The Rogue Prince

by Margo Maguire

  The scent of her skin made Tom mad for her touch. Her capable hands wreaked havoc with his senses. She’d learned just how to touch him, where to kiss and suckle, how to draw out the most amazing sensations.

  But it had been far too long since he touched her. When he could take no more, he lifted her onto the bed and pulled her underneath him. He slid between her thighs and entered her slowly, torturously. Rising up over her, he braced himself on his hands and looked into her eyes as he moved within her welcoming body.

  “Thomas!” she whispered, grabbing the sheets in her fists beside her.

  “All in good time, sweet.”

  A strange, sweet calm came over him as he withdrew nearly all the way, keeping only the tip of his erection inside her. He was exactly where he belonged, in the one place where it seemed that everything was right with the world.

  “You have a spring in your step this morning,” said Victoria the following morning as they walked out to a quiet spot in the garden.

  Thomas had left her bed early that morning, and she knew that he and Ranfield had planned to go riding just after dawn. They would be back soon.

  “I realized something last night,” Maggie said.

  Victoria shot her a sly look.

  “Not that,” Maggie retorted.

  Victoria laughed. “What did you realize?”

  “That I have allowed myself to be managed,” she said. “For most of my life, I’ve been controlled by…well, by my family, and the guilt they made me feel. And then by my husband during our marriage. And now, by convention.”

  Victoria slid her arm through Maggie’s. “I have a secret to tell you, my dear.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We all are!”

  “I know,” Maggie said. “But I could have—and should have—exerted more control over my own life. My…affair with Thorne is the first independent act I’ve accomplished in my entire adult life. I’ve been little more than the dupe Shefford described me to Kimbridge. A doormat. A gull. But no longer.”

  A thin crease marred Victoria’s perfect forehead. “What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s nothing drastic,” she said. “But I intend to start making my own decisions. I’ve finished trying to please my family. And I plan to ignore Shefford and his disgraceful demands.”

  “That sounds like a very good idea,” Victoria responded. “Your sisters have been pure poison for as long as I’ve known you, and Shefford always had a mean streak.”

  “There were times when I was embarrassed to admit he was my brother,” Maggie said, remembering several unpleasant incidents that took place when she was just a girl.

  “There was a boy once,” she said, “who’d brought horses from Suffolk to my stepfather. I was only ten or eleven years old, and still walked with a crutch.”

  “I remember.”

  “I went out that morning to see what all the excitement was about. I tripped…and this boy caught me and kept me from falling into a muddy puddle.”

  “Good lad,” said Victoria.

  Maggie shook her head, the memory becoming clearer with every word she spoke. “It had rained heavily the night before, and the path to the stable was a mess. The boy had just come out to gather up some of his tack when I tripped. Shefford was there with Julian. They saw the incident, and Julian taunted Shefford, asking if he was going to allow a stable boy to manhandle his sister.”

  “Oh no.” Victoria placed a hand against her breast. “I daren’t ask what he did.”

  Maggie remembered the boy had been handsome in a young, strapping way, and she’d felt flattered by his attention.

  “Those two rascals put a couple of extremely expensive silver bowls from the house into the boy’s pack and then accused him of stealing them.”

  “Oh dear God, what happened to him?”

  “I didn’t hear of it until weeks later…The boy was convicted by some horrid hanging judge. No one believed his pleas of innocence.”

  “They hanged him?”

  “No,” she said, feeling all over again the shame of having been a part of it. The cause of it, really. “He was transported.”

  Victoria clucked her tongue. “Shefford should be flogged for such a low trick.”

  “No doubt that is true, but who would dare to thrash a marquess?”

  Something was different about Maggie. Tom observed her as she waltzed with Zachary to Lady Ranfield’s accompaniment in the drawing room, both of them laughing happily as they moved, in spite of the bad weather that had forced them to retreat indoors, interrupting a lively game of cricket on the lawn.

