The Rogue Not Taken (30 page)

He sat next to her on the edge of the fountain, raising a hand and tucking one long lock behind her ear. “You shouldn’t,” he agreed softly. “I won’t ruin you, Sophie.”

“That was the arrangement,” she said.

“So we have both reneged.”

“You take excellent care of me,” she replied, and his brow furrowed in confusion before she clarified. “Something nice about you,” she said. “As agreed. I have not reneged.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, they glittered brilliant green. “I still renege. I won’t destroy your reputation.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why not? You don’t hesitate with the others.” He paused, and she pressed him. “You didn’t hesitate with Marcella.” Something bothered her about his silence, something that had bothered her that afternoon at the Liverpool soiree. Marcella waving happily from the window above, as though she were perfectly satisfied with King leaving her to pick up the pieces of her ruination.

“You don’t ruin them, do you?”

He raised a brow. “Why would you think that?”

She was flooded with memories. “Because I saw Mar
cella’s face when you left. When she looked out the window and thanked you.”

He looked down to the water, dragging his fingers across the surface. “Perhaps she enjoyed our tryst.”

Sophie’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t think so.”

“Well. That’s a bit hurtful.”

She ignored the attempt to dodge the point. “I don’t think there was a tryst. Was there?”

He inclined his head. “There was not.”

Her brow furrowed. “Then why the mad escape? Why enrage the earl?” She paused, realization dawning. “I see. Marcella will marry another.”

He nodded. “The owner of Hoff and Chawton menswear, if I recall. He’s promised me cravats any time I require them.”

“Marcella’s father won’t be able to argue the match.”

“I imagine he’ll be grateful for someone to happily marry his daughter. And Mr. Hoff is very wealthy.”

Sophie laughed. “You gave her the marriage she’d never have been able to have.”

“She swore it was a love match.”

“And the others?” Sophie asked. “Did they vow love matches as well?”

“Every one.”

She thought back on the other women, the ones she’d envied during their discussion in the carriage. “You ruin them so they can be happy.”

She would be happy, ruined by him.

“I give them the push they require.”

“I should have seen it,” she said. “If there was something between you, they wouldn’t have—” She stopped. She couldn’t tell him that.

“Wouldn’t have been what?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, no, Lady Sophie,” he said. “It was just becoming interesting.”

She exhaled sharply, tired of lying. So she told him the truth. “If there were something between you, they wouldn’t have been so quick to tell you good-bye.” He stilled at the words. “Marcella wouldn’t have been able to do it so easily.” He lifted his hand from the fountain, touching her cheek with his cool, wet fingertips. She closed her eyes at the sensation. “It’s very difficult to tell you good-bye,” she whispered.

Silence fell for a yawning stretch of time before he said, quietly, “Is that what you want? To tell me good-bye?”

No.

Never.

King looked to the statue behind them. “What do you know about the Minotaur?”

The question set her back. She followed his gaze to the beautiful stretch of marble—a naked man with the head of a bull. “I know he was trapped in the labyrinth.”

“He was kept at the center of an impossible labyrinth, the solution to which was known only by one person.”

“Ariadne,” she said.

He raised a brow.

She blushed. “I know some of it.”

He took her hand in his, turning it so her palm was open to the air. He dipped a finger into the water and painted the center of her hand with cool drops, the sensations thrumming through her with visceral pleasure. “As the only one who knew the secrets to the labyrinth, Ariadne was tasked with leading the virgin sacrifices to the Minotaur each year to keep the gods happy.”

“That sounds like a terrible task,” Sophie said.

“Her father gave it to her because she was too pre
cious for anything else,” King said, tracing the lines on her palm as though learning her own secret labyrinth. “Making her so essential to the process kept her close to home. It had the added bonus of convincing her that she was not worthy of what was beyond the maze walls.”

Sophie raised a brow. “And was she? Worthy?”

He leveled her with his green gaze. “More than she could ever know. Beautiful beyond imagination, brilliant, and kind.” Her breath caught at the words as he continued. “The Minotaur never attacked her. It was said that he loved her.”

He was not talking about her. She was going mad. Sophie cleared her throat. “Alternatively, he was intelligent enough to know that she was his line to dinner.”

