Kiss From a Rogue (14 page)

“Plenty of time for whatnot after our chaperones go back to their own homes.”

She stared down at the table, until she felt the sudden bloom of heat leave her cheeks. She should come right out and tell him she didn’t want to be one of his many conquests. Then he’d stop teasing her, flirting with her. “I think you should know—”

“Yes?”

Words died in her throat as she spotted dried blood at the corner of his left eye. Without the candle pulled close, she would have missed it, as half of it was hidden under the hair fallen over his brow. “How did this happen?”

He reached questing fingers to the area she indicated. “Ah. Just a scratch. Nasty, uncooperative branch. You extracted a fragment of it from Jimmy’s thumb, I believe.”

“Lean forward, and let me clean it properly.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave a slow smile, the one that melted her insides. With his elbows on the table, he propped his chin in his left palm and closed his eyes, his expression one of complete trust and innocence.

Beneath the table, his thigh brushed hers. The contact could have been coincidental, but Tony shifted in his chair until more of his leg touched hers, and the pressure increased. She refused to acknowledge it. But she didn’t move away, either.

She dabbed alcohol on a cloth. She paused, staring at his sensuous lips curved in a small smile, his sculpted cheekbones highlighted by the flickering light, long thick lashes against his cheeks. He was saved from perfection by the slight crook in his nose. She traced it with her finger.

His eyes opened.

“How did that happen? It looks like your nose was broken.”

“An upperclassman at school accused me of being pretty.”

“And he broke your nose?”

“Only because I broke his first.”

She couldn’t resist a glance at his hands, pictured them curled into fists. She shook her head, and reached to brush his hair out of the way. The dark brown strands slid through her fingers like silk, thick and healthy, with a tendency to curl where it was still wet. Hubert’s hair had been thin on top when she’d met him, and continued to fall out. He’d hated it if she tried to touch what was left during their twice-monthly lovemaking.

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Is it bad?”

Oh, very bad, indeed. “I don’t want to get this in your eyes. Close them.”

He did. She would
not
wince at how close he had come to damaging his gorgeous brown eyes. “It might heal faster if I put sticking plaster on it.”

“No need. Save that for something more serious.”

She nodded. “It runs so close to your eyebrow, there shouldn’t be much of a scar. Though if there is one, it might give you a rather rakish look.”

That made him grin.

Her ministrations complete, they stood up at the same time, but neither moved away. With their proximity, Sylvia realized that Tony was just a few inches taller than she. If she stretched up on her toes, she could kiss him on his mouth, even if he didn’t bend down. Hubert had been tall enough that he had to cooperate in order for her to kiss him. He didn’t, and she soon stopped trying.

Tony was only three years older than her twenty-two summers, probably far too young to think of getting married. Besides, most aristocrats waited until they were thirty or so, and worried about heirs, before they gave a thought to marriage. Tony had no succession to secure. He could go on for years, flitting from one female companion to another, with no thought to the consequences or the future.

Marriage to Hubert had not been the relationship she’d hoped it would be, but she still wanted to try again. She enjoyed the sense of belonging that the people of Lulworth gave her, but yearned for something more—the companionship of marriage, the intimacy of belonging to one man, and him to her.

She did not want another seafaring man who would be gone for weeks or months at a time. Neither did she want a man who went from one female’s bed to another’s, or who kept a mistress. She was selfish enough to want him all to herself.

She wanted someone who would be there to sit before the fire each night and play chess before bed, or watch the storms with her, his arm protectively about her shoulders, sheltering her in the comfort of his embrace.

“Something troubling you, Sylvia?” Tony tipped her chin up with one finger.

She blinked. “How much longer, do you think, before the Doyles can move back to their home?”

Tony ran his fingers through his hair. “Tomorrow night, perhaps, or the next day for certain. Our goal is to get them home before Ruford returns, and we have to work through the night.”

Only two more nights until the next shipment was due. How could she have nearly forgotten something so important?

Tony continued. “They’ve already discussed it amongst themselves, and decided the Doyles can squeeze in Mrs. Miggins, as well as Mrs. Pitsnoggle, until Baxter has a chance to rebuild later.”

“But what about Baxter?”

