The Irish Rogue

by Judith E. French

  Laughing, heart thudding, she darted down one path, took a right and then a left. She heard his footfalls coming after her as she wound her way deeper into the green boxwood puzzle.

  "I'll find you. You know I always find you," Michael called.

  "Not this time!" She giggled, as lighthearted as a new bride, and she continued on, skimming down the passageways, taking one opening after another. "Where are you, Michael O'Ryan?" she teased. She stopped and listened. There was no sound now but the wren singing a clear, bright love song.

  Anne took a few more steps, then doubled back and turned left. She had played here since she was Lizzie's age, and she should have known every foot of the complex. But each wall of boxwood looked exactly like the next, and in many sections the vegetation had grown together overhead.

  She thought that she was somewhere in the back quarter of the labyrinth, close to the kitchen garden, but she couldn't be certain.

  She took two right turns, then another left.

  Ahead of her, a fountain bubbled merrily in the mossy center of the maze. Still smiling, she rounded the last corner and stepped out directly into her husband's arms.

  "Caught you," he cried.

  "I—" Michael swept her up into his arms and kissed her soundly. Anne put her arms around his neck, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes, wanting to capture this perfect moment of happiness.

  Sunlight filtered down through the trees, frosting the green carpet with a golden aura. "Annie, Annie," he whispered into her ear. "Isn't it time we gave our Lizzie a little brother?"

  "Or a sister," she murmured. "Yes, I think it is."

  He kissed her throat, her mouth, and eyelids, and she returned the favor. "Do you know how much I love you?" he asked her between kisses.

  "Tell me," she urged. His hands were on her, pulling her down onto the soft bed of grass, stroking and caressing, sending sweet, wild sensations through her veins.

  "I love you more than heaven."

  She straddled his hips, tugging his shirt up over his head so she could feel his bare skin against hers. Her skirts tangled around her waist, and her stockings slipped down to expose her bare thighs.

  "Annie O'Ryan, you're not wearing drawers!" Michael exclaimed abruptly.

  "I am too! Silk ones!"

  "Let me see!"

  "Shushh!" She put her hand over his mouth. "Do you want the whole shore to hear you?"

  He wrestled her down so that he was on top and she on the bottom. "Will they guess what we're doing, do you think?"

  She giggled. "How could they not?"

  "Unless they think I'm still in the fields, and you're here with some mysterious stranger."

  "Michael! That's a terrible thing to say."

  He leaned close, pressing his naked chest against her, and kissed her. She stopped struggling and sighed. "I love you, too," she murmured.

  "You're not sorry you made that bargain in Philadelphia with an Irish lad?" he teased.

  "Never," she answered fervently. "Never, never, never."

  "Good. Me either."

  And this time when he kissed her, the flame leaped between them, and Anne forgot everything but the man in her arms, the rogue she knew she would love and cherish forever.

  The End

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  Want more from Judith E. French?

  Here's an excerpt from

  THE TAMING OF SHAW MacCADE

  ~

  Angel Crossing, Missouri May 1849

  Rebecca Raeburn suppressed a shiver of apprehension as a tall figure on horseback materialized in the ghostly twilight. Silently, the big man leading a string of pack animals rode out of the west toward her. The spectral thud of hooves and the creaking of leather harness were faintly audible, muffled and eerily distorted by the thick clouds of mist rising off the Little Smoke River.

  Instinctively, Rebecca's fingers closed around the heavy pistol in the deep pocket of her canvas skirt. She'd ferried passengers across the Little Smoke River for a decade. Never had she come to harm.

  An owl hooted.

  Gooseflesh raised on Rebecca's arms as she stared hard into the swirling fog. She heard nothing but the rush of the rising river. Then, a stranger materialized only a few yards from the ferry.

  "Evenin'," she called. "You want the ferry? A dollar for you and your beasts!"

  "Cost is dear."

  "You're more than welcome to swim." Lord but he'd startled her. A great stretch of a man, he was, all broad shouldered and shaggy bearded, with crow-black hair as long as an Indian's.

  The stock of a rifle poked out from a saddle holster, and a razor-sharp tomahawk was strapped to the horn. Rebecca tried again to make out his features under the wide-brimmed hat, but it was too dark. The prickling along the nape of her neck increased.

  "Make up your mind! River's five feet and rising. Last more crossing tonight."

  Swinging down from the ornate, Spanish saddle, he strode forward, his fringed, knee-high moccasins making no more sound on the log platform than a cat's paws.

  Rebecca unlatched the bar across the end of the ferry. "Come on," she ordered, then watched as the westerner led his animals to the raft.

  When the stranger half turned to take his stallion by the cheek strap, she glimpsed a holstered pistol strapped to one hip and a sheathed scalping knife on the other.

  "It's the custom to pay on boarding."

  The westerner produced a silver coin, and tossed it. She caught the dollar in midair. He walked past her, leather reins gripped tightly in one gloved hand.

  The stallion hesitated. The man patted the horse's neck, and he stepped gingerly onto the log raft. Four heavily laden mules and a mare clattered onto the ferry. When the last animal was safely aboard she closed the gate.

  Rebecca gritted her teeth as she slipped the mooring lines free. The stranger's guarded manner did nothing to lift her unease. Surely the mist and coming night were spooking her. If he'd meant her harm, he'd have done so on dry land.

  "There's hot food and a clean bed yonder." She pointed toward the far shore. "Angel Crossing. No liquor served, but no bugs either. And you won't be robbed in the night."

  Still no answer.

  Rebecca studied the stranger as she began to turn the winch to haul the ferry across the river. Something about the man seemed oddly familiar. If only the light were better. She wished she could see more of his face. If she didn't know that Shaw MacCade was long dead under a rock slide, she could almost swear...

  "What's your name?" she called.

  He shrugged.

  She kept cranking the geared mechanism until the raft reached the deepest part of the channel. "Are you sure I don't know you?"

  "You should."

  His voice flowed over her like icy river water.

  "Shaw?"

  He swept off his hat and turned toward her. "Aren't you glad to see me, Becca?" He chuckled, his voice rich and husky. "The least you could do is give me a welcome home kiss."

  Her chest felt too tight to draw breath. "Joe Nickerson said you were dead," she managed. "Last October."

  "You sound disappointed

  Her heart was hammering, her tongue felt too thick to form words. "Why didn't you tell me who you were?"

  "Would you have let me set foot on this ferry if I did?"

  He stomach pitched as it had that day they'd arrested her father for murder. All-consuming black rage boiled up inside her. How dare he come back from the dead?

  ~

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  THE TAMIN
G OF SHAW MacCADE

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  Judith E French is the bestselling and award-winning author of nearly sixty novels, including historical romance, contemporary, mystery, and suspense. Her books are translated into a dozen languages and sold worldwide. She has written for Avon Books, Dorchester, Kensington, Harlequin, and Ballantine Publishers. Judith is the mother of bestselling novelist Colleen Faulkner, and the recipient of Romantic Times Magazine's Career Achievement Award for American Historicals.