Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 6

Six

H amish deposited the tray on the sideboard and glanced around. The fire in the great hearth blazed unaccountably high for the deserted kitchens. The cook’s chair had been pulled up close enough to be caught by an errant spark.

He’d sent his cook and most of the staff away for a few days. What the devil was going on down here?

Perhaps in her rush to get off to bed, his housekeeper had forgot to ensure that this fire was covered. In which case the matter was his fault.

Sighing, he drew closer and spotted the dusty bottoms of two well-formed feminine feet peeking from the chair arm.

Feet like that belonged on a different sort of cook than the type the Maxwells employed. He couldn’t remember a time when his father had a diminutive cook. The current one was massively large, and he knew these were not the bulbous feet she squeezed into her clogs. These feet, with their pink toes and high arches, were the most seductive he’d ever encountered.

Anticipation rose in him—again. Creeping closer, he turned squarely to the woman in the chair.

His breath caught with a rush of heat.

The woman slumbered, head tucked into the chair wing, eyes closed, hair loose and tumbling about everywhere, shimmering like flames in the light from the blaze. Her cheeks bloomed as well, as rosy as the cheeks of the babe snuggled into her arms, which must be Logan’s child unless she’d concealed one in her valise. Underneath all the fiery red and blooming pink, a heavy velvet dressing gown covered a blessedly loose-necked nightrail. Underneath that peeked creamy white skin and the dip of her collarbone.

A Highland Madonna with child, asleep by the stable fire . Longing filled him, a sudden yearning to be her Joseph. Though he would pass on the perpetual virginity.

Hamish chuckled and crossed himself.

Her eyes fluttered, rolled around a bit, and opened wide.

“Oh heavens.” She sat up and poked a foot around until she found her slippers and slid into them, all the while careful of the babe in her arms.

“Does Mindy know you have her child?”

“Mrs. Sullivan is ill.”

Her voice, gravelly like that of a woman roused from slumber, stirred more amorous thoughts.

She rubbed at her eye with her free hand and sent him a glare—well-deserved, given what he was thinking. “Really, sir, do you expect her to run the house, fetch fuel and water and food, and watch a baby all night?”

“No. And I didn’t ask it of her either.” That had been Logan, he assumed, eager for an undisturbed night. “In my defense, though, she has the maid and footman to do the fetching and carrying. But I thank you for your nanny services. You and the child will be far more comfortable in the Rose Bedchamber.”

“It is too cold there.”

“It will be too cold here soon. The fire will die down while you sleep.”

She glanced at the pile of wood next to the hearth and moved to stand.

“Leave it,” he said. “I have a better solution.” He picked up a shawl from the back of the chair and draped it around her, leaving his arm in place. “Come, my lady. I will make sure you are warm tonight.”

Despite her mulish balking, he steered her along, up the stairs, down a hallway, through two sets of doors, and into his library. A smallish room, it had been good enough for the born-to-the-manor Baron, and that had made it good enough for Hamish’s father.

For Viscount Cathmore, it lacked sufficient shelving for his many books, but it was a problem easily solved by designating another salon or drawing room as a library and installing proper cabinetry there. He’d thought little about it—the project was best left to a steward, or a housekeeper. Or possibly a wife.

And where had that notion come from?

Because sleep often came hard to him, a fire was always laid in this room when he was in residence. He steered Rosalyn to the sofa and all but pushed her down—where were his manners?—and went to tend the fire before joining her.

Eyes downcast and carefully shuttered, she seemed to be struggling with some strong emotion. Desire, he wished. Fear, he assumed.

When she looked up, her eyes shone with moisture.

Of course —what a fool he was. This was grief. She was Rosalyn Montagu, and this had been her father’s library.

She quickly lowered her gaze and swept a thumb over little Logan’s cheek. Hamish sat next to her, purposely too close.

“You like children,” he said.

She nodded.

“Do you have any of your own?” It was a bold question to ask a woman who had declared herself unmarried.

She laughed and nodded. He held his breath, astonished at her candor, delighted by her trust, and the possibilities both raised.

“Sometimes a dozen, sometimes more,” she said. “But only part time.”

