The Rogue Returns.smashwords

by Leigh LaValle

  Helen’s smile faltered. She couldn’t help it, her gaze dipped down to his mouth as well. His beautiful, lush, kissable mouth.

  Rogues were like insects, she reminded herself, they cast a shimmering web then sucked the life out of you. She ought to be smarter than a silly fly.

  “Don’t look so sour. I’ll take pity on you and bait the hook myself.” Roane skewered the worm on the hook—ugh—and threw it into the swirling water. “You’ll want to keep to the small pools where the fish like to hide.”

  He handed her the twig pole and looked at her again, really looked at her with a long, assessing gaze that left her toes curling in her boots.

  “What?” Helen touched her hair defensively. She knew she appeared a mess—a bedraggled, sunburnt mess. “I’m sure my appearance is frightful, you needn’t tell me.”

  “Hardly.” His amber eyes were warm. “You don’t need fancy gowns to be beautiful, buttercup.”

  Oh, she wanted to believe him. As far as compliments went, his was simple yet effective. Truly, she did feel rather pretty, even in the murk and muck. It unsettled her. “Don’t you have something else to do? Go check your traps, maybe?”

  “Are you dismissing me?” He crossed his arms and laughed. At her.

  “You are very provoking, sirrah.”

  “Ooh, put down with a sirrah.”

  “What would you like to be called?”

  “Any number of things come to mind.” Slowly, with great intent, he uncrossed his arms and reached out to her. She did not pull away, as she should have, but stood waiting for his hands to finally—finally!—touch her. He traced her throat with his fingertips, from her jaw to her collarbone, until shivers cascaded through her. “But truly it is the tone of voice I should enjoy.”

  Helen swallowed. “You are a rogue.”

  “Yes, yes I am.” Roane winked and dropped his hands. She watched him walk away, chagrined that she should feel the loss of him. One thing was certain about Mr. Grantham—he was a complication of the worst sort. He was trouble, born from trouble and bound for more trouble. And he made her feel things she could not afford to feel.

  He stopped at the edge of the trees and glanced back at her. His blond hair shone in the setting sun like a halo. “I think we are safe for the night, even with our slow pace today, but you should stay close.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the trees.

  To cast his web in the shadows, no doubt.

  They enjoyed a large dinner of fish with wild garlic and mushrooms after which Roane left to tend to the horses. He reappeared thirty minutes later, strolling across the darkening clearing toward Helen, the two bedrolls tucked under his arm. He had shaved, and the bones of his face were cast in sharp angles by the firelight. He looked…different. Intent, like he had something on his mind.

  Frankly, he looked dangerous.

  Helen watched his approach, her heartbeat thick and fast. She should look away, she really should, but found she could not. At some point, perhaps while he’d been shaving, Roane had unbuttoned his shirt. The white fabric gaped open, revealing the banded, rough-hewn muscles of his chest. Powerful. Raw. Golden.

  The man was magnificent.

  Dazzling, really.

  And not good for her at all.

  Best she turn away, yes, give him her back so she wouldn’t be tempted to look again.

  “Where would you like to sleep tonight, buttercup?” He stopped behind her and leaned close enough the heat of his skin shivered up her spine. “Will you sneak into my blankets again?”

  She jerked her chin to the side. “Certainly not.” Her voice lacked conviction. She lacked conviction. The truth was, she hadn’t minded sleeping beside him last night. His hot, firm body pressed against the length of her. His arm resting just below her breasts—

  Goodness, these thoughts were not helping.

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said harder this time, speaking both to herself and to him.

  “Are you certain?” She could hear the smile in his voice, could imagine the sparkle in his amber eyes. “I could put our blankets together and address that ill temper of yours.”

  Helen did not trust herself to answer. She held the knotted string up to the light of the fire. She was making a muddle of the task, trying to open the food bag Mittens had played with. Her palms were damp and her mouth parched, as if her body could no longer balance such a simple thing. Moisture. Dryness. Attraction. Reason. Teasing. Truth.

