At Last the Rogue Returns

by Adele Clee

  If Arabella wanted to be childish, Lydia would play her at her own game.

  All three of them were too idle to come looking for her. Still, she headed for the one place they would never dare look. The one place that terrified those people with a fear of the unknown. The one place she always felt at peace. And so, lantern in hand, Lydia followed the woodland path and headed for the sacred stone circle.

  The ancient monolithic structure had always held her fascination. Not only had it afforded her somewhere to hide from Arabella these last few years, but the stones possessed a certain mysticism that spoke to the romantic part of her nature.

  As soon as Lydia entered the stone circle, she experienced the same prickle of awareness that always rippled down her spine whenever she came near. She moved towards the sacrificial altar, placed her lantern on the ground and laid her hands on the spot where she’d found Lord Greystone snoozing. Though cold and damp to the touch, the energy contained within the giant rock pulsated in her palms. The tingling sensation brought to mind the sight of the tempting rogue sprawled out in feigned slumber.

  Even in sleep, Greystone looked devilishly handsome. The man possessed an inner strength that shone like the brightest flame. And like a mindless moth, Lydia could not help but feel an inner tug—a powerful pull of attraction.

  The irony of the situation made her chuckle. Having spent two years hating the devil, now she had taken to daydreaming about his lips, the delightful cleft in his chin and those mesmerising green eyes that held her spellbound.

  How odd that her feelings for him had changed so dramatically.

  How wrong she had been to think the worst of him.

  Greystone had acted with genuine benevolence when meeting his tenants. But heavens above, the lord was most certainly not weak. He had whipped the hammer from Mr Roberts’ grip with ease. The strange movements—twists and blocks with his hands and forearms—were unlike anything she had seen before. No doubt it was a skill mastered in an exotic country abroad.

  The sudden hoot of an owl dragged Lydia out of her musings.

  In a bid to banish all thoughts of her beguiling neighbour, she decided to climb onto the stone table and spend an hour watching the clouds drift across the charcoal sky. With the toe of her boot wedged into a tiny fissure, she was about to haul herself up when noises in the woods caught her attention.

  Dead foliage crunched underfoot.

  Twigs snapped.

  Gathering her courage and her cloak more firmly, she turned and peered into the darkness. The low-lying fog rose like a ghostly mist, shrouding the tree trunks in a white, barely transparent veil. Ada would have a fit of apoplexy at the sight, imagining all the phantasmal creatures of her nightmares.

  The owl hooted again.

  Wind rustled in the trees.

  A faint screech echoed in the distance—the bark of a deer—the shriek of a fox. She could not tell. Lydia wandered over to the outer circle and scanned the hazy black shadows. The crunching underfoot grew louder and was soon accompanied by the thud of footsteps pounding the ground.

  Breathless pants filled the air.

  Lydia shuffled backwards as a sudden sense of foreboding gripped her by the throat.

  A figure appeared through the gloom. The tall man darted into the circle and hid behind a large vertical stone. His head lolled forward as he struggled to catch his breath.

  Lydia froze.

  The man straightened.

  Their eyes locked.

  The light from the lantern revealed the ginger whiskers covering his cheeks, the sly grin as he scanned her body, the trickle of blood dripping from one corner of his mouth.

  Had he tripped and fallen in the bracken? Had he been attacked by highway robbers and beaten for his purse? If one believed Ada’s improbable tales, perhaps he had feasted on the blood of a woodland creature. While Lydia knew with some certainty it was not the latter, his shifty eyes proved menacing.

  “Well, what have we here? Perhaps the night won’t be a damnable waste after all.” His hushed tone conveyed an accent born in the upper echelons of society although there was something crude and distasteful about his manner. “The bastard chased you off, too, did he? Gilligan said there’d be fillies tonight, but I didn’t expect to have to race through the woods to find one.”

  I advise you to remain indoors tomorrow evening.

  Mr Gilligan’s words of warning whipped through Lydia’s mind. Heavens, she had forgotten all about the steward’s unscrupulous plans to host a card game. Lord Greystone was right about the guest list. This man looked every bit the disreputable rogue.