One dark brow rose. “Are you going to let me tell you the story? Or make jokes?”

She put a hand to her breast. “My apologies, my lord. Of course. Do go on.”

“On the third year, as the sacrifice approached, Theseus came to the labyrinth.”

She looked up at the statue. “It seems as though he’ll be trouble.”

“He vowed to slay the Minotaur, and Ariadne agreed to help him navigate the maze.”

She snatched her hand back from him, the swirling touch unsettling. “That seems rather cruel, considering the Minotaur’s feelings.”

“Love makes us do strange things.”

She knew that better than anyone. “She’d fallen in love with Theseus?” At King’s nod, Sophie added, “He was most definitely trouble. The worst kind.”

King continued with the story. “Ariadne led her love to the center of the maze, where he and the Minotaur fought.”

“For their lives,” she offered.

“You see? You’re not paying close enough attention. Theseus fought for his life,” He shook his head. “But the Minotaur, he fought for Ariadne.”

At the words, Sophie went still, her gaze finding King’s, watching as he continued. “He fought to be with her in that world he could not escape, willing to take the years of solitude if it meant that he could see her, however fleetingly. She was the reason he lived; and if he could not have her, he did not care if he died. She was the only person in the world who understood him.” Sophie’s breath came faster and faster, and she leaned forward, listening intently. “The only person he’d ever loved.”

“How tragic,” she whispered.

“But Theseus didn’t have a lock on the fight—the Minotaur was stronger than ten men,” King said, watching her intently. “Theseus had brought the sword of Aegeus with him, the only weapon that could kill the Minotaur, but he lost it mid-fight.” He pointed to the feet of the statue and Sophie looked to find a sword discarded there, in marble. “The Minotaur would have won, if not for Ariadne. She entered the fray and returned the fallen sword to Theseus.”

Sophie shook her head. “The poor beast.”

“Betrayed,” King said, the word rough on his tongue. “By the woman he loved. It’s said that when he saw her choose Theseus, he laid himself down and submitted to the blow.” He paused. “Though I always thought the blow of the sword could not possibly have been as bad as the blow Ariadne dealt.”

She shook her head, tears on her cheeks. “What a terrible story.”

He reached up and brushed away her tears. “Death was likely the best outcome—he’d never have been free of
the labyrinth, anyway.” There was a long, silent moment before he let her go. “Suffice to say, I have always been partial to the Minotaur.”

Knowing she shouldn’t, knowing it was a mistake, she reached for him, putting her hand on his warm arm, willing him to look at her. When he didn’t, she came to stand directly in front of him, her skirts brushing against his knees. He did not look up, his gaze locked on her body, staring through it, at the tale he told. At something else.

“King,” she whispered, and he met her gaze, the sadness in his eyes overwhelming her. Without hesitation, she put one hand to his dark hair, loving the feel of it, silk between her fingers. “What has happened?”

He closed his eyes at the question, then did the unthinkable, putting his hands to her waist and pulling her closer, pressing his face into her midriff and inhaling, holding her as tight to him as he could.

Her free hand joined the first, fingers threading through his hair, holding him as well, wanting him, wanting to hear everything he thought, wanting to tell him everything she felt.

She should tell him she wanted to leave.

Except here, in this moment, with his hands on her and his breath against her, she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay forever.

“King,” she whispered.

He shook his head at his name. “I want you quite desperately, Sophie.”

Her heart stopped at the words. “You do?”

He looked up at her, handsome and devastating. “I do,” he said. “I’ve wanted you from the start, you know. From the moment I nearly hit you in the head with a boot.”

She smiled, small and sad. “No, you didn’t.”

He tilted his head. “Maybe not just then. But definitely
by the time I found you drinking with Warnick in the stables.”

“In your footman’s livery?”

“Ah,” he said. “So you admit he is
my
footman.”

“Never.” She laughed, loving the feel of him. Loving the look of him.

Loving him.

She took a deep breath. “King, what—”

“She didn’t love me,” he said softly.

Her brow furrowed. “Who?”

“Lorna. She wanted the title and nothing else.”

She couldn’t believe it, not after the way he’d spoken about her. “How do you know that?”