  “You didn’t seem to mind sharing my warmth last night.” He stroked his fingers down her long braid and she closed her eyes.

  At once, she was exhausted. Worn out and sore from the long ride that day. Fatigued from deflecting Roane’s teasing and flirtations.

  Helen dragged her eyelids open, pulled her braid from Roane’s fingers and turned to face him. Well, face his chest, anyway, and the deep V of tanned skin exposed by his open shirt. She tilted her head back and looked up over the strong column of his throat, over his sharp jaw and smiling mouth to his watching eyes.

  She took a small step back. “Last night was an exceptional evening. We were in a cave, if you recall.” A dark, dank, creepy, crawly cave. “And we had only one blanket.”

  Roane tossed the two bedrolls onto the flat rock beside them. “I should have claimed they hadn’t any blankets for sale in Bakewell this afternoon.”

  “An English village out of wool?”

  “Anything to keep you close, buttercup.” He winked.

  The man was incorrigible. Helen looked away and once again struggled to unknot the strings of the food bag. “Why do you call me buttercup?”

  “Because you are so sweet.”

  “I am not that sweet,” she muttered. “Damn these tangles. I can’t get them—”

  He slipped the burlap sac from her hand and examined the knotted strings. Calloused, patient fingers coaxed the tangles loose. She did not glance up when he placed the food bag on the rock.

  “Yes, you are sweet.” He hooked his finger under her chin and nudged her head up. Their eyes met, then he dropped his gaze down to her lips. “Sweet and spicy and tempting as sin.”

  It was a simple glance, but it left her hot.

  Hot and achy and full of want.

  This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. She arched away from his touch. “Tempting as sin? Really? How original.”

  His lips tilted up. “I’ve wanted to kiss you all day.”

  “And why would I let you kiss me?”

  “Because I could make you feel wonderful. Exceptionally wonderful. ”

  Her face flushed at his silly words. She would put an end to this immediately. The last thing she needed was another rogue in her life.

  One kiss and she would be free from her attraction. Free from him. Surely their embrace would be bumbling and awkward and full of lies.

  She took a deep breath and looked up. “Very well, Roane, you’ve convinced me.” She waved her hand toward her lips. “Kiss me.”

  “What?” He jerked his chin up. His amber eyes were hot on her.

  “I said you’ve convinced me. Let us get on with it.”

  “What?” he said again.

  “I’m raising the white flag of defeat. I’m charmed by your roguish ways. I’m awash with desire. Your flirting and pretty words have hit their mark. Kiss me.”

  He ran his hand through his hair, leaving the blond curls on end. “What game is this, Helen?”

  “What makes you think it is a game?”

  His brows lowered over his eyes. “You don’t appear like a woman who needs to be kissed.”

  She drew back, stung by his remark.

  “Your lips are smashed together,” he continued. “And your shoulders are tense.”

  So they were. She allowed herself to relax, softened her neck and shoulders. Then she took a deep breath and unlaced her desire. Let her wanting show on her face, just this one time. Later, she would tuck i
t away where it belonged, hidden in the darkness of her dreams.

  Her lips parted.

  “Much better,” he rumbled.

  His hand landed on her arm. Warm fingers wrapped around her wrist and tugged until she stumbled forward. Too far gone for rhythm, her heartbeat crashed against her ribs.

  What had she done?

  Roane slid his hand up her arm to the back of her neck. “I am not a nice man, Helen. I kiss sweet girls who should know better than to taunt me.”

  “I am not a girl, Roane. I know what I want.”

  “Good, because I know what I want as well.”

  He bent down and a lock of hair slid over his forehead, but he stopped when his mouth was just inches from hers. She couldn’t wait anymore and he knew it. He’d cast his web and she was caught.

  In the end, it was she who pressed her lips to his. His mouth was softer than she had expected. His lips full and warm.

  He slipped his hands around her waist and drew her toward him. Pulled her against the hard wall of his body.