  While it rained heavily outside, Maggie created their own sunshine inside.

  He’d seen her dance at the Waverly ball, and knew she was self-conscious about her lameness and the scar that marred her thigh. But no weakness was evident now. Tom saw no flaws in her movements.

  Nor had he experienced any awkwardness in her movements the night before. On the contrary, her sudden dominance in the bedchamber had been enormously arousing. She’d become the princess in the story they’d told the children the night before—taking control and ravishing him, it seemed, within an inch of his life.

  “Thorne!” cried Zachary, but Tom was so deeply immersed in thoughts of his interlude with Maggie, he didn’t really hear the boy until Zac called his name a second time.

  Zachary released himself from his mother’s grip. “It’s your turn!”

  “My pleasure,” he said, more than happy to take the boy’s place. Even outside of the bedchamber, Maggie had enticed him and enthralled him all morning long—while they played cricket on the lawn, and later, when they came inside to make paper boats for the duck pond if the weather cleared.

  He found he did not mind having the children with them. It was an extremely rude awakening, realizing that he held no animosity for Julian Danvers’s offspring, understanding that Julian had played little part in his children’s lives, merely providing the seed.

  As Lady Ranfield played on, Tom took Maggie’s hand in his and placed one hand quite properly at her waist. He pulled her improperly closer, aware that the children would not notice, and hoping that Lady Ranfield would keep her eyes on her keys.

  Had they been alone, he would have dipped down and kissed her plump lips. Instead, he slid his hand down to forbidden territory, allowing it to rest on her hip.

  Maggie looked at him with awareness and promise, her eyes never leaving his. She licked her lower lip in a deliberately seductive action and Tom reacted immediately. He leaned forward and put his lips beside her ear. “You will have to stand in front of me when our dance is done, love, or everyone will see your effect on me.”

  Her laugh mirrored the gentle patter of the soft rain, washing over him, cleansing him. He pulled her closer, wishing he could draw her into his arms and take her upstairs now, rather than waiting for night.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the dance, leading her away from the children, who were playing quietly together near the piano. “Tonight, Maggie,” he whispered.

  She squeezed his hand in response, and when the music ended, Lady Ranfield applauded. “You should dance more often, Maggie! Don’t you agree, Thorne?”

  “I do,” he said, releasing her reluctantly. He’d allowed himself to think a few days with her at Ranfield Court would allay the attraction he felt.

  He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Maggie rejoined the children and Thomas excused himself. He knew better than to foster his fascination for his enemy’s sister, but could not stop thinking about the surprises that were in store for him tonight.

  Chapter 15

  Maggie felt wildly powerful. For the first time in her life, she was in charge of it. She could do as she pleased, within the constraints of her stressed finances. But even those circumstances might actually improve with Lord Ranfield’s advice. She didn’t tell him of her venture with Mr. Brown at The Gazette, but he listened attentively to her assessment of Blackmore’s financial difficultie
s, and offered a few suggestions that she intended to follow.

  It was late afternoon, and the children were in the nursery with their nannies. Victoria was napping, Charles was in his study with his steward, and Thomas was…Maggie did not know where he was, but she had not seen him since their dance in the drawing room. She smiled as she climbed the stairs, marveling at the effect she could have on him. Last night, she realized that her short tenure as a mistress had taught her a great deal about men and their deepest desires.

  She went up the stairs and started for her bedchamber, noticing that Thomas’s door stood partly open. A flash of heat ran through her at the thought of accosting him in his own territory, but she dismissed the idea immediately. No respectable woman would dare think of…

  But she was no longer respectable. And she had taken charge of her life. She could be a mistress in truth, not just in action, and use Thomas for the pleasure he could give. And perhaps she could manage not to miss him when he sailed for Sabedoria.

  She did not think that would be possible, though perhaps there was a way to avoid being devastated by his departure.

