Diamond in the Rogue

by Wendy Lacapra

  No matter which name he uttered, she remained the same—less woman than flame. Neither time nor distance nor fierce castigation had purged her from his mind. Nothing under heaven could.

  To him, she was irresistible.

  Her lower lip trembled as their mouths moved together. With every stroke of her tongue, he came closer to complete disintegration.

  Gnat-small doubts buzzed in his ears. He ignored everything but her taste.

  Her hands, small, though roughened with the prior night’s ordeal, clamped against his cheeks, angling his face. Her nails bit into the flesh beneath his ears as if, by digging into his flesh, she could merge their bodies into one.

  She seized her pleasure the same way she seized life, adventure. Her enthusiasm made even daylight disappear. Inside the small-windowed room, night reigned supreme.

  And shadows did not exist in the night. In night, he was fully whole.

  Her heat penetrated the flimsy layers of linen and cotton separating them. Her desire stretched out like an invisible string. She wanted him? She could have him. But he wouldn’t settle for crumbs.

  He seized command, deepened control, stole her breath, and promised pleasure—possession—in return. He lifted her up and pinned her, her back flat against the wall.

  Lock and key, her thighs fit to his. His cock—as hard as he’d been from night into morning—rested desperately close to where they both wanted.

  With one slight movement, he could open the flap of her trousers. With another yank, they’d be on the floor. He could finally—finally—settle between her legs and thrust until the painful throb ceased, something he never would have considered when he believed her chaste.

  But no virgin could have such confidence.

  So what if she’d had another man? Now was all that mattered. She was everything he wanted. Everything he’d so far denied.

  He rocked against her pelvis.

  She whimpered. The sound ricocheted through him.

  He rocked again. This was going to feel so, so—

  “Stop!”

  Icy chill spread through his veins. No other word could have reached him so fast.

  Blood pounded behind his eyes, making everything hazy and red. He stepped back and slowly eased her onto her feet.

  Stop.

  Of course she’d been right to demand he cease his attentions. He’d lost his mind. Again.

  “Rayne, I—I’ve never done this before.”

  He took in her red cheeks, her wide-eyed frantic gaze… Unbelievable as her innocence was, she was telling the truth.

  “You owe me no explanation.” He hadn’t entirely found his voice. “But for your own good, you should leave.”

  Just like the last time, he’d simply stolen something that wasn’t his.

  This time, however, he hadn’t just violated a virgin. He’d come razor’s-edge close to swiving another gentleman’s betrothed against a wall.

  He pressed his hands over his lips, as if he could wipe off the stain of everything he might have done. No doubt, she longed for her gentleman friend’s restraint.

  He turned away, hating Edmund Alistair Clarke more than he’d hated anything.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he said roughly. “If you’ve set your heart on that—” He stopped himself from saying prig. “I’ll see you on the mail coach but no farther.”

  Chapter Seven

  She should leave, should she? Because he changed his mind?

  All Julia had wanted was for Rayne to slow down.

  To give her space to take a breath that wasn’t his.

  To put her feet back on the ground.

  To give her a moment—a bloody second—to make sense of what was happening to his body and to hers.

  All she’d known was that they’d been fighting and then, suddenly, she could no longer tell where he ended and she began.

  Of course he’d misunderstood. He always misunderstood.

  Her legs became gelatin. The room swayed.

  His terms never changed—accept whatever he meted out or be abandoned.

  Her cheeks flamed. Her body burned. For a moment, everything went blank. Then anger exploded in a torrent, flooding her muscles with strength.

  “Devil take you!” The forbidden expression focused her mind. “I don’t need you. I don’t want you. And I’ll see you in hell before I allow you to escort me anywhere.”

  A mite strong, perhaps—she yanked open the door—but the shock on his face was satisfying…so satisfying. She slammed the door and stalked toward the stairs, fuming.

  Rayne may have been a leader of the young Tory set, an aristocrat of rare means, but she doubted he’d been the rake his reputation claimed.

  What kind of experienced lover could be so out of tune with the woman in his arms?

  Hadn’t he realized that little session had only been the second time they’d kissed?

  The second time she’d kissed anyone at all?

  She couldn’t understand how—and why—he’d moved so quickly. After all, it wasn’t as if they’d stolen a moment during a soiree and were about to be discovered.

  They’d been kissing in a bedchamber, for goodness’ sake. With a bed right there.

  He could have slowed things down.

  He could have given her space to take one breath.

  She couldn’t pinpoint the moment when everything changed, but at some point, fear had entered her want, and vulnerability, her need. She was filled with too much sensation. And then he’d lifted her straight off the ground. She’d been weightless. Breathless.

  And terrified out of her mind.

  She’d wanted his kiss, but the way they’d come together had been wrong—so wrong. All fury and frustration with no explanations.

  Even worse, he’d just told her he was considering selling the Grange, walking away from his life…from her.

  He may no longer sparkle like a diamond, but his heart was still made of stone.