  She was set aflame.

  And she was proven wrong. Entirely wrong. Blissfully wrong.

  He could kiss like an angel. Like a devil.

  And there would be no putting away this wanting now.

  Chapter Nine

  Helen grabbed onto Roane’s shoulders and sank her fingers into his hard, hard muscle. She couldn’t get close enough; every part of her wanted to touch him.

  He tilted his head and flicked his tongue across her lips. She was shaking everywhere now. Then he did it again. She opened her mouth to him and met his tongue with her own and pleasure pounded through her.

  More, she wanted more.

  Now, tonight in this shadowed meadow, she wanted to touch the tempting man before her. To run her hands over the hard span of his chest and shoulders. Over his smooth jaw and full lips.

  She wanted to taste him.

  And that was even more dangerous than his honeyed words. Her wanting.

  She tangled her tongue with his. He tasted like something she could not identify, but she needed it. She pressed up onto her toes and pulled herself harder against him. Smashed her breasts against his chest, her belly against his belly.

  He groaned and swept his hand up her side, slipped his finger inside the neckline of her gown, and brushed it across her nipple, as if he’d been waiting to touch her there for days.

  Her head fell back and he did it again, then dropped his lips to her throat, and down lower to where his finger teased her flesh.

  The sound of their breaths filled the night air, mingling with the river running nearby. And it was like a river, her wanting, her longing pouring and pouring without end, pooling between her legs, filling her near to bursting.

  Roane’s mouth was on the tops of her breasts, his hands cupping her bottom and holding her against him. Yes, she wanted this. She wanted more.

  He was untying the tapes of her apron front gown, then loosening the laces of her corset. He was freeing her breasts and she only wanted more. Everywhere more.

  A cool breeze blew across her breasts. Her exposed breasts.

  Reason poured through her like a bitter tonic.

  What was she doing? She stiffened, her fear a cold thing with grasping fingers.

  She was walking into the fire as if she wouldn’t be burned. As if she could change the alchemy of the world. But she was not magical; she had the scars to prove it.

  A shudder and a hardening ran through Roane’s muscles just before he pulled away.

  “You are delicious, buttercup. Too delicious.” His voice was full of regret as he stepped back. Her hands slid from his shoulders, and she could not meet his eyes. She did not want to stop. She wanted all of it.

  But she could not have it.

  She held her gown closed with shaking hands, as she’d done that afternoon they’d met.

  Dangerous thoughts—poisonous, burning thoughts—raced through her. What if she told him not to stop? What if she took what she wanted? What if she took him?

  “Helen?” He nudged her chin up with his hand so she had to look at him. Whatever he saw in her face made him hiss out a loud breath and drop his hand. “I’m going for a walk.” He sounded tortured. “I’ll make sure there is no one about. Try to get some sleep.”

  Helen watched him go, her fingertips on her lips. There was no way she could sleep now. She was shaking everywhere. All this wanting, all this longing, was pressing against her skin from the inside. Her heart beat and beat, and still she could not catch her breath.

  She’d never wanted anything for herself so completely, with such ferocity. Not like this.

  What bitter irony that the one man she craved was no good for her at all.

  Somewhere in the night an owl called and a mouse scuttled though the undergrowth. And she was terrified. Not of the dark, and not of the men following them.

  But of herself.

  Hours later, Helen woke cold and aching in her bedroll. The fire had died down, and the night was pitch black. She could feel Roane behind her, his warmth an irresistible draw. Would he notice if she wiggled back, just an inch?

  Quiet as the night around them, she slipped back, only to catch her breath as a root dug into her ribs. She wiggled back a little more, closer than she ought to be to Roane, but his heat felt heavenly.

  And then there was Mittens. The kitten had crawled under Roane’s blanket and slept by his feet—even the cat wanted to be near the man. Helen could feel his little purring breaths against her ankle.

