mouth to her again.

She soon became a master at telling him what she liked, even as she discovered it herself, using words she’d never thought she’d say—words that would ruin her in polite company forever.

But she did not care about polite company. She cared about
his
company, this glorious man who showed her
more in the darkness than she had ever known in the light.

And as he did her bidding, his touch accompanied by a low, rumbling growl, she came closer and closer to the edge he had promised. Her sighs grew louder, and she cried out his name.

He stopped.

She sprang forward, sitting up straight in protest. “No!”

He pressed her back against the seat and whispered, “What did I say about you being quiet?” He lowered his head and kissed her gently, openmouthed, teasing. “You must be quiet, Sophie. We mustn’t be heard.”

The words had a wicked impact, sending desire flooding through her. He was asking the impossible. “Should we stop?” she asked, hating the question.

“Dear God. No. We shouldn’t stop.”

Sophie gave a little sigh of relief that became a gasp when he kissed her again. “I quite desperately want you to scream, Sophie,” he said between idle, unbearable licks. “I want to stop this carriage, lay you down beneath the stars, and make you scream again, and again, and again.”

She stifled a cry at the words and his touch, stiffening. Clenching her fingers in his hair. “Please, King.”

“Shhhh.” He spoke directly to the core of her, the rush of air making her wild. “Be careful.” And then his fingers moved again, joining in her torture, sliding deep, stroking and curling again and again. “He might hear us.”

The words did nothing but excite her further, and it grew worse as he teased and tempted with his fingers, reminding her to be quiet in that wicked voice, all enjoyment, as though he knew he was slowly destroying her, making her want him more than she’d ever wanted anything in her twenty-one years.

“He might hear us,” he repeated to the core of her, his warm breath making her ache as his fingers worked against her. “He might hear you, your little cries, the way you call my name, like sin and sex in the darkness.”

She wasn’t sin and sex, though. He was.

But when he set his mouth to her, she widened her thighs and lifted herself to him, proving him right. Biting back the cries that came again and again as he pressed more firmly, rubbed more deliberately, giving her everything she desired.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please, King. Don’t stop.”

He didn’t, not even as the tension built with no purchase, with no release, when she fell into the darkness, victim to his tongue and lips and touch, taking everything he offered without hesitation.

She rocked against him as the carriage rocked beneath them. And then the tension released, in glorious, wicked sensation, and she forgot everything but him, his dark growls and his strong grip and his wonderful mouth.

When the pleasure crested, breaking over her, breaking her, it was King who held her together, letting her explore all the corners of pleasure without hesitation. Without embarrassment. Without shame.

Perhaps it was the darkness that kept the shame away. Because she should have been ashamed, shouldn’t she? Ladies did not behave in such a manner. But somehow, she did not feel ashamed, even as he lifted his mouth from her, lifted his touch from her. Restored her skirts and resumed his place on the seat beside her.

Somehow, it was easy to be without shame with him.

She yawned as he wrapped her in his arms and whispered, “Did you like them?”

The bits and pieces.

She curled into his heat, ignoring the little twinge
in her shoulder—she hadn’t thought of her wound in hours—and told the truth. “Very, very much.”

T
hey changed horses in the dead of night at the next posting inn, and King left Sophie sleeping as he left the carriage to fetch wine, food, and hot water for her tea.

He could not deny the guilt that coursed through him as he crossed the courtyard of the inn; he was keenly aware that he pushed them both, and that forcing her to travel so far and without quarter—her shoulder only just having begun to heal—was ungentlemanly at best and irresponsible at worst.

There were three ways to travel to Cumbria, and he was willing to bet her father’s men were taking the straightest path rather than this one, which was the fastest. At this point, he and Sophie were far enough from Sprotbrough that they could have stopped for the night. She could have slept a few hours on a proper bed. Had a proper bath.

But he did not wish to think of her in a bath. The vision was too clear and far too tempting.

And as for a proper bed, after how easily he’d taken advantage her in the furthest possible thing from a proper bed, he should not think of her against crisp sheets, hair spread across white pillows, skirts raised, bodice lowered, his hands on her skin.

Bollocks.

If they moved quickly, they could be at Lyne Castle by morning. Because, of course, he wasn’t leaving her in Mossband, baker and silly dreams or no. He was taking her to Lyne, where he would keep her safe until her father came to get her.

But not a moment longer.

