Twice Tempted by a Rogue

“Well, that’s better.” He released her, giving her an affectionate pat on the backside, and she immediately left his side to begin a closer inspection of a decorative alcove.



“Should I call for a servant to help you unpack?” he asked, crossing to their baggage where it sat by a large wardrobe. “Or do you trust me to play lady’s maid?”



“As you like,” she muttered distractedly, craning her neck to peer atop a high shelf and testing its cleanliness with her fingertip.



Rhys doubted she’d heard a word he’d said, but he took it upon himself to unpack the valises. The army had given him years of experience in packing and unpacking quickly. After shrugging out of his greatcoat, he set to work. He shook out and refolded their inner garments, then hung his coats next to her gowns. Of course, he had separate closets planned for the cottage, but he had to admit—he liked seeing their clothing mingled in the same wardrobe, her stockings nestled next to his cravats. It looked right, and—if a hulking brute of man like him could say such a thing—it looked sweet.



It also aroused him something fierce.



As he worked, Meredith made a slow circuit of the sitting room. She stopped to peer at each small object, inspected each stick of furniture and decorative detail. He could sense her making mental notes, storing up ideas and inspiration to bring home to the Three Hounds.



“I could never hang velvet drapes at the inn,” she lamented, fingering the edge of one dark blue curtain. “The dust would be horrible.” Her head tilted. “But I do like the way they’ve hung these draperies near the ceiling and let them fall almost to the ground. Makes the window appear larger than it is. I’ll have to remember that.”



Chewing her lip with concentration, she wandered off into the bedchamber.



Rhys sighed. When was she going to realize that a return to innkeeping wasn’t in her future? With an impatient yank, he dragged a pale, gauzy shift free of her valise. He wished she would cease paying so much attention to the furnishings and spare a thought for him.



“Oh!”



Her exclamation of surprise tugged him across the room. From the arch separating sitting room and bedchamber, he spied her at the side of the bed.



The enormous bed. The carved mahogany posts were hung with rich draping, and the bed itself was a billowing cloud of snow-white pillows and counterpanes.



“Oh, my,” she said. “What a bed. I’ve never seen its like.” Placing both hands flat on the mattress, she leaned forward, testing its softness and give. As she bounced her arms up and down, her bosom and backside teetered cheekily, as if in invitation.



Rhys’s hands fisted in the tissue-thin muslin, wrinkling it irrevocably. He cleared his throat. “Yes.”



She turned and looked at him. Her dark eyebrows rose, as though she expected him to go on.



He didn’t have a damn thing else to say. The only word in his brain was yes. Yes, yes, yes.



Well, and perhaps the word now.



She knew it, too. Those slender brows arched with amusement. “Yes,” she said, hiking her heavy traveling skirt and lifting one hip onto the mattress. “It is indeed a remarkable bed.”



Transferring her weight to that hip perched on the edge of the bed, she slowly reclined sideways, stretching out her arm as she did. It was a slow, sinuous motion, like that of a cat stretching into a patch of sun. Propping herself on an elbow, she made her body one long, dark ribbon of femininity unfurled atop the fringed white cushions.



At last. Now he had her complete, undivided attention.



His heart battered his ribs, threatening to splinter apart the old, imperfectly healed bones. Other parts of him stiffened to iron.



She gave him a coy, seductive smile. “Won’t you join me?”



Rhys’s mouth went dry. Despite all his intentions to wait, to tease, to ply her with ruthless, exquisite temptation, and finally seduce her into a formal engagement … they’d been here five minutes and he was the one with yes on his lips. Yes, yes, yes. He could not have said anything else.



“It’s useless to resist,” she said in a sultry voice, picking open the top button of her jacket. “We both know you’ll give in.” She hooked her finger under the second button and gave it a playful tug. “I’m a woman, Rhys. When it comes to the bedroom, my will is stronger than yours.”



He laughed a little. But the words gave him pause.



On instinct, he should have dismissed the idea out of hand. No one’s will was stronger than his. That was why he’d survived so many fights. Hadn’t he spent eleven years in the infantry, always charging into the first wave of blood, hoping to meet a stronger opponent? The man who would knock him to the ground and finally end it all, at last.



It had never happened.



Until now. And it wasn’t a man threatening to vanquish him with sabre or musket, but a woman. A woman with curves of satin and a spine of pure steel. Give in, she said. My will is stronger than yours.



On this point, he suspected she was right. His resolve was quickly softening, even as his groin went rock-hard. Wasn’t this precisely what he’d spent a lifetime chasing? Sweet, blessed defeat?



And to find it on such a lush, silky field of battle …



Destiny whispered in his ear. She was beautiful, and she was his for the taking. Whether it happened today or next year, this was fated to be.



He would have her. Today. Yes.



Yes, yes, yes. And now.



With a deep, resonant sigh, he stepped toward her.



Her expression changed quickly, from one of seduction to one of surprise. Despite her teasing, she hadn’t expected him to give in.



He stopped. He hadn’t expected her to be surprised.



Tenderness warmed her eyes. In a generous, fluid motion, she reached out a hand and beckoned. “Oh, Rhys,” she whispered. The words were so soft they might have been a caress. “Come here.”



