The Rogue's Conquest

by Lily Maxton

  Eleanor’s heart surged again. She hoped all of this surging wasn’t detrimental to the organ’s health.

  Though she wasn’t a barrel-er, she couldn’t manage to contain herself this time. She supposed there were a few occasions in life that called for some exuberance. She rushed toward James, who opened his arms automatically, and they collided so hard he was knocked back a step.

  She grabbed his face and kissed him.

  “Well,” he said, once they’d broken apart. “That’s done.”

  She huffed against his bare chest.

  “I heard you, you know,” he said, idly playing with her hair. “I always suspected you were a bloodthirsty wench.”

  This made her smile. He pressed kisses into her hair, so softly, so gently she almost thought she imagined them. “Come home with me,” he said in a low voice that rumbled through his chest.

  She pulled back, stared at him with parted lips, and then nodded.

  Robert called out from behind them, “Enough of that now. Georgina and I are going back. Eleanor?”

  She turned to face him.

  “I shall accompany James in his carriage,” she said. At the look on Robert’s face, she added, “We are betrothed.”

  James took her hand, his grip tight. “We are?”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Aren’t we?”

  The smile that curved his mouth was so wide that it crinkled his eyes, too, and so bright that it nearly hurt Eleanor to look at him. “Yes, lass, we are.”

  With that, he tugged her toward the waiting carriage.

  Robert spluttered behind them. “But that’s still not—Eleanor!” He swore, but Eleanor didn’t hear exactly what he said because the carriage door was already shutting behind them.

  “If I was a more chivalrous sort of man,” James said as the carriage picked up speed, “I might ask you if you were certain about marrying me, but I’m not chivalrous, and you already said we were betrothed. I’m holding you to that promise.”

  “I wouldn’t take it back, and chivalry doesn’t suit you anyway.”

  “No,” he mused, “You’re probably right. I’ll subdue any future impulses.”

  With that, he dragged her into his lap, hands warm on her thighs, but he still didn’t kiss her. He only looked at her, as though he was trying to memorize this moment. The blanket beside them went unused as they drew heat from one another instead.

  “You said you would have to sell your horses.”

  “I did,” James answered. “This isn’t my carriage. It’s my second’s.” Then he added, “But my prize money was nothing to scoff at, and now that I’ve beaten Thomas Clark, I bet attendance at the saloon will be even better than before. I could probably afford more horses, if you want them.”

  She heard the hint of uncertainty in his voice, the question he wasn’t asking. “I would still marry you,” she said softly. “Even if you’d lost.”

  “But I wanted to be worthy of you.”

  “You are.”

  He leaned his forehead against hers. “God, Eleanor, how I’ve missed you.”

  Her heart softened as she looked at him. His face was more open, more raw, more vulnerable than she’d ever seen it. This was James without armor. This was James unprotected. And she was surprised to see, or maybe not so surprised, that he was as fragile as anyone, though he always appeared so much stronger.

  “I wanted to stop so many times. I wanted to give up and crawl back to you. But I knew if I did that, I’d never finish training. Don’t ever let me prove my worth again,” he finished vehemently.

  “It wasn’t easy for me, either,” she pointed out. “And you can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy your victory.”

  This brought a small smile to his lips. “I saw the duke’s face in the crowd when I won. That made the time we spent apart almost worth it. But then I saw your face in the crowd, and I realized you were the only one who mattered.”

  “Well, I enjoyed the fight,” she said.

  “Bloodthirsty wench,” he agreed. “Your sort of love might just kill me.” But then, his smile faded and his voice turned serious. “You didn’t let me say it. That was cruel of you.”

  Her pulse raced, but she didn’t apologize. “Tell me now, then.”

  He took her face in his large, gentle hands. “I love you, Eleanor. You are gunpowder, and you aren’t quite as dismayed by my bloody face as you should be, and sometimes I suspect you’re a bit perverse—you do seem to get an extraordinary amount of delight from watching beetles mate—and I love all of it. I love every single thing about you. Which makes me suspect I’m a little perverse, too, so we should probably get married straight away so we can stop inflicting ourselves on your siblings and innocent bystanders.”

  “That is the most intelligent thing you’ve ever said.”

  He tipped back his head and laughed, and she kissed him, awkwardly, affectionately, lovingly, until he managed to contain his laughter and wrap his arms around her. Outside, the snow fell harder and the scenery blurred past, but neither of them noticed anything but each other.

  Chapter Thirty

  They didn’t make it to the bedchamber. They only made it to the entrance hall.

  And then Eleanor was pressed back against the wall, James’s body along her front, his mouth on hers. Her hands were fisted in his hair. She didn’t think he’d pull away from her, but it seemed like added assurance.

  He sipped at her mouth like a bee sipped from a flower, hands lightly on her waist like they could flit away at any moment. Or perhaps he wanted her to know she could flit away if she wanted to. If she thought about it, she would have been surprised that he could be so gentle. If she thought about it more, she wouldn’t have been surprised at all—if James knew anything, it was the power of his own body.

  And if Eleanor knew anything in that moment, it was that she didn’t want his gentleness. There’d be time for gentleness later. Right now, she wanted that long hard body to crush her.