He was not a monster, after all, but he was also not in the market for Sophie Talbot. He reminded himself of
that as he returned with his spoils, heading for the carriage where she lay asleep, her bodice open and her skirts wrinkled, beckoning him for a repeat of the events immediately prior.

Of course, it would have been significantly more gentlemanly if he’d reminded himself of the fact before he’d nearly had her in his carriage.

But he was only human. Made of flesh, just like her.

What glorious flesh it was. If only he was in the market for it.

He set the food and water inside the door quietly, leaving it ajar to avoid waking her with its closing, and went to assist in hitching the new horses. No, he was in the market for facing his father and telling him the truth—that when King died, the dukedom died with him. That he’d never marry. Never carry on the name.

He had spent more than a decade imagining his father’s response—the way the promise would break him.

The duke had asked for it, had he not? He’d said the words himself—proclaiming a preference for the death of his line than King’s marriage for love. And that’s what the duke would get. The end of the dukedom.

He would die with it on his head, and finally, King would win.

Were you ever happy?

Sophie’s words echoed through him.

There was something charming in her naiveté, even as she knew that happiness was no guarantee. Her sister was in the most loveless marriage of them all, and still Sophie seemed to believe in the fairy tale—that love might, in fact, triumph.

That she held even a sliver of wistful memory for the baker boy she’d last seen a decade ago was proof that he should be rid of Lady Sophie Talbot, and quickly
.

Then why didn’t he leave her?

He was saved from having to consider the question fully by an unwelcome greeting. “I must say, even without your curricle, you’ve made terrible time.”

King stiffened, quickly counting the days before turning to face the smug Duke of Warnick, sauntering across the courtyard, cheroot in his hand, gleam in his eye. King scowled. “You were supposed to be here three nights ago,” King said. “You should be at your drafty keep by now.”

“I found I liked it here,” the duke said.

“You found you liked a woman here, if I had to wager.”

The Scot grinned, spreading his hands wide. “She likes me, and who am I to disappoint the lassies? And you? What’s kept you?”

King did not answer, instead accepting the harness for a second horse from the new coachman and focusing on hitching the beast to the coach.

“Secret reasons?”

King tightened the cinch.

Warnick pressed on. “Did you find you liked a woman, as well?”

“No.” The word was out before King could stop himself.

“Well,” the duke drawled, “that sounds like a lie.”

King shot him a look. “You question my honor?”

“I do, rather, but I’m not in the market for a duel, so don’t be throwing your glove to the ground or whatever it is you English idiots do.”

There was nothing in the wide world worse than an arrogant Scot.

“This isn’t your coach,” Warnick said.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“Why are you in a coach that’s not your own?”

King sighed and turned to face the duke, feet away,
arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the vehicle. “When did you become a Bow Street Runner?”

Warnick raised a brow and took a long drag on his cheroot before dropping it to the ground and stomping it with his massive black boot. “I don’t suppose you’d have room to hie me home?”

“I do not,” King said through clenched teeth, knowing that Warnick had no interest in passage over the border.

“Och,” scoffed the Scot. “It’s a few hours. You shan’t even require new horses to do it.”

“No room,” King said.

“Of course there is. I’ve all your wheels, so you’ve nothing but space. And I’m wee.”

Aside from being irritating as hell, the Scot was twenty stone if he was a pound. “You are nothing like wee.”

“Nevertheless . . .” Without warning, Warnick opened the carriage door.

King should have seen it coming. With a wicked curse, he dropped the hitch he was working on and went for him. “Close it.”

Warnick did, so quickly that it was almost as though it had never been open to begin with. He turned a knowing smile on King. “So, you did find a woman.”

“She’s not a woman.”

Warnick’s brows rose. “No? Because her bodice is undone, and things seem fairly clear on that front.”

King looked away for a heartbeat, frustration and fury making it impossible for him not to look back and plant his fist squarely in the center of the arrogant Scot’s face. “That’s for looking at her bodice.”

The duke put a hand to his face, blood spilling freely from his nose. “Dammit, King. Was that really necessary?”

King thought it rather was. He reached into his pocket
and extracted a handkerchief, wiping his hand. He’d need to get a blanket for her. To cover her while she slept. He handed the square of linen to his friend. “I like you better when you’re over the border.”

“I like
you
better when I’m over the border,” the duke said, holding the white linen to his wound. “I’ve never seen you so wound up. Is it your father? Or the girl?”

It was both, no doubt. “Neither.”