A sharp rap at the door halted him mid-step.



God damn it. Fate was playing cruel games with him tonight.



“That’ll be our dinner,” he said. He muttered to himself, “Blast it.”



“Our dinner. And our bath?” She rose to a sitting position.



Our bath. Well, there was a happier thought.



Rhys twisted the muslin in his hands, wondering which would be worse—answering the door with a wad of frilly muslin in front of his groin? Or greeting the servants with an obvious erection?



Smiling at his predicament, Meredith saved him by answering the door herself. Rhys took his turn studying the draperies as a parade of maids bearing steaming pitchers marched through the suite, each adding her cargo to the rapidly filling tub. He pretended to admire the view of the park as a manservant wheeled a small table into the sitting room, whisking away silver dome after silver dome to reveal a feast.



“Thank you, that will be all.” Meredith’s voice. And then the soft snick of the door.



Releasing his breath, Rhys turned to her. Grinning sheepishly, he held up the abused, twisted nightrail for her inspection before tossing it aside. “You won’t be needing it anyway.”



Her breath caught. “I won’t?”



“No.”



“Good.” She took a deep breath. “So, how do we proceed? Do we eat first? Bathe?” Sparkling eyes met his. “Neither?”



“Dinner first,” he said, drawing two chairs up to the table. “Then bath. Once I have you in bed, I’m keeping you there.”



“Oh, I like the sound of that.” Her cheeks pinked as she settled into her chair and raised a glass of wine. “Shall we have a toast?”



He raised his own claret. “To the lovely Mrs. St. Maur, Lady Ashworth. And to a most enjoyable honeymoon.”



She giggled. “Be serious, Rhys.”



“I am perfectly serious.” He waited for her defensive laughter to cease. “As far as society’s concerned, you’re here in this room as my wife. And as far as I’m concerned, this night is the beginning of forever.”



She made a strange sound in her throat as she studied her wine. At length, she put it down. The glass met the table’s surface with a clink.



“Meredith, what is the matter?”



She picked up her knife and fork and began to eat.



“I mean it,” he insisted. “Tell me.”



“I don’t know, it’s just … I’m not your wife.”



“You will be.” He jabbed at a hunk of beef, and his fork screeched across the plate. “Listen, Meredith. Life’s made you cautious, I know. And I know I was gone for fourteen years and I’ve only been back for a matter of weeks. Some reluctance is understandable, and I’ve been prepared to wait it out. But surely by now you have to know I’m not just some randy traveler passing through the inn.”



“I do know that.” She chased a pea around her plate.



“Do you? I’ve had the banns read, twice, in front of the whole village. Threats, vandals, rocks to the head—I’ve endured all of these in recent weeks, and none of them have shaken my plans to rebuild Nethermoor, nor my belief that we’re meant to marry. But you still don’t trust me on this.”



“On what? Marriage?” She raised her eyebrows and her voice. “You don’t trust me on the subject either. If you did, you’d offer me a real choice in the matter. I don’t recall ever being asked if I’d like to marry you, simply told that it’s inevitable. Instead of a proposal, I get … autocratic commands and prophetic pronouncements. Where’s the trust in that?”



Rhys shook his head. “Eat,” he told her. “The bathwater’s going cool.”



“You’re right. Let’s not argue.” She gave him a self-effacing smile. “We’ll laugh about this in the morning.”



He frowned. Was that what she thought? That everything would change by the morning? Maybe this was the source of her reluctance. She thought that his determination to marry her would disappear once he’d purged the lust from his system.



Well. He’d simply have to prove to her that those fears were groundless. And the way to do so was to make love to her tonight, make it very, very good, and show her none of his intentions had changed the next morning.



Not exactly a chore, that.



He ate quickly, as always. When he looked up from his plate, he found her watching him, circling the rim of her wineglass with a fingertip.



“Are you finished?” he asked, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.



“Oh, yes.” She rose from her seat.



“Now, can we make the bath just as speedy as the meal?”



“If we bathe together, we can.”



Rhys rather liked that suggestion. Parts of him liked it very well indeed.



He ushered her over to the bathing area, where she spent a good minute cooing over the glazed ceramic tiles and painted washbasin while she removed her hairpins at the vanity.



While her attention was diverted, Rhys took the opportunity to quickly and discreetly undress. No matter how many times she assured him she wasn’t repulsed by his scars, that she found his body—against all reason—attractive, he still felt apprehensive about revealing all of himself. She’d seen him shirtless, but full nudity was another thing altogether. Between the lamps and the mirrors and the glittering white tile, there was simply too much light bouncing around, eager to illuminate his every flaw and imperfection.



And his body had a great many flaws and imperfections.



Once bared, he crossed the room silently and moved to stand behind her at the vanity. There was a mirror there, and she didn’t startle. She must have watched him approach. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pivoted her away from the mirror, not wanting to see his own damaged face staring back at him. She leaned back against him, settling her weight against his bare chest.



Rhys sucked in his breath. He reached his arms around her, and with stiff, clumsy fingers, he yanked at the closures of her traveling jacket.