Tony grinned. “He intends to sleep on the cot in the dressing room between us.”

T
he next two days passed in an exhausting blur, with everyone working frantically to get homes repaired and habitable. The men were gone by dawn and didn’t return to the manor until well past dusk.

To her relief—or disappointment, she wasn’t certain which—Sylvia hardly had a moment alone with Tony, what with Baxter on the cot in the dressing room between them at night, and houseguests and their children surrounding them during the evening. Mrs. Miggins made an excuse to walk past Tony often enough that he must have a black and blue spot. When he threatened to retaliate in kind, she beamed and increased her efforts to pinch him.

After lunch the second day, Sylvia decided she had better tackle the leak in the barn roof before the rains came again.

Farleigh maneuvered the ladder into place for her. “Are you sure you be wanting to do this, my lady?”

“The other men have more important things to do, but we can’t let that leak get any worse. And don’t offer to go up yourself—we both know what might happen with your wooden leg on the ladder.” She checked that the tools and supplies were in the carpenter’s apron around her waist, gathered up her skirts, and climbed up to the roof.

The view was not as good from up here as it was on the roof of the manor house, but the distance to the ground was not dizzying, either. She located the damaged area, got down on her hands and knees, and set to work.

Within a few moments, she found a new reason to marvel at Tony’s skill. How had he made this look so easy? The nails bent over, refusing to go in straight for her, and she narrowly avoided smashing her fingers with the hammer.

“Trying to put me out of work?”

Startled on the upswing, she almost let the hammer fly out of her hand. She sat back on her heels and stared at Tony, who was making his way across the roof toward her. “I thought you were working down in the village.”

He dropped down beside her, and folded his legs. “We stopped for lunch. Would you believe there was a waiting line for the privy?”

She smiled. “No.”

He tucked a curl behind her ear. “Then would you believe I lament not having a moment alone with you since your house was invaded by refugees?”

Her stomach fluttered, but she firmly tamped it down. She would not give in to his seductive smile, those smoldering eyes. Tony was just like the summer storm, sweeping through and stirring everything up, and would be gone just as quickly, leaving destruction and heartbreak in his wake. But not
her
heart. She cleared her throat.

“Farleigh is quite agitated, having you up here. What repairs couldn’t wait?”

Sylvia pointed them out. “I didn’t want to let the problem get out of hand.”

Tony solemnly nodded. “Very wise. As long as I’m up here, how about we make a trade?” He tugged the hammer from her hand, and replaced it with a small parcel he pulled from his pocket.

She fingered the string tied around the brown wrapping paper. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d received a gift. “What’s this for?”

“Just…something I thought you should have.” He hammered the patch in place, driving in the nails—straight—with powerful blows.

Sylvia tore her eyes away from him and ripped open the paper. Inside was a spool of green ribbon.

Tony lifted the spool up to her cheek. “I was right,” he said softly. “The green matches your eyes perfectly.”

Her heart beat erratically.

“Since your year of mourning is up, you’ll be wanting to add a little color back to your wardrobe. You should have emeralds, but I thought you might prefer something more practical.”

She nodded. “There are few occasions to wear emeralds in Lulworth, but ribbon is always useful.” They shared a wry grin. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He continued to gaze at her, his smoldering brown eyes melting her insides like chocolate.

His expression, his intent, was certainly that of a rake. But this ribbon was not the gift of a rake. It was pretty yet practical. Thoughtful, but unlikely to draw attention or arouse any speculation. It did not flaunt his wealth, and was inexpensive enough she could keep it without feeling obligated to return it.

He did not gamble or drink excessively. To her knowledge, he had not bedded any women during his stay. Not even Mrs. Hamlin, a voluptuous widow of hearty sexual appetites still considered a beauty in her early thirties. According to Galen, who heard it from Mrs. Spencer, Mrs. Hamlin had caught Tony alone while he was working on Doyle’s house and offered herself up to him, but he’d sent her on her way with a pat on her shoulder. And would a rake really tile a roof in order to impress his intended conquest?

Perhaps she had misjudged Tony, misconstrued his intent.

