Diamond in the Rogue

by Wendy Lacapra

  She frowned up at the wall. “How do we get it down?”

  He’d no idea.

  Nonetheless, he dragged a wooden chair over to the base of the tapestry, climbed on top, and then waved the tapestry hard. Years of dust choked his lungs as the great piece of fabric flapped back and forth through the musty air.

  Using his full weight, he tugged. Great metal rings squealed in protest as they slid along a hidden rail. One final yank and the last ring released, and he was momentarily wrapped in weightless, soaring darkness. Then he hit the hard, stone floor.

  Apparently, having your air knocked out of you wasn’t just an expression.

  “Rayne!”

  A pain shot through his hip.

  “Rayne!”

  He closed his eyes as she peeled back layers of the weave. She coughed as she tossed aside a large part of the tapestry. Then, her sharp slap stung against his cheek.

  He turned his head and winced. “Save your right hook for Jack, would you?”

  “I thought you were dead!”

  “Well…” He sat up slowly, then draped his arm across his knee. “In that case, your blow would have brought me back immediately.”

  Good God, what a sense of freedom.

  “Are you laughing?” She squinted. “Why would you be laughing? You hit your head, didn’t you?”

  “I’m quite all right.” The tapestry itself had taken the brunt of the fall. He tossed a Centurion to the side and lifted his gaze the large, vacant space. Potential. “You were absolutely right. This is much better.”

  “Next time, let’s discuss the matter before you proceed?” She pursed her lips.

  He snorted. “And just how did you expect to help?”

  “I would have held the chair, of course.”

  “The chair.” She would have held the chair. Another laugh bubbled up. “Stop!” He shielded his chest from another blow. “I’m not being facetious. I’m agreeing!” He caught her arms. “Would you stop squirming for a second and listen?”

  She stilled.

  How could he explain the change her simple suggestion had wrought?

  Everything in this part of the house had been here for as long as he could remember. In his mind, the tapestry—like everything else about the Grange—had been fixed, immoveable. A weight he’d been sentenced to carry.

  She’d seen other possibilities, and, suddenly, he was light, and all around him potential was snapping like a roaring pinewood fire.

  Julia knew plenty about the running of an estate. He could immerse himself in the mining. Between the two of them, Mr. and Mrs. Wheeling, and a new steward, they could change the very spirit of the Grange.

  And he could start by finishing the improvements his grandfather had started, creating substance beneath the facade.

  “I was laughing because I agree. We can change this. We will build a home.”

  She searched his face. “No regrets?”

  “None.”

  Not yet.

  He released her arms. “I can’t tell you how much I hated that tapestry.” Or how much I love you. He swallowed the words that had risen spontaneously to his lips.

  He couldn’t tell her now. Not before he’d proven to her he could change.

  “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” she asked.

  “I may have a small bump.” He touched his bottom lip. “Here.”

  She eyed him with a long, probing gaze.

  He tapped his lip again.

  Slowly, she rose to her knees and leaned in for a tender kiss.

  “You can do better.”

  “Not on this tapestry, I can’t.”

  He rose to his feet and kicked the eyesore into the corner. Then he held out his hand. “Come.”

  She eyed him with suspicion as he helped her rise. “You need to rest.”

  “Rest isn’t good after a bump on the head.”

  She raised one brow. “What is good?”

  “Activity…as I recall.”

  She yelped as he lifted her from the floor.

  “Focused study.” He set her down on the bed. She raised her eyes—faint sparks of desire lit the large brown orbs floating in white.

  “You’re right.” He caught her chin. “Lying down might not be a good idea. But exercising ‘mouthal’ ministrations might be just the thing.”

  He watched in fascination as the resistance melted from her features.

  “While your wellness is my grave concern…I do believe the latter would do.”

  He cupped her breast over her bodice as he lowered to his knees. “Lift your dress, Lady Rayne.”

  She hiked her skirts up over her thighs.

  “I do love when you’re compliant,” he murmured.

  “Just remember”—hands came to rest on his shoulders—“I never promised to obey.”

  He twisted his lips—half smile, half sneer. “Then I shall make obedience your ambition.”

  His tongue swept her cleft, and she groaned deep in her chest.

  “I think,” she gasped, “you’ll have no hardship.”

  Tomorrow, the real work would begin. Work he’d take to heart with the same conviction he’d worked in New York.

  And, this time, he had a greater reason to succeed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Julia studied her mysterious husband from her place opposite him at a long, ancient table of carved black walnut. Finally, a dinner together. A chance to converse…and later, maybe more.

  For six days, she’d barely seen him. Every morning, he’d gone out to the mines. And, every evening, he’d returned after she’d taken to bed.

  She’d listened to the slosh of the water as he washed off the grime. After he was clean, he’d crawled into bed, kissed her brow, and immediately faded into a deep slumber. Twice, she’d awoken early enough to ask how things were proceeding, and twice, she’d received the same answer.

  “I’ve much to learn.”

  As for her days, she and Mrs. Wheeling were still taking inventory and had yet to hire permanent staff. She’d felt it more important that they tend to the needs of the neglected farm where the Wheelings resided first.