“Because I do.” He released her and stood putting distance between them. “The line ends with me,” he whispered, and she ached at the words even as he continued. “It was so much more than revenge. It was penance. I swore off marriage because I couldn’t bear the thought of betraying the girl I’d once loved.” Sophie ached at the words, tears threatening as he continued, devastating betrayal in his tone. “But now . . . she wanted to marry me for money. For title. For security. She lied to me.”

He turned away from Sophie, making his way to the labyrinth’s path. He turned back before he entered the maze and looked at her for a long while, anger and frustration and disappointment in his gaze. “I thought she was the only person who had ever wanted me for me. And now I know the truth. She wanted me for my title and my fortune. Not for me. There’s never been anyone who wanted me.”

Sophie did not hesitate, a desperate need for him to hear the truth propelling her closer to him. “That’s not true.” She wanted him. Desperately.

He understood, his gaze turning predatorial. He, the hunter. She, the prey. And then he said, “I can’t love you.”

A single tear slipped down her cheek as she nodded. “I know.”

“I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay here. I want to keep you here, at the center of this labyrinth. Even though it’s the worst possible thing I can think to do to you.”

“I don’t think I can survive your betrayal.”

He came to her then, quick and purposeful, lifting her face to his, staring deep into her eyes. “I don’t want you to go,” he said. “I want you to stay.”

“And what happens if I do? What is my life if I stay?” Her throat ached with the words. Because she knew the answer. She knew he’d never be able to give her what she wanted. What she’d always wanted and somehow had never realized she wanted.

He would never love her. He would never marry her. They would never have children, despite her ability to see them quite clearly, little dark-haired cherubs, with his beautiful green eyes and dimples that showed when they smiled.

He didn’t ask her what she saw. What she wanted. He already knew. “Sophie . . .” he started, and she heard the knowledge. Heard the denial. She didn’t want to hear the words.

Instead, she reached for him, her fingers trailing down his cheek, drawing him closer to her. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, so close to his lips that it felt as though he had spoken instead. “What if we return to the world tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he replied, the word somehow a vow and a
prayer and a curse all at once. “Yes,” he said again. “Tomorrow.”

And then he lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the fountain.

And she knew, this place, this man—he would always be home.

H
e knew it was a mistake, that he was the worst kind of scoundrel, taking what she offered. He didn’t deserve her. And she deserved infinitely better.

But the knowledge didn’t stop him.

Instead, it pushed him forward, the knowing that he shouldn’t touch her. The wanting her in spite of his keen awareness that he couldn’t have her. His path had been set out for him, a long, straight road without room for diversion. No place for the emotions she tempted, no place for the beauty she brought with her, for the promises she made.

She called to him from beyond his labyrinth, tempting him with the promise of something more, making him forget—almost—what his life was to be.

What is my life if I stay?

The question had been rhetorical when she’d asked it; she’d known the truth, that he couldn’t give her what she wished.

He couldn’t give her love.

And Sophie would want love. She’d want it pure and unfettered, given freely, along with all its trappings. She’d want the marriage and children and happiness and promise that came with it.

He could see it, the life she wanted. The line of little girls, blue-eyed and brown-haired, in love with books and strawberry tarts. For a moment, he imagined them smiling at him the way their mother did, filled with happiness and hope.

For a moment, he let himself believe he might be able to give it to her.

But she would want love, and he would never be able to give it.

He didn’t have it to give anymore. And those children, they would never be his.

He set her down on the edge of the fountain, coming to his knees, as though she was Ariadne and he the Minotaur, worshipping at her feet, adoring her even as he knew she could not survive in the labyrinth, and he could not survive beyond it.

“Tell me about last night,” he said softly, looking up at her, his hands at the hem of her skirts.

“What—” She caught her breath as his fingers explored the skin of her ankles. “What about it?”

“I hated it,” he said. “I hated stopping.”

She pressed her lips into a thin, straight line. “I hated that you stopped.”

His hands were beneath her skirts, pushing them back, farther and farther, up and over her knees. He pressed his lips to the inside of her knee, swirling his tongue there, loving the little gasp of surprised pleasure that came at the touch. “I hate that I will have to stop today, as well,” he whispered at her skin.