  She yanked on his hair, trying to draw him down farther.

  “Eleanor,” he growled.

  She yanked once more.

  His next kiss was bruising, hot, with teeth and lips and tongues. His hands tightened and then lifted. He carried her to the nearest room—which turned out to be the dining room—and set her down at the edge of the table, the only available surface. The hem of her dress rose to her knees as she spread her legs, and James fit in the space between them perfectly, like they were made for each other.

  They were—made for each other—as impossible as that might seem. But Eleanor knew. Her heart knew. Her body knew.

  She took his powerful hands and kissed them—palms, knuckles, fingertips. She licked the salt from his skin, traced every line and whorl until he groaned.

  He captured her mouth again and let his hands slide over her stockinged legs.

  “What are all of these blasted layers?” he asked, reaching under her dress.

  “Petticoats.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Three.” At his disgruntled look, she said, “It is winter.”

  He ignored the matter of the petticoats for the time being, and instead pulled at her garters, peeled down her stockings, inch by inch, caressing each new patch of silky skin. His mouth left a hot, humid trail along her jaw. And when her flannel stockings were on the floor, he touched the inside of her thighs.

  She felt her legs fall open, almost instinctually, giving his hand better access as he slowly, ever so slowly, moved toward her center, moved closer with each sweep. Until she was aching and writhing and trying to press down her hips to force the contact.

  “Impatient.” He nipped at her throat and let one of his fingers gently brush the curls between her legs.

  “James,” she panted. She wasn’t proud of it—the panting—but she did. She wasn’t used to this feeling of being out of control, this almost wild desire. The want that was larger than herself. If she could examine it, objectively, it might have bothered her—humans we
re, in fact, no better than stag beetles, those indiscriminate things.

  She didn’t care.

  She didn’t care.

  She grasped his wrist and brought his hand down on her sex.

  “Christ, Eleanor.” He was panting, too. “You aren’t bashful at all.”

  She was a little embarrassed, but she was more aroused. If it was anyone else, the embarrassment would have been far greater, but, “I’ve never been bashful with you.”

  “Thank God.” He bit her lip and stroked his fingers over her slick folds.

  With every stroke, he parted them, with every stroke, he pushed deeper, until she was stretched and pulsing and gripping his fingers. In the end, he ignored the problem of the petticoats altogether. With his free hand, he tugged at her bodice and when her breast finally spilled out, his mouth tugged at her nipple and his tongue lavished it. Pleasure built under the onslaught of his hands and mouth.

  She whimpered when he pulled back.

  “A bed,” he rasped. “We should find a bed.”

  In response, she fumbled with the fastenings of his breeches.

  “Eleanor,” he said, staying her. “I want this to be…” He broke off hoarsely. “I want it to be good for you.”

  “It already is.”

  She saw the moment he acquiesced, saw the heat in his eyes, already kindled and bright, flare to decision.

  He pushed her down on the table and she sprawled there like a willing sacrifice. She heard the rustle of his breeches, felt him spread her thighs even wider to accommodate him.

  He pushed into her slowly, gently. It stung a bit, but pain was eclipsed by the need for completion. She gripped his hips hard with her legs, drawing him closer, filling herself with him, filling herself completely. He half laughed, half swore and brought his hand, still damp from her heat, up to pinch her nipple.

  He leaned down to kiss her and it was very nearly reverent. She gave him everything in that kiss, every ounce of longing, and frustration, and desire.

  His pace stayed slow, nearly unmoving, but then he reached down to caress her, his thumb drawing gentle circles along her sex, pressing against a point that sparked and ached with pleasure. Her heart quickened, the ache between her thighs quickened.

  And then she was shaking and gasping, and flying apart, and breaking open.

  James kissed her forehead, her temple, her cheeks, each brush of his mouth stitching her back together. When she opened her eyes, he arched an eyebrow at her, looking smug and supremely arrogant. “Well?”

  All she could think to say was, “Stag beetles.”

  “What?”

  “I’m starting to understand the hedonistic mating of stag beetles.”

  “Which was, obviously, my intention the entire time. It was all in the name of science.”

  She laughed. No, she giggled. She wasn’t a giggler by nature—and it would have been disheartening if she didn’t feel so thrillingly alive.

  She’d always thought of her body as something to house her mind, as something to take care of because the body and the mind didn’t exist separately from each other—she’d never thought of it as a thing that could feel and want and find pleasure. It was a miraculous observation.

  James eased from her, still hard, adjusted his clothing and adjusted hers, and then lifted her from the table. Her back was sore, but she didn’t much care.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, as he kicked open the door.

  “To a proper bedchamber,” he said. “I have a score to settle with these petticoats.”

  …

  First, James went to the kitchen, and then he returned with a plate, orange wedges laid out in a circle.

  Eleanor, who was sitting on his bed, looking delightfully rumpled, lifted her eyebrows.

  “There will be no scurvy in this house,” James stated solemnly. Just like in his fantasy, which he could now remember with no guilt, he took a slice between his fingers and pressed it to her mouth.