  Lydia considered her options.

  He appeared reluctant to move from his hiding place. She could run, run back through the woods, hope to lose him in the mist. But first, she had to move to the edge of the circle without alerting him of her intention.

  “I suppose you came for the card game.” Would her eloquent tone deter him from whatever dastardly notion had taken hold of his mind?

  “There seems to be many games afoot tonight though I’ve yet to be dealt a blasted hand.” He watched her, his silver-blue eyes alight as if stripping off her clothes and taking pleasure in what he found there.

  She listened out for more footsteps—for a sign they were not alone—but heard nothing.

  “So you’re running from Lord Greystone?” she said, her mouth so dry she had to force her lips apart to speak.

  “Greystone’s a devil.” The man sneered. “And so is that odd fellow he’s got with him.”

  One glimpse of Mr Drake’s large frame was enough to frighten any man out of his wits.

  Lydia tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. “Cuckfield is that way,” she said, pointing to the left. “You can find food and lodgings at the coaching inn.”

  “Bugger that. I’ll not leave my damn horse. That blasted foreigner might roast it on a spit and eat it for supper.” Feeling somewhat braver, he pushed away from his stone shelter. He stopped and scanned the area, cocked his head and listened. Clearly satisfied that Greystone had given up his pursuit, the man stole furtively towards her.

  “Sh-should you not be on your way? Before Lord Greystone finds you.”

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll go home with nothing to show for my efforts.” He moistened his lips as he came to a halt a foot away. “A fellow must ease his frustration. What do you say we make use of that flat stone behind, eh?”

  Knowing there was nothing for it but to fight her way out of this troubling situation, Lydia pushed the man in the chest. “Stay back, sir, else I shall … I shall scream.”

  Scream? What good would that do in the woods?

  “I can make you scream,” the cad said. Wearing a villainous grin, he forced her back against the stone. “Or you can be a willing participant. I have no preference either way.”

  Oh, how she wished she had a hat pin, perhaps two, one for each cheek.

  “Then it seems I have but one option open to me.” Without warning, Lydia mustered all her strength and punched the rogue hard in the stomach.

  “What the—” The man clutched his abdomen and gasped for breath. “You damn bitch.” Lydia skirted past him and made to leave. She’d taken four paces when she felt his vice-like grip settle on her wrist. “Come back here. There’s only one place for a whore, and that’s on her back.”

  There was a mad tussle. She scratched his face, threw her arms about like a wildcat. He shoved her to the ground, dropped to his knees and pushed her skirts up to her thighs.

  “Get off me.” Lydia kicked him but he covered her body, squashing her into the damp grass. “You drunken oaf.”

  “Keep still.” Holding her down firmly with one hand, he fiddled with the fall of his breeches. The repugnant stench of stale tobacco, sweat and ale filled her nostrils as she tried to gather a breath. “You’ll enjoy every minute. I can promise you that.”

  “And you’ll be lucky to leave with your ballocks intact. I can promise you that.” The familiar voice sh
rouded Lydia like a warm blanket.

  Greystone!

  The heavy weight lying on top of her was suddenly catapulted into the air.

  Lydia sat up and scrambled backwards.

  The lantern light caught the side of Greystone’s face, casting eerie shadows over the hard planes. His eyes were no longer imbued with the vibrant summer green that stole her breath. Now they were dark, dangerous, like the inner depths of a forbidden forest. The open collar of his white shirt billowed in the wind, revealing the pulsing veins in his neck.

  Never had she seen a more breathtaking sight.

  “Was one fist in the face not enough?” Greystone spat, rounding on the rascal.

  “They’re right about you. You’re a damn heathen.” The cad’s words dripped with arrogance.

  “I’m the heathen? You’re the one who lacks moral principles. And I intend to teach you a lesson you will never forget.”

  “Is this any way to treat one’s brother?” Despite being taller than Lord Greystone, the rogue held his hands up as if warding off a tiger.

  Did he say brother?