  By placing her own comfort last, Julia meant to prove by example that the estate would be nurtured and respected from here on out. Though she hoped the improvements could be finished soon, as she dearly wished to turn her attention to the small chapel at the center of a grouping of farms hardly large enough to call a village but close enough to remind her of Southford.

  She’d entered the chapel—closed up decades ago—and opened the dusty records in the vestry, feeling connected to those who had come before.

  Unfortunately, one rector held the living here and at Bromton Castle, and with so little activity at the Grange, he and the bishop had determined that the congregations be merged. Though the consolidation made sense, she felt sad for the poor old structure.

  Alone and silent when it should have been filled and joyous.

  She twirled the champagne glass in her hand, wistfully watching the light filter through her drink. Of course, to open the chapel, Bromton and Rayne would have to confer, which would mean the rift between them would have to be mended.

  But after that first, naughty night in the master chamber, Rayne had spared little time for her and none for his neighbor. And she wasn’t sure how—or when—that would change.

  She’d written Katherine a note explaining she was well, happy, and very much legally wed. She’d also promised to visit, just as soon as they “settled.”

  Now, she wondered what settled could possibly mean.

  Was settled long days apart, barely speaking?

  Was settled waiting for a Sunday to enjoy Mrs. Wheeling’s simple mutton stew and a glass of “shumpine”—the way Mrs. Wheeling and Mr. Linton of Gretna Hall said champ
agne?

  Was settled sitting silently by as the lines in Rayne’s face deepened?

  He was weary.

  Tense.

  And she was lonely.

  She didn’t and wouldn’t have regrets. He insisted he didn’t, either. But the weight of what they were trying to do was clearly bearing down on him.

  And all because she’d demanded he stay.

  Her lower lip quivered. She bit it to make it still.

  Oh, how odd. So many times, they’d been close. And now—now—when she could finally call him her own, she hadn’t been able to summon the courage to draw him close.

  Yet.

  Never leave a sullen man in silence for too long. She studied him again, furtive. He’d excited her lust. He’d promised her pleasure. He’d even suggested occasional trussing.

  Tonight, she intended to call forth her due. She intended to reach him in the one way she knew would make him listen. She intended to demand his all.

  Beneath her new bed gown, she’d worn her prettiest stays—ones she’d sewn herself. Instead of compressing her breasts, they were fitted with light linen with cups. The fine, delicate fabric made her feel winsome and fair.

  But she’d needed Mrs. Wheeling to help her tie them, and she couldn’t remove them without Rayne’s help.

  He pushed away his plate. “Shall I let Mrs. Wheeling know we’re finished?”

  “I sent Mrs. Wheeling home.” She fingered her stem. “She’s been working very hard. I told her I would take care of the plates.”

  He cocked his head. “So, this is my legacy to you? Just weeks ago, you were living in a duke’s household; now, you’re installed in my scullery.”

  She bristled. “I didn’t see any reason to burden Mrs. Wheeling when she’s been nothing but kind and helpful. Besides, in a few more days, we’ll make the final decisions on household staff, and all will be set to rights.”

  His right brow lifted. “Ever the optimist?”

  The mocking in his voice hurt.

  She rose, took her bowl to the sideboard. Instead of removing his, she lingered by his side, willing him to reach out and touch her.

  He did not.

  With a deep sigh, she cleared away his bowl, resumed her place, and then refilled her glass. She needed more courage. She downed the wine in almost a single swallow.

  “If I told you you’d had enough, would you listen?” He sounded amused.

  She narrowed her eyes. “No.”

  “Thought not,” he replied. “Well then, by all means, carry on.”

  “I shall.” She refilled her glass and then toasted him. “Excellent shumpine.”

  He lifted his brows. “Doesn’t appear you’re bothering to taste.”

  “Oh, I’ve an excellent sense of taste…if you can recall.” She finished the rest, set down her glass, and looked her husband in the eye. Now or never. “Rayne, I want to be kissed. Not just kissed—I want those other things you promised, too.”

  He inhaled sharply. Disquiet flickered over his features. She’d taken him off guard.

  She made her voice louder, deeper, surer. “I demand to be kissed.”

  His gaze fixed on her lips. “Other things?”

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t understand. You’re holding back. I can feel you holding back. It made sense at first. I was inexperienced. But now…now you’re just afraid.”

  He kicked back his chair. For a moment, she thought he was going to rise. Instead, he slouched low in the seat and rubbed the back of his finger across his bottom lip.

  “Do you realize,” he finally said, “you’re asking to be debased?”

  “Is that how you see your desire? Mine?” Her voice fell to a whisper. “I want you to bed me any way you wish, as long as it’s tonight.”

  His eyes widened, black pupils slowly spreading out into icy blue pools. If he denied her, she couldn’t imagine surviving the humiliation.

  “Come here,” he said gruffly.

  The tart, spiced edge in his voice smoldered in her gut.

  Ah, the relief.