  Eleanor chewed, swallowed. James chased a drop of juice along her bottom lip with his thumb, and then watched her throat move, too fascinated by the elegant muscles.

  “This seems unnecessary.”

  “Eating properly is never unnecessary.”

  She took the plate and set it aside. “We have time.”

  Now, when their lips met, when James tasted sweet, bitter orange, it was not the harried rush of before, the almost explosive need to feel everything all at once, because they’d been denied it too long. This kiss was languid and delicious, slow and aching. It was a vow.

  She was his. And he was hers.

  And he would show her. He would explore her. He would worship her.

  If there was one thing James knew, after all, it was how to use his body to the best advantage.

  He unpeeled her from her dress, from all of those dastardly petticoats. His hands shaped her body, slender and pale and lightly curved; he kissed her pert breasts, but it wasn’t long before she was reaching for him, too, pulling at his clothes.

  When the flap of his breeches was opened and his cock sprang out, she shaped him with her fingers, the balls, the shaft, the head, studying the hard length curiously, as if it was some interesting specimen she’d just discovered. His blood surged hotly as she gently squeezed, and then again, as she pressed her finger against the slit at the tip, and when she ducked her head closer as if she might pop it into her mouth just to test the taste (God, she was thorough), he finally pulled himself free for fear he might erupt.

  She looked a little disgruntled that her exploration had been cut short, but she didn’t protest when he eased her onto her stomach and mouthed his way down the bumps of her spine. He took his time massaging her back, her calves, her thighs. He followed the slope of her backside with his palms, with his lips.

  Eleanor, face flushed and dark eyes glittering, stared at him over her shoulder. She didn’t look embarrassed to be splayed out like this in front of him. No, she looked aroused and impatient. Possibly irritated that he was taking so long. His cock responded with a fierce ache.

  “Is all of this teasing going to amount to anything?”

  Ah, and there she went, blasting all of his plans to hell. He nearly smiled.

  He wouldn’t have her any other way.

  He spread her thighs with his knee and dipped in with his fingers to find her cunt soft and wet. Then he handed her a pillow to ease beneath her hips.

  When he pressed into her from behind, she pressed back, hands curling into the bedsheets. He groaned as he sank fully into her warmth, and then, holding himself above her, he started to rock against her.

  He listened to the small noises she made, the little gasps and pants and moans, reveled in the way she felt, tight around him, the flesh of her arse soft against his abdomen. When she crooked her knee to take him deeper, he nearly exploded.

  But he wasn’t going to come until she was there, too.

  “James—” She clutched so hard at the sheets that her knuckles turned white. “Touch me again.”

  He loved the sound of her voice, ragged with desire, as she commanded him. It shot straight to his cock like a caress.

  He snaked his arm underneath her stomach and then flipped them both so they were on their sides, Eleanor’s back against his front. He surged upward into her heat, again and again, letting his hand mold to the spot where they were joined.

  She turned her head to find his mouth, to kiss him, and her unkempt hair tickled his cheek, smelling faintly of lavender. It was the most intimate moment of his life. His heart beat hard and fast in his chest. He couldn’t believe he’d nearly given her up.

  He would never be such a fool again.

  His arm tightened around her, his movements slowing, stuttering. And when she found her release, he followed, her name tumbling from his lips, hushed and reverent, like a sacred vow.

  He held her like that, for a long time, still connected. The light that filtered in through the windows shone brighter as the clouds cleared and t
hen golden as the day grew long.

  Eventually, he felt her stir, as though coming out of a blissful slumber. “I should go back soon.”

  “But not yet?”

  “Not yet,” she agreed.

  He pressed his face in the soft spot between her shoulder blades, listened to her heart beat, to the gentle gusts of her breath. That sensation he’d carried for so long, that there was something he lacked, was gone.

  His heart was complete.

  Epilogue

  Though Eleanor and James were both impatient to marry, they did not, in fact, get married straightaway. There were two reasons for this. The first was that watching James win his fight had rekindled Eleanor’s own spirit in the days that followed. She admired his bravery—he had taken back his life, in no uncertain terms.

  Eleanor wanted to be worthy of that bravery.

  Because when she thought of the Natural History Society, she didn’t feel particularly brave. She’d gone, Lord Lark had yelled at her, she’d cowered. That didn’t seem much like courage to her. Or at least not sustained courage. More like a burst of bravery that had quickly fizzled out in light of opposition.

  At first, she’d wondered why she bothered. It would never be easy, and why was she the one who had to take this impossible task upon her shoulders? There were other science-minded women out there. There were sympathetic men.

  Why hadn’t they done something before now? Why couldn’t she simply send her paper in and get it published and present her lecture, if that was her desire?

  But, after she wallowed for a while, she realized these weren’t worthy thoughts of someone who was supposed to be brave.

  Someone had to step forward. Someone had to try.

  In the insect world, individual insects were capable of great tasks—dung beetles carrying a hundred times their weight, stag beetles and their showy fights. But there were also insects that did their great feats as part of a community, that thrived as a whole—beehives, ant colonies—stronger together than they were apart.

  She realized she might have been approaching the situation the wrong way. She didn’t have to be an army of one.