One of her hands came to his head, fingers threading into his hair as he began to kiss over her thighs, pushing her skirts higher, bunching the fabric on her lap as he bent over her, pressing long, hot kisses to soft, undiscovered
skin—skin no one but he had ever touched. “King.” She sighed. “I won’t stop you.”

He closed his eyes at the words even as he pressed her thighs apart, making room for himself between them. He pressed a long, lingering kiss to the soft skin of her inner thigh, drawing a little cry from her as her fingers clenched in his hair and held him to her.

She was perfect.

He smiled against her skin, scraping his teeth there at that private, untouched place. “You won’t stop me from kissing you here?”

She opened her thighs wider, gloriously. “No,” she whispered.

He stroked higher with one hand, his fingers finding soft curls that he’d touched before but never seen. “Wider,” he said, and the word came like a demand. “I want you open to this place.”

She did as she was told, opening herself to his touch and his gaze, and he sat back on his heels, unable to stop himself from marveling at her, perfect and pink and his for the taking.

His, full stop.

He looked up at her, loving the flames in her cheeks—loving that even embarrassment was not enough to keep her from him. “Wider,” he said, letting the demand curl between them.

Damned if she didn’t obey, making his mouth water.

“Christ,” he whispered, reaching for her, running his fingers softly through those curls until they found the wet heat of her. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

She looked away. “It’s not true.”

He hated that she didn’t believe him.

“I know I said I wouldn’t tell you that. I know I said I would do as you asked, and find another way to compliment you, but I can’t.” He came up on his knees again, reaching for her, lifting her gaze to his. “You are beautiful, Sophie. More beautiful than you can imagine.”

Before she could deny it, he took her mouth in a long, wicked kiss, as though they had an eternity to explore each other. As though time did not pass in the labyrinth. And it was an exploration, a long, lingering journey of tongue and teeth and lips, of sighs and cries and growls that promised more than they could ever deliver.

Because he would not ruin her.

If it killed him, he would not ruin her.

He broke the kiss and ran his lips over her cheek, finding the soft skin beneath her ear, where he lingered before saying, “It’s true.”

She sighed, but he could tell she did not believe him. “I want you naked here, in this place, on this grass open to nothing but the sun and the sky and this statue and my mouth. I want to explore every inch of you, and learn the sounds you make when you come, hard and fast and yes, love, beautiful.”

He sucked on the lobe of one ear, long and lingering until she groaned her pleasure, her hands stroking across his chest, down his torso. “King,” she whispered.

He grasped one of her hands and guided it to where he strained, hard and desperate, against the fabric of his trousers. “Feel what you do to me,” he whispered. “You make me ache for you. You make me want to lay you down and take you until there is nothing left but us and the labyrinth.”

Her eager fingers explored. “Yes,” she said without hesitation, flattening her palm against him and making him want to show her precisely how to make him wild.

Instead, he shook his head and pulled her away from him. “No. I won’t ruin you, Sophie.”

Her brow furrowed. “But . . .”

“This is not for me, love. This is for you.”

She shook her head. “I want it to be for us both.”

He couldn’t let it be for them both. If he did, he might never let her leave.

Hating the thought, King returned his touch to her core, parting the folds there, baring her to the sun and air, loving her heat, her softness, her scent. “You’re so wet,” he marveled, dipping a single finger inside her, adoring the way she responded, rocking toward him, eager for more of him. And he was so eager to give her more.

“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t not taste you.”

He pressed her thighs wide and leaned in, painting her pretty pink center with his tongue, adoring the feel of her against him, the way she sighed and moved and guided him without even knowing what she did. He lifted his lips from her and blew a long stream of air directly on the center of her, adoring her cry of pleasure.

Her fingers slid into his hair, clutching him close, pressing him to the open, aching center of her, using him as he tasted her again and again, losing himself in her. He licked and sucked and stroked with tongue and fingers until she rocked against him, her breath coming faster and faster, her hips working to find that magnificent purchase that would give her release.

And just before she found it, he stopped, lifting his mouth from her, knowing he was the worst kind of ass when she cried his name in frustration. He pressed his lips to the silk of her inner thigh once, twice, as she settled before looking up at her, finding her blue eyes glittering with desire and something more primitive. Something like need.

“Poor love,” he said, the taste of her on his lips, teasing him as much as the feel of his words against the hot center of her teased her.