  How else could he so effortlessly move between indifference to apology, accusation to care, rules to passionate kisses?

  Because he was a pig-headed, arrogant, breathtaking, awe-inspiring—

  She tripped over the last stair, catching herself on the final baluster.

  The butler’s mirror at the base of the stair reflected her bowed, distorted expression. Exactly as she felt within. And that bruise on her jaw? Almost purplish-black. Not to mention the deep, roughened red of her ravaged lips. She buttoned her opened waistcoat—at least now her breasts were concealed.

  That’s it. Breathe. She considered her options.

  She’d enough coin to hire passage back to Southford, but did she really wish to leave?

  No.

  Despite the anger frothing in her heart, she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay. Fight. Figure out the truth.

  Something must exist between the extremes. But was that something worth gambling her all?

  She sank down onto the stair.

  Why, why couldn’t she just leave him? Why—even now—did her heart recognize his confusion? Not just recognize, but feel?

  And why in heaven’s name, if she could feel his deepest, conflicting emotions, couldn’t he properly read the simplest of hers?

  The door to the tavern opened, and a maid slipped through—no one she’d seen before. Although, Jack had mentioned a sister, hadn’t he?

  “Carol?”

  The maid nodded, pressed her fingers to her lips, and then motioned for Julia to follow her into the kitchens at the far end of the stairwell.

  “Miss,” she whispered. “Me mum sent me back to find the gent. You’ll do, though, I suppose.”

  Julia glanced down at her breeches. “Miss?”

  The maid lifted her brow. “If you’ll pardon, no man stands like that.”

 
“Did you require something?” Julia asked testily. “And why are we whispering?”

  “A man and a woman just arrived. They’re in the tavern, talking to my pa. The man says he’s a rector from the village of Southford and they’re after a young lady and an earl”—Carol looked Julia up and down—“possibly eloping.”

  Julia sucked in.

  Rector Chandler?

  Just like that, she was cold once more.

  The rector had married her parents. Christened her and her brother and sister. Knew about—and had kept to himself—Julia’s fascination with Rayne, Rayne’s past behavior, and Markham’s disapproval.

  If he’d come, he hadn’t come to expose them. He’d come to save her reputation, to give her a chance to turn back.

  “Although,” Carol continued, “if you don’t mind my saying, he doesn’t look like a rector to me, any more than you look like a lady… Though I’ve been known to be wrong. So, what should I tell them?”

  Julia glanced up the stairs. Rayne.

  She looked over at the door to the tavern. Rector.

  If she meant to leave Rayne, to banish him from her mind forever…this was her chance.

  A chance she was not going to take.

  Julia slipped her hand into her pocket and took out a coin. “Well, have you seen a young lady and an earl?”

  “Can’t say as I have. The only people who came from the South last night were a middling sort of country gentleman and his valet…only, I can’t quite recall where they said they were heading…”

  “Tell them East,” Julia lied. “Toward London.”

  “Now I recall. When they left early this morning, they was heading East to London.” She changed her tone. “Greg’s your postilion. I’ll have him ready the carriage at the far side of the barn. You better move fast—all the way to Scotland.”

  Julia exhaled. “I’ll collect the middling country gentleman.”

  As quiet as she could, Julia raced back up the stairs. She opened the chamber door, breathless. “Get your valise.” She inhaled. “We have to go.” Another deep breath. “Now.”

  Rayne cocked his head. “Didn’t I just tell you—?”

  “Rector Chandler is below stairs,” she interrupted. “There’s no time to argue.”

  Rayne strode to the window and opened the curtain, cursing under his breath.

  Your mistake? She heard Farring in her mind. Leaving a sullen man in silence for too long.

  “Well?” Julia asked. “Do you want to be forced to marry me, or do you want to get into the waiting carriage?”

  She grabbed his valise and headed down the stairs, breathing a sigh of relief as she felt Rayne at her back. The corridor floorboards creaked under her feet, and the rumble of conversation within the tavern ceased.

  Rayne pulled her into the closet beneath the stair, putting his hand over her mouth.

  The scent of leather and spice overwhelmed her fear. Carefully, she removed his fingers.

  He twisted and grabbed hold of her arm. Then he placed his ear against the wall, inadvertently covering her body with his.

  Terribly inconvenient. His cheek nearly touched her lips. Why, without even moving, she could lick his ear.

  She wrinkled her nose.

  Why on earth would she want to lick his ear?

  Disgusting.

  Except it wasn’t.

  Renewed desire blossomed as prickly heat inside her belly.

  You see? She scowled. Slow makes sense of confusing desires.

  Not that she could tell him now.

  Or ever.

  People didn’t actually talk about these things, did they?

  She had no idea. And no one to ask. She thought of Katherine with a pang.

  She shimmied down, intending to duck beneath Rayne’s chin to place her ear on the door next to his, but the buttons on his waistcoat brushed her breasts, adding a new sensation to the ones already confounding her senses.

  Rayne placed his other hand on her hip. Heat forced time and breath to stop.