  “You’re no brother of mine. What part of get the hell off my land do you not understand?” Greystone cast her a sidelong glance. Anger radiated from every fibre of his being. Lord, the devil had nothing on him when he was in a mind for murder.

  “Our father might disagree.”

  “Our father is dead.” Greystone narrowed his gaze. “And I know damn well you’re here for more than a card game. If I discover you’ve taken anything from the house, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “I don’t need your worthless trinkets,” the rascal said haughtily.

  “No?”

  “No!” He pressed his back against the sacrificial stone and gripped the rock as if balancing on the edge of a hundred-foot ravine. “Besides, someone had to keep watch on the place while you were idling abroad.”

  Greystone snarled. “What I do with my time is of no concern of yours. Perhaps you need a lesson in manners and etiquette. Perhaps I should call you out for disrespecting my home.”

  Lydia noted Greystone’s murderous expression. He appeared desperate for an excuse to hurt his brother.

  “You’d put a ball in my back?” the rogue said incredulously. “What about family loyalty?”

  “How many times must I tell you?” Greystone clenched his jaw. “You’re not my brother. And so much for family loyalty. Your coward of a brother, Stephen, fled the manor without a backwards glance and is probably halfway to London by now.” Greystone shrugged his shoulders. “But perhaps you’re right. Why dirty my hands when my friend is just as eager to make you pay?”

  “No!” The man’s head shot left and right, his frantic gaze peering through the gloom. “Keep that little fellow away from me, do you hear?”

  Little fellow? Mr Drake was a burly brute.

  “Shall I call Dariell?” A sly grin formed on Greystone’s lips.

  Who on earth was Dariell?

  Lydia stared into the darkness, too, but saw no one.

  “No!” The rascal held up his hands. “Wait. Just let me pass, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Greystone rubbed his collarbone, drawing Lydia’s attention to the bronzed skin beneath his open shirt. Her interest piqued, she imagined his sweat-drenched chest glistening under the heat of the midday sun. The hairs on her nape prickled to attention, and she grew somewhat light-headed.

  Heavens, this silly obsession she’d developed proved too distracting by far.

  “Even if I could forgive you for the disrespect shown to me. Do you expect me to let you walk out of here after the way you treated a lady?” Greystone’s shoulders relaxed. He cracked his neck and beckoned the rascal forward. “I intend to fight for her honour. Now, Edwin, you’re welcome to throw the first punch, but it’s likely you’ll leave here with a few broken bones.”

  Greystone’s words sounded savage—brutal. Yet they lit a fire in Lydia’s heart that warmed her to her core. No one had ever fought for her. No one had ever come to her aid. For the first time since her father’s death, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

  “You don’t fight fair.”

  “Fair? What is fair about the way you behaved? Had I not arrived when I did, you would have—” He stopped abruptly and gritted his teeth. “I’m going to hit you regardless, so you may as well throw the first punch.”

  It took a moment for the rogue to gather his confidence, then he puffed out his chest, sauntered forward and raised his fists. With an angry snarl he swiped wide, but Greystone blocked his attack and punched him in the stomach. The rogue retched, doubled over and dropped to his knees. Greystone grabbed his brother by the collar of his coat and dragged him out of the stone circle.

  Amid the rustling wind and the scuttling in the woods, Lydia heard the man’s cries of protest—then she heard nothing.

  Seconds passed.

  Greystone stormed back into the circle with a look just as deadly as the one she’d seen minutes earlier. He came to an abrupt halt before her.

  “Is he dead?” she said nervously.

  “Of course not.” He held his hand out to her and hauled her to her feet. “But you, madam, will tell me what the hell you’re doing out here alone at night?”

  His thunderous expression made her catch her breath. “I needed time away from the house.”

  Lord Greystone stepped closer, forcing her to shuffle backwards until pressed against the sacrificial stone. “And you thought to come here, knowing Gilligan arranged the card game?”

  “I forgot about that. Must you be so angry?”

  “So angry? Do you have any idea what would have happened had I not arrived when I did? Where the hell is your maid?”

  “At home.”