“King,” she groaned. “What are you doing?”

“I want you to talk.”

Her eyes went wide. “Talk?”

“I want you to tell me all the things you desire.”

“I desire . . .”

“What?”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

He leaned in and licked, long and slow, and she sighed her pleasure. “Please.”

He lingered over the place where she strained for his touch. “I like it when you beg, love. What more do you desire?”

“
That.
”

He blew a long stream of air across her aching skin. “What, precisely?”

“Don’t make me say it,” she said.

“Why?” he teased. “Because ladies don’t say such things?”

She laughed at that, a little huff of air that made him adore her even more. “Ladies most definitely do not say such things.”

“Try.”

“I desire—” For a long moment, he thought she might not say anything, even as he hovered there, a hairsbreadth from where she wanted him. From where he wanted to be. And then she did speak, and in four words, she destroyed him. “I desire your pleasure.”

He pulled back, meeting her gaze at the words, seeing the truth there. He couldn’t find the words to speak.

She reached for him, lifting his face to hers. “Whatever you want, King. I want it, as well.” She pressed her lips to
his, long and lingering, before lifting her head and saying, “Don’t you see? My pleasure is yours. I am yours.”

And that was it.

The kiss they shared then was nothing short of a claiming, wicked and full of promise. “You’re mine,” he said, as though her words had unlocked him, and perhaps they had. They’d certainly threatened his control. His desire. His need. “You’re mine,” he repeated, taking her mouth even as she took his. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” she whispered as he released her lips and returned his attention to the core of her.

“You gave yourself to me,” he whispered, desperate for her.

Her fingers guided him to her. “I did,” she whispered. “I am yours.”

And then his mouth was on her, his tongue working at her, and he was pouring everything into the caress—desire and need and frustration and adoration and yes, anger. Anger that he couldn’t have her like this forever, here, open to him. Anger that he hadn’t met her years earlier. Anger that her love was not enough to heal him now.

He kissed her again and again, making wild love to her with his mouth, wanting to reward her for her honesty and punish her for it, as well—for the way she seemed to know that what he wanted was in concert with her own desire. For the way she used him.

For the way he loved it.

His tongue and fingers played over her and she cried out gloriously to the fountain and the labyrinth and the sun and the sky, first his name, and then a single word, again and again, like a litany and a weapon, at once blessing him and destroying him.

“Yours.”

His.

He gave her no purchase, remaining there at the throbbing, aching place where she wanted him most, making love to her until she came apart, crying her pleasure on that one word.

Yours.

He stayed with her until she returned to earth, to the labyrinth, Ariadne to his Minotaur, somehow able to destroy him with her touch.

Yours.

He would hear that word, spoken in her voice, for the rest of his life.

Yours.

Truth and utter lie all at once.

She couldn’t be his, of course. She couldn’t be his, because it would require him to be hers. It would require him to love her the way she deserved. And that would never happen. It was impossible.

He lifted his head to tell her so, finding her sleepy, sated smile above him, tempting him more than he could ever imagine. And then she spoke, shattering his intentions. “What of your pleasure?” she said, the soft words a blow as hard and harsh as anything he’d ever received in the boxing ring. A blow he’d never wanted so much in his life. “Don’t you wish to take it?”

He did, of course. Rather more desperately than he ever had. But he couldn’t.
He wouldn’t
.

She deserved better.

“No,” he lied, working hard to keep his words calm and collected, hating himself for saying them. “I don’t.”

I
f she’d had all the money in Britain, Sophie would have wagered it on his laying her down and taking her there, at the base of the fountain, with only the Cumbria sky to witness it.

She would have lost the wager.

The disappointment that rioted through her was to be expected, of course. She’d been hoping he would agree to make love to her fully, and his refusal was no kind of positive experience. She’d found a magnificent pleasure in his arms, and she wanted more. She wanted to share it with him.

What she had not expected was the desolation. The sense that without him, she was alone in the world. That without his touch, without his companionship, she might not survive the day.

The sense that without him, she might not exist.

The thought terrified her.

She had not planned for this moment. Ever. She’d never planned to want someone so much, or to wish that her future entwined with his, or to wish to see his face every day, for the rest of time.