“Everything all right up there?” Farleigh had stepped far enough away from the barn to see up onto the roof, and stood looking up at them, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

Tony muttered a curse, and gathered up the few supplies Sylvia had brought out. She tucked the spool of ribbon in her apron pocket. “Just about done,” she called.

Tony offered her a hand up, and moments later they stood on solid ground. Farleigh asked about the new patch, and Tony called farewell as he headed back to the village. Sylvia watched him walk away, her stomach in the vicinity of her boots. She fingered the ribbon in her pocket. At least she’d have something tangible to remember him by after he left.

That night, Sylvia stood next to Trent on the chalk cliffs overlooking the cove, watching for the signal light below. He may have lost the ability to make out newsprint, but he could identify the prey in a falcon’s claws when she barely saw the falcon in the sky. Tony was pacing behind them, wearing a long cape that swirled about his ankles with each turn. He stopped beside Sylvia.

“I don’t like it,” he growled.

“I know.” She didn’t like it, either, but what could they do? There was no way to contact Ruford and put off tonight’s meeting.

“Crowther and McCutcheon looked entirely too pleased with themselves this afternoon.”

“I know.”

“And Teague…shouldn’t he still have been at the Stone’s Throw? His inn should have sustained enough damage from the storm to keep him there a while longer, instead of sniffing around at the Happy Jack.”

“I know.” Sylvia restrained the urge to sigh. Since returning home at dusk, Tony and Jimmy had talked of nothing else but the scene at the inn this afternoon.

The most urgent repairs completed and the last of their houseguests restored to their own homes, or at least to their temporary homes, Doyle, Hayden, Baxter, Jimmy and Tony had gone to the inn for a celebratory mug of ale. And walked in on Ruford’s first mate accepting a purse from Teague.

Conversation at dinner had centered on speculation of what Teague was paying Crowther for, and whether it would affect their business dealings with Ruford. Sylvia had a sinking feeling it did.

“And then there’s—” Tony stopped, his head tilted to one side.

“What?”

Trent shifted uneasily. Sylvia glanced from him back to Tony. Now she heard it, too. Hoofbeats. A horse walking near the cliffs this late at night could only mean one thing.

“Is there a—”

“Hiding place?” Trent pointed over the edge. “About ten feet down, a hollow in the chalk big enough to hide two, should anyone peer over the edge. Beyond that, not much until you reach the bottom.”

“You take it.” Tony grabbed Sylvia’s hand and the lantern, and headed higher, toward the peak of the cliff, swiftly striding through the coarse grass.

“What’s your plan?” Sylvia whispered. His hand squeezed hers, not letting go.

Tony stopped as the ground started to fall away on the other side of the chalk down. “Lovely view, isn’t it?” The quarter moon was barely bright enough to allow them to see the Channel as an expanse darker than the land. “You wouldn’t happen to have a blanket with you, I suppose?”

She made a show of patting her skirt. “Must have left it in my other gown.”

He took off his cape and spread it on the ground, sat, and tugged her down beside him.

“What are we doing?” Under other circumstances she might enjoy sitting with Tony at her side and gazing at the stars, but the hoofbeats were getting louder, closer.

“We’re hiding in the open.”

She arranged her skirts, aware Tony had edged closer to her, his muscular thigh resting along the length of hers. He pulled a white cravat out from his dark shirt and tied it on as though dressing for dinner. The stark white linen must be visible for miles.

“Whatever are you doing?”

“Is it straight?” He fidgeted with the knot.

“Almost.” She adjusted the folds, her fingers brushing his chin, and noted that he needed to shave.

“Probably better if it’s a tad crooked, anyway.” Before she could object, he’d untied the new green ribbons of her bonnet and set it on the grass, and his fingers were suddenly at the top button of her pelisse.

Since the evening was mild, she had almost left it at home. But for meeting with Ruford, she wanted all the barriers possible between herself and the captain’s lecherous gaze.

Tony’s finger stroked her exposed skin above her collar. “Trust me?”

To stay? No. But here on the cliff, in the dark? She nodded, her heart in her throat.

He unbuttoned her pelisse and slipped it off one shoulder. She started to shrug out of it completely, but he shook his head, his hand on her shoulder to stop her. Her heart was beating so loudly, she could barely hear the approaching hoofbeats. Her breath hitched as she suddenly felt cool air on her shoulder, and Tony slipped her gown even farther down her arm, his touch feather light on her bare skin.