  Still, she couldn’t sleep. She closed her eyes but her mind whirled and whirled. Maybe if she lay on her back—nope. One arm up? Not that either.

  She was just too—

  “Shhh.” Roane anchored his arm around her and dragged her back against his chest. He threw his leg over her hip and she was warm everywhere.

  “Sleep,” he whispered, his voice husky.

  As if she could rest now.

  Helen tried to shift again, but Roane’s leg was surprisingly heavy. She lay back, annoyed at his presumptuousness.

  And fell asleep.

  ***

  Roane woke first, not that he’d really slept. Not with the men chasing them—immediate danger did have a way of keeping a man awake. As did the soft, sweet-smelling female pressed up against him. Her back was curled against his chest, her arse nestled up against groin. Were she awake, she’d feel exactly how hard the night had been for him.

  He slid his hand up the curve of her side, wanting to continue the kiss they’d started last night. He’d been a fool to stop it. She’d asked him to kiss her; he needn’t have been so chivalrous about it.

  He could kiss her again, right now. Roll her onto her back and slip her skirts up her thighs. He would wager her thighs were shapely, perfect for a man’s touch. In fact, he’d take that dress right off her, see her naked in the morning light.

  But she’d been scared last night, and he’d be a cad to press her. He needed to bide his time with her, let her come to him when she was ready.

  With a curse, he slipped out of the covers and went down to the cold stream. The water was a shock to his skin, but did nothing to dampen the desire raging through him. He’d almost uncovered Helen’s luscious breasts last night. And almost wasn’t nearly naked enough.

  In the end he splashed so much water on himself, trying to cool off, he was dripping wet and miserable when he returned to camp. Helen was still sleeping, and he took pains not to wake her. He hated to leave her alone, but he needed to ride out and check the area for tracks.

  Quietly he saddled Zeus and headed out into the misty morning. He gave the gelding his head, and they flew as one to the top of the valley and across the moorland. So many times he’d done this in the past—slipped out of his hiding hole at first light and rode like the wind through the hills.

  Instinct told him to ride east, where the flatter, more direct paths lay. The robbers would have ove
rheard him tell Helen the map was of the Pennines, and they would know to go north.

  About three miles northeast of camp, he spotted tracks in the mud. Three well-shod, gaited horses had passed through the day before, moving north at a fast pace. Roane dismounted and followed the prints a few yards, disquiet settling in his bones. Of course these could be any three riders, but the tracks were similar to the one’s he’d spotted the first night. Too similar. He withdrew his pencil and journal from his cloak pocket and traced the prints for future comparison.

  In the past, he might follow the tracks to spy on the men and glean information. But it was too dangerous with Helen, and he hadn’t time to play hide-and-seek with the robbers anyway. He needed to get to the gold and get to Stamford within the fortnight.

  He climbed atop Zeus and rode back toward Helen. The men were ahead of them, that was hardly a surprise, but they were too close for comfort. He would need to be extra cautious over the next few days, to choose his routes with care and keep Helen close.

  The thought of her alone and unprotected made him urge Zeus on faster. He couldn’t even consider what the men would do to such a lovely creature if they found her.

  His jaw ached with tension when he finally slipped back into camp. He was relieved to find his sleeping princess awake and safe, poking at the fire, her hair a wild mess about her head.

  She had the appearance of a woman who’d been tumbled and satisfied by someone in the night.

  He’d damn well like to be that someone.

  “Good morning,” she said when she saw him. “I was hoping we might make some coffee.”

  “Ah, I’ve corrupted you already.” He smiled. He would keep her safe. It was not a question.

  “You are a terrible influence, that was never in doubt.” She made a face at him and limped across the clearing to the fallen log where she liked to sit.

  “The soreness will go away in a few days. Or I could offer you a rubdown.” He waggled his brows.

  “You are incorrigible.”

  “Completely.” He stoked the flames and put the kettle on the fire. “But, in all seriousness, we need to make better time today. We’ve a Castle to see and a mountain pass to traverse.”