  She stopped outside his room and saw the glimmer of a fire in the fireplace. Taking a deep breath, Maggie braced herself and slid her hands down the front of her dress, not exactly sure how to proceed.

  The door creaked when she pushed it open. Thomas looked up from the journal he was reading and Maggie closed the door behind her. She turned the key in the lock and bit her lip.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Turning to face him, she reached for the pins in her hair and pulled them out.

  “You always disturb me, Maggie.” His voice was hoarse as he watched her.

  “Is that a bad thing?” she asked in a flirtatious tone, in spite of what her sisters used to say about her flirting skills. Because of Thomas, she was no longer self-conscious about her hair, and allowed it to drop in long waves down her back. She started to unbutton her bodice as she moved toward him and he set his journal aside, swallowing thickly.

  Awareness of her own potency bolstered her. She could do this. She could act the harlot and pretend she felt no connection to him.

  “Not at all.” He sat still and watched avidly as she slipped her gown from her shoulders and bent seductively to lower it past her hips. She knew her clothing was not particularly enticing, but saw that its removal tempted him.

  Standing in her corset and chemise, she put one foot on a boudoir chair and raised her chemise to expose her unscarred leg. She unfastened her garter and lowered her stocking slowly, then pulled it gently from her toes. Then she repeated the action on the other side. “I’m very glad you don’t mind.”

  She could hear his breathing, harsh and intense, and turned to gaze at him seductively over her shoulder. His mouth was slightly open, his nostrils flared, and Maggie felt very powerful, indeed. She put both feet on the floor and faced him as she reached behind her and pulled the laces of her stays, loosening her corset, letting it fall to the floor.

  “Christ, Maggie!” Thomas rasped when she allowed the neckline of her chemise to drop down her shoulder. Thomas started to stand, but she went to him and put one hand on his shoulder, keeping him in his chair.

  “As long as I’m here…” She knelt before him and he spread his legs wide as she reached for the placket of his trews. His knuckles were white on the arms of his chair, but he did not interfere while she opened the placket and drew out his thick, hot erection.

  Looking into his eyes, she bent down and touched her tongue to the tip of his rod. He let out a slow breath and Maggie swirled her tongue around it, fondling him at the same time. She felt his thighs tighten when she sucked him fully into her mouth, and tasted a faintly salty flavor.

  She sensed that she was driving him mad, but had no intention of stopping.

  “Maggie, I’m dangerously close…”

  Ignoring his warning, she closed her fist around the base of his shaft and licked its sensitive underside, feeling more aroused with every stroke. She heard his breath catch as he struggled for control. She slid her teeth along his hard length, and when he shuddered, she felt an answering throb between her own legs. As much as she wanted to continue her gentle assault, she was desperate to feel him inside her. Wanted the astounding climax he could give her.

  She released him and pulled her chemise over her head, then stood and lowered herself onto his lap. He closed his eyes as Maggie slid down his manhood, inch by torturous inch, shuddering at the wondrous sensations.

  Thomas braced his hands on the arms of the chair and let her have her way. His jaw was clenched tight, and a light sheen of perspiration appeared on his forehead. Maggie held on to his shoulders and moved down, then up, in a cadence that became more intense with each second that passed. She let her head fall back as every tendon, muscle and nerve in her body seemed to gather and tighten and then burst into flame. She heard his sharp intake of breath as her body stretched and squeezed around his.

  Maggie felt him then, contracting and spilling his seed, groaning with satisfaction as he cupped her bottom and pulled her close. Maggie fell forward against him, and he slid his hands up her back, raising goose bumps as his gentle touch trailed up to her shoulders.

  He framed her face with one hand. “So…I see the little princess has decided to climb down her rope and make her own escape.”

  Two long, dreary days after Tom’s return from Ranfield Court, Mark Saret found Tom in Delamere’s library. “I’ve a bit of bad news.”

  “What?” Tom asked. He’d been working with Arrendo and catching up on business while trying to avoid thinking about future assignations with Maggie. And failing miserably.