“That should do it,” he murmured. His bandaged hand held her at her waist, while his other threaded through her curls, holding the back of her head.

He leaned in, close enough for her to inhale his scent, feel his warmth, closer still until she felt the prickly stubble on his chin brush hers, felt the softness of his lips in a glancing kiss to her cheek, then nuzzling her neck.

She wrapped her arms around him, lest she lose her balance and fall. Feeling the coiled strength in his back and shoulders, the warmth of his embrace, she suddenly wanted more. Why was he kissing her neck, when she wanted his lips on hers? She buried her fingers in his thick hair, intent on guiding him into proper position. The tip of his tongue flicked the underside of her ear. She trembled.

“You like?” he murmured against her neck, one hand roaming her rib cage, fingers massaging her scalp.

Almost panting now from his continued ministrations, speech beyond her capability at the moment, she nodded. He held her so close, the movement made his stubble rasp against her neck. Combined with the light touch of his roaming fingers and the slight huff of breath in her ear, she couldn’t help herself. A giggle escaped.

“You’re ticklish,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.

“Am not.”

His fingers dancing on her ribs, he gently blew in her ear.

Another giggle escaped, and suddenly she was on her back, Tony all around her, tickling her ribs, kissing and nipping her neck, making her laugh. She tried to tickle him, but he grabbed for her hands, and the wrestling match was on. Their arms and legs tangled, hands seeking, fingers touching, shielded from the rough grass by the cape’s silk lining.

His hand brushed her breast. He suddenly went still.

All trace of laughter gone, Sylvia stayed motionless, not wanting to dislodge his hand. His touch seemed to burn through her dress and chemise, scorching her skin. How much better would it feel if there was no barrier at all?

He cupped her gently, his thumb caressing. “Sylvia,” he groaned. He slid his hand up to her bare throat and slowly back down again, until his fingertips dipped below the neckline of her gown. Yes, yes, so close, just a little more, a little farther…

“Hullo, what have we here?”

Tony abruptly sat up, pulling Sylvia with him. The hoofbeats had stopped because the rider had arrived. She hid her face against his shoulder, mortified. “Devil take the hindmost,” Tony muttered, pulling her sleeve back up on her shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her back, holding her close, shielding her from prying eyes. “Can’t a man find a moment alone with his wife
anywhere
?”

The horseback rider raised his lantern. “Sinclair, isn’t it? And Lady Montgomery?”

“Mrs. Sinclair,” Tony corrected.

“Good evening, Mr. Tipton.” Unable to look the Revenue agent in the eye, Sylvia kept her face hidden against Tony’s shoulder, her head tucked under his chin. Her cheeks must be glowing red in the darkness.

“Ma’am. Waiting for a signal?”

Sylvia sucked in a breath.

Tony tightened his hand on her back. “What signal would that be?” His tone was a perfect cross between innocent and annoyed.

Tipton harrumphed. “A bit late for honest folks to be out and about, don’t you think?”

“Not when honest folks have had a houseful of nosy, prying guests for a week,” Tony growled.

“Ah, yes, the refugees from the storm. Interrupt your honeymoon, did they?”

“Damn right.”

“It was our Christian duty to take them in,” Sylvia said. With Tony rubbing small circles on her back, her breathing had almost returned to normal. Her heart still pounded in her chest, though.

“Well, I don’t wish to interrupt the course of true love,” Tipton said. With his face shrouded in darkness, she couldn’t tell if he was sincere or sarcastic. Had they allayed his suspicions, or increased them? “Do carry on.” He nudged his horse and moved away.

Tony held his finger to her lips. “The thicket of rhododendrons behind the stables might offer more privacy.” His voice was just loud enough to carry. “Or is there hay in the loft?”

He moved his finger as she began to smile. “Yes, there’s hay.”

“Excellent.” He helped her to her feet, shook out his cape and put it back on, then grabbed her hand and strode toward the manor house.

They had only gone about twenty paces when Tony slowed, then stopped, his head tilted, listening. She could no longer distinguish the sound of hoofbeats from the crashing surf.