  Boots moved through the hall and up the stairs, pounding with the pace of her heart. When the first chamber door opened, Rayne swung open the door and whispered, “Go.”

  The young maid who’d delivered the warning frantically motioned them toward the back door.

  Outside, the sky churned in threatening shades of gray as they sprinted across the courtyard and behind the barn. As promised, the traveling chariot was waiting.

  Greg the postilion—thankfully not one of the boys from the night before—held open the door. “Can’t promise we’ll get far, guv. Heard the dam at the county line’s straining bad. Could take out every bridge for thirty miles if it goes.”

  Rayne’s face hardened.

  Julia’s illusions vanished. He would give in. Hand her over to the rector and her fate. Then he’d simply wash his hands of her once and for all.

  A man unafraid to walk away from everything he knew was not a man who would make this kind of sacrifice.

  “We’ll get as far as we can,” Rayne said. Then he held his hand out to her. “Your carriage, my lady.”

  …

  Rayne planted his feet and held steady as the carriage rocked, rumbling along the uneven, rutted roadway. So much for the series of outrageous tolls they’d paid in the last five hours.

  Then again, given the mud, he supposed he should be glad they hadn’t gotten stuck.

  Or caught.

  Or washed away.

  Julia’s harebrained decision to begin this journey had been bad, but his decision to continue had been worse. He couldn’t even decide exactly what part he was currently playing in this farce.

  A violator of Julia’s innocence?

  A victim of Julia’s persistence?

  Julia’s abductor?

  Or her accomplice?

  All of the above had only one thing in common—Julia.

  He stole a sideways glance. Though they had changed horses several times, for the life of him, he hadn’t been able to draw more than a perfunctory phrase from her lips. Since this morning, she’d remained pale and unnaturally quiet.

  Was she silently cursing him for being crude, mauling?

  Was she dreaming of finally being reunited with Cracked-skull?

  Or was she simply hollowed out by the aftermath of a narrow escape?

  The latter, he hoped.

  That, he understood. This wasn’t his first flight, after all. He knew once the thrill of freedom petered away, only uncertainty remained.

  The last time they’d kissed, he’d dodged the expectations banging on his door like snaring beasts. He’d abandoned his position, his lifelong friends, and their fury. With barely a thought for his future, he’d purchased his tickets. After he’d boarded the ship, he’d watched as England became nothing more than a gray-hued slug on the horizon, and then…

  Silence.

  Recrimination.

  Consequences.

  Less rousing triumph than the precipitous letdown of an arduous journey never properly envisioned nor rationally chosen. The yawning emptiness had been paralyzing.

  Both that desperate flight and this one had been precipitated by the same pleading look in the very same pair of dark eyes.

  He snuck a sideways glance.

  His “footman.”

  She should have chosen the rector. If she hadn’t already, eventually she’d realize her rational priorities had been overtaken in a moment of senseless weakness.

  He leaned back against the cushions and rolled his neck.

  This morning, he’d made the decision to flee just after her breasts crushed against his waistcoat. He’d touched her hip—an unconscious but singular act of possession.

  In that moment, his full attention and his fealty had fixed to Julia, even though mere minutes
before she’d reacted to his kiss with an unequivocal command to stop.

  This time, he must remember.

  She’d cursed him to the devil, and that might be where he belonged.

  He knew the fruit of the tree of knowledge, of good and evil. Justification—not an apple—had caused original sin. Not the kind of deliberate justification that manifested as “I know it’s wrong, but still…” but the kind of justification he was tempted to cling to now, the kind woven so tightly within the heart the lie felt like truth.

  The kind infused with righteous indignation.

  The kind that whispered, “I had no other choice.”

  He’d been here once before. And he’d behaved badly. He’d not permit an ounce of self-deception this time. He’d told her he wanted to be rid of her, but he did not.

  He was here, in this carriage, because there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

  He would not subject her to his unwanted kisses again; however, no matter what obstacles they faced, he would do whatever he must to keep Julia by his side for as long as she was willing to stay.

  Why? Because, when she’d been ill, his crazed wanting had muted, leaving behind what had almost felt like…

  Like…

  He blinked, startled.

  Like love.

  Inwardly, he scoffed. Her word from that long-ago night, not his.

  What did he know of love? Nothing. All he knew was that Julia fit into none of his prescribed boxes. She was thoroughly feminine but tough as a chopping block. She exasperated him, but she knew her own mind. The most frustrating thing about her, he supposed, was that she wouldn’t give up.

  Nor did he want her to give up…on him.

  But that wasn’t right, was it?

  She was eloping.

  Again, he must remember—she’d said stop.

  And he must remember Cracked-skull…Alistair Edmund or Edmund Alistair. Whatever the hell he was called.

  She caught his gaze with a sideways glance of her own and responded by making herself smaller in the corner.

  Had she turned paler?

  Even though he’d likely caused her distress, he wanted to reach out, to comfort.

  “Are you ill?” he asked.

  “I’m not.”

  “Just sorry you chose to continue, then?