  Those words held some sort of power over him for a weary groan escaped his lips. He dragged his hand down his face as if an internal war raged within. The wind caught the open neck of his shirt revealing more of his chest. The dusting of dark hair made her stomach flip. She couldn’t help but stare. Her breathing came a little quicker and no matter how many times she swallowed, her mouth was dry.

  “Continue to look at me like that, and I’ll not be responsible for my actions.” His voice was smooth now, so rich and exquisite. His heated gaze explored her face, came to settle on her mouth.

  Never had she felt such a rush of elation. Inside, her body turned to liquid fire. “Thank you for coming to my aid,” she breathed.

  “I recall you said I was the last person you would turn to for help.”

  “I didn’t exactly ask for your help.” With him standing so close she had to focus on remaining upright. “Besides, I said that before I knew you.”

  “And you think you know me now?”

  After putting her trust in Mr Gilligan, she wasn’t sure if she was qualified to judge anyone. And yet a part of her felt as though she’d known Greystone her whole life, known him intimately in some other place, some other time.

  “I know you’re not a devil.” Unable to stop herself, she laid her hand lightly on his chest, came up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  Greystone froze.

  “I know you acted every bit the gentleman tonight,” Lydia continued. “And I thank you again for your chivalry.”

  “The night is still young.” His words breezed past her ear, and she shivered in response. “I fear you might be mistaken.”

  Lydia pulled back a fraction. “And why is that?”

  “Because when I’m with you, my thoughts are wickedly sinful. The idea of tasting your lips makes me lose my mind. After kissing you, I suspect all of life’s pleasurable experiences will fall hopelessly short.”

  “Oh. I see. Th-then there is only one way to test your theory.” Never had she been so bold. Never had she longed to kiss a man. Doubt crept into her mind, but she refused to let it hamper her confidence.

  “And what is that?”

  “You must kiss me, Lord Greystone.”

  For a moment he si
mply stared at her and all her senses burst to life. She could see her reflection in his eyes, could hear the soft swooshing of the wind teasing the evergreens. The earthy scent of his skin, coupled with the clean smell of shaving soap—bergamot perhaps—enveloped her. All she needed now was to taste his lips.

  He reached up, tucked a few loose tendrils of hair back behind her ear and brushed his knuckles gently across her cheek. “What happened to your bonnet?” he said in a velvety voice that made the simple question sound positively sinful.

  “I didn’t wear one.” Her gaze fell to the opening of his shirt. “What happened to your coat and cravat?”

  “Clothes can be an encumbrance. I was caught unawares.” He pressed his lips lightly to hers, just once, and the surrounding air sparked with a vibrant intensity she’d never known. “Much like now.”

  “You’ve not considered kissing me before?”

  A weak chuckle escaped him. Even that sounded seductive. “Many times. And with your permission, I will kiss you now. Properly, if I may.”

  “You may.” Lydia’s heart thumped so hard in her chest she could hear it pounding in her ears. “Kiss me now before I die from anticipation.”

  His arm snaked around her back, strong and protective, and he pulled her to his chest.

  “It’s not wise to tempt the devil,” he whispered as he tilted her head back and his mouth found hers.

  She expected another chaste kiss, a quick press of the lips, sweet and tender. But by God, she was wrong. Greystone devoured her like a man starved. She swayed with the power of it, clung on to him as the ground dissolved beneath her feet.

  Hot and wet, his tongue traced the seam of her lips and penetrated her mouth. Shock gave way to desire. Despite her inexperience, her tongue brushed tentatively against his, but Greystone demanded more. He teased her, coaxed her until, in an explosion of passion, she thrust against him, clutched his shirt, caressed the hard planes of his chest. She couldn’t get enough of him, of his taste, his smell, of the raw, masculine feel of his body.

  A moan of pleasure resonated in the back of her throat. And she was lost in it, sinking amid an exhilarating euphoria. Every part of her came alive. Tingles sparked throughout her body. The heaviness in her stomach moved southwards and all she could think of was easing the delicious ache that cried out for his touch.