  She’d missed this—the weighted feel of want. The increased focus—the desire that melted the world away. Her limbs felt heavy with leaden lust as she rose and then swayed her way across the room, trailing her fingers on the tablecloth. She stopped between his legs, leaned one arm on his shoulder, and fisted her other hand against her hip.

  He lifted that hand, turned over her tightly squeezed knuckles, placed his lips against her wrist, and nipped, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “There. Kissed. Consider your demands satisfied.” The dare in his expression promised otherwise.

  Her temperature rose. “It’s rude to remain seated while a lady is standing.” She cocked her brow and flicked his chin.

  He widened his legs. “So, sit.”

  She hadn’t seen him look like this—not since the tub. Her insides melted into yes. Still, she didn’t move, knowing the greatest provocation would come from stillness.

  “I said, sit.” His voice boomed through the dining room, echoing in her core. “Or, better yet, kneel.”

  She grew wet with the same urgent need she’d felt when he’d first drawn her arms above her head. She lowered herself onto his knee, legs between his, hands folded in her lap. If she touched him, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

  “Did that arouse you?”

  Her cheeks flooded as she nodded.

  His fingers brushed up and down the back of her neck, kneading softly as he went. “But you’re still scowling.” He smoothed the point between her brows.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t it?” He ran his thumb over her lower lip.

  She resisted the urge to twist in his lap. “I miss you.”

  “Me?” He chuckled softly. “Or my cock?”

  The warmth flushed down into her body. “I miss your hands. I miss your weight. If you don’t take me to bed, I feel I might expire.” She pinned him with an angry glance. “That’s how flustered you make me.”

  His gaze softened. “Is that why you sent Mrs. Wheeling home?”

  She nodded. “I’ve waited for your notice—”

  “Wait,” he interrupted. “Not an hour passes without at least one thought of you. Occasionally naked. Sometimes in stays and a shift. Oftentimes”—his voice lowered—“with your lips wrapped around my cock.”

  “Then why haven’t you come to me?”

  “I’m trying to protect you.” His lips twisted. “From myself. From my base desires.”

  “I don’t want protection.” Her eyes stung with heat. “I want you. All of you.”

  He groaned, low and long. “I’ve neglected you, haven’t I?”

  “You have.”

  She sat stiff, brittle—half eager, half embarrassed, fully knowing she’d soak in any demonstration of his regard and yet having only the vaguest of ideas how he would proceed.

  “I’ve placed all my effort into improvements…while overlooking the only reason I embraced the impossible task.”

  She concentrated on his fingers’ slow crawl. “Without this the effort is meaningless.”

  “You are kind”—his breath fanned over her ear—“to remind me.”

  He flicked his tongue over her earlobe. Her cheeks pinked, her mouth parted, her mind went vacant.

  “Do you really believe you are ever far from my thoughts, kitten?” He drew down her bodice and then bit her shoulder. “I know I was wrong to bind you to me, wrong to bring you here.” He nuzzled her neck. “A place devoid of the joy that’s pillowed you for life. Then again…”

  She turned toward him, waiting, breathless, for him to finish.

  “Another part of me would bind you closer—completely callous to the cost.”

  “Whatever the cost, I’ll pay.” She closed her eyes
. “I promise I’ll pay.”

  “I’ve a wicked mind and a wicked heart.”

  Red clouds stormed behind her lids. “I love your wicked mind.”

  As for his heart—that wasn’t wicked at all.

  “Do you?” He ran his tongue over the edge of her ear. “What else do you love?”

  You. “Your wicked mouth.”

  His hand swept over her breasts, rousing her nipples.

  “Your wicked hands.” Her voice quivered. “Shall we go upstairs?”

  “We shall not.” He loosened her dress fastenings. “We shall remain right here.”

  Her eyes flew open. “Here?” In the dining hall?

  “Yes, here.” He continued to undress her, keeping his eyes on her face. “I’ve a mind to test your premise.”

  What premise?

  “Stand up.”

  She rose on shaky legs. Without bothering to rise himself, he shimmied her petticoat up and pulled it off over her head.

  Her chemise ended at her knees. Not that he noticed, absorbed as he was by her fancy stays. He traced the cups, tugged on the ruffed tops. Hooked a finger beneath the laces and compelled her closer, firmly wedging her between his thighs.

  She gasped as he roughed his knuckle between her legs.

  “Premise proven,” he murmured. “All nice and wet…you do love my wicked mind, don’t you?”

  She wet her lips. “I live to oblige.”

  He yanked her laces, and she nearly tumbled against his chest. “Do you?”

  She’d spoken sarcastically but was no longer sure she hadn’t spoken the truth. What could be better than Rayne’s considerable focus—his terribly vulgar attention—entirely pinned on her? When they came together this way, the external world simply did not exist.

  “I asked a question.”

  “Yes”—her breath caught—“I live to oblige.”

  Careful… The word manifested in his probing gaze.

  “Do you want proof?” She ran her hands over the boning in her corset. “I made these stays especially for you.”

  His eyes glittered. “Mind if I improve the design?”

  She swallowed. “As you please.”

  He tore away one cup.

  “Better.” He spoke to her breast. Then he tore away the other cup. “Better still if you weren’t wearing a shift.”