  “But at least there is some good news to go with it.” Saret did not take a seat, but stood before the fireplace and clasped his hands behind his back. “First of all, Foveaux is leaving the country. He sails for India tomorrow.”

  Disappointment churned in Tom’s stomach. “And the good news?”

  “I bought up all the outstanding loans at Thatcham’s Bank.”

  “Dare I hope that Thatcham’s is Foveaux’s bank?”

  Saret nodded. “We called in his debt yesterday. He is having a devil of a time finding a way to raise enough blunt to cover his house and other properties before he goes. He has his orders, and I don’t believe even a general can refuse them.”

  The wheels of Tom’s mind turned. “Is there a way to inform him of who caused this trouble?”

  Saret smiled broadly. “Aye. He sails on the Manchester at noon tomorrow. Lucas Reigi has a connection—a midshipman who will deliver a message to Foveaux for you, whenever you like. Perhaps when they’ve arrived in India.”

  Perfect. By the time Foveaux had a chance to send word back to England, Tom and his party would be long gone. “I’ll have it ready within the hour,” he said as Edward Ochoa came into the room with more news.

  “I thought you would like to know that Lord Justice Maynwaring is fully cooked,” Ochoa said as Saret took his leave. “He and one of the city aldermen have had an ongoing feud that’s lasted for years. As it happens, the complaint against your judge was brought to that particular alderman.”

  Tom gave a nod of satisfaction, but Ochoa’s report put him on edge. So far, everything had played out too well for him to feel entirely comfortable.

  Perhaps it was because he knew that when Maggie returned from Ranfield Court, she would likely feel the repercussions of their assignation in Richmond. All of society would soon learn they’d been together for several days. Certain suppositions would be made. And they would be correct.

  There was a time when Tom would have felt some satisfaction in tearing down her respectable reputation…

  “Thomas…” Ochoa said, taking a seat.

  “What is it?” Tom asked, wondering if there was some important detail that Ochoa had not yet mentioned.

  The American’s brows gathered together and he rested his elbows on his knees. “I want you to know that I entirely respe
ct your purpose here. There was no justification for what Shefford and Blackmore did to you. Or for Maynwaring to sentence you so harshly.”

  Tom looked into the older man’s clear, dark eyes and wondered if Ochoa was thinking of trying to talk him out of his plans.

  Ochoa cleared his throat before speaking. “I once killed a man.”

  Tom listened intently.

  “He was my daughter’s husband,” Ochoa said, looking down at his hands. “The bastard struck her once too often. I arrived unexpectedly one day and saw her bruised eye and split lip. When he took his horsewhip to her, I decided it would be the last time.”

  “You were convicted of murder, then?” Tom asked.

  Ochoa shook his head. “It was ruled self-defense. He nearly killed Ruth, and then he turned on me.”

  “What were you convicted of, then?”

  “I helped a runaway slave escape,” said Ochoa. “I was compelled by law to turn him over to the authorities, but I did not.”

  “What happened?”

  Ochoa turned his gaze to the library window. “He was a huge man, with arms as thick as tree trunks. He was obviously a farm worker, and on the run. I caught him attempting to steal one of my horses, and managed to capture him.”

  “But you let him go?”

  “Not at first. I’d planned to take him to the authorities. But then…” He frowned thoughtfully. “You know, he was just a man. His skin was different from yours and mine…but no man has the right to own another.”

  After Tom’s years trying to survive under the mercy of the authorities who thought they owned him, his respect for Edward Ochoa grew immeasurably. Tom nodded, but Ochoa wasn’t through.

  He hesitated for a moment. “After I killed Roger…There was little satisfaction in it. He’d hurt Ruth, to be sure. But there was something…” He shrugged and stood. “I never hated anyone the way I hated Roger. But his death didn’t sit well. I’m still haunted by the look in his eyes when he realized he was a dead man.”