“Oh.” Hamish felt unaccountably disappointed. Rosalyn was a woman who should have children, but she was too young to have that many. “You are a teacher then?”

“No. Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. I volunteer at…at a children’s charitable home in London. I teach them their prayers and help with their lessons.”

“And you hold the little ones.”

“Oh, yes.”

He wished that he could be the one responsible for the look of pure pleasure on her face.

“You and little William?—”

“Is that his name?”

“Yes. You and little William looked like a Madonna and child in there.” He slid a thumb along her cheek, much as she had done to the baby moments ago. “You are so beautiful, Rosalyn. How do you support yourself?”

She started, then frowned and pushed his hand away. “Not on my looks, sir. As I told you, I have a small living from a relative who died. Enough for a quiet life.”

He couldn’t help laughing. “A quiet life of rescuing women who don’t want to be rescued.”

Her eyes glinted and grew darker. A strong emotion had gripped her, making her lips tremble, but she didn’t look away. She was bold, this one, even in her apparent innocence, and his hands itched to touch her. He wanted her in the Rose Bedchamber, or the Master’s Bedchamber, or this room, it didn’t matter. She couldn’t know the drought of passion he’d experienced, since even before his military service, or how long it had been since he’d desired a woman. She couldn’t know that he’d never wanted a woman more.

Blast it . He took in a deep breath and reminded himself of all the reasons he couldn’t have her: like it or not, he was a gentleman, and she was a nobleman’s daughter, a damsel in distress, and…

She was a thief, so perhaps her interest in the poor children of London was not so innocent. “Do you intend to give wee William back to his mother and father?”

Lips pressed together, she studied him, absently stroking the baby’s cheek again. “W-will Mr. Logan raise him as his own? P-properly?”

She wasn’t the sort of woman who harmed children, just a bluestocking jewel thief.

He nodded. “He will.”

Moisture welled in her eyes, and she cast her gaze on the babe. “A boy needs a father. A girl, too. Even the ones born on the wrong side of the sheets.”

For a moment, his breath left him. She was not, like so many of the philanthropizing matrons and maidens, a condescending patron of the poor. “Rosalyn. Why are you not married with children of your own?”

Her eyes glinted. “Why are you not?”

He smiled, and her face fell.

“Or are you, sir?”

“I am not. I asked you first and you must answer first. That is the rule.”

She pressed her lips together and grimaced. “I have had offers. All from clergymen who pretended to be tending to the children. None of them suited.”

“Why ever not? I should think a good-hearted maiden like yourself and a clergyman would suit quite well.”

“Should a woman lose her freedom to marry without love? I didn’t love them, and I don’t believe a one of them loved me. Aside from that, they didn’t love the children. They couldn’t even muster a flicker of fondness for them.” She took in a deep breath. “I’ll grant you, some of them are difficult, but they were harsh with all of them, even the little ones. Oh I know, spare the rod, etc., but the Bible doesn’t say to treat children as… as…offal, as rubbish. I couldn’t abide a man who would claim to serve a child born in a stable and then throw away another because he or she was base born.”

Passion blazed in her, but she wasn’t a woman entirely without judgment or good sense. She’d seen through the hypocrites pursuing her and understood that not all of the lower orders were likeable. Her maid’s actions alone were proof of that, and yet she’d carried on through this day. Surely the proposing parsons had realized Miss Rosalyn was no compliant miss. Yet…

“So, your suitors had no true interest in the children, and you are not, I surmise, wealthy. Why then were they courting you?” He lifted a tendril of her hair. “For this, I suppose?”

She blushed hot red, making the air crackle between them.

Heat flared in him. She was not unaffected by his touch.

“It is your turn to tell, my lord. Why are you not married? You are rich, titled, and handsome. ’Twould be easy enough for you to find a wife.”

“Do you think I am handsome, Rosalyn?” He twirled the tendril of hair in his fingers.

Her brow creased. “Do not be coy, Cathmore. You know you’re a handsome devil, even though, or perhaps especially because, you look like a bloody pirate.”

Hamish laughed. Such profanity from such a pretty mouth. “My lady,” he said in feigned shock. “Your language!”

“The children come to us with colorful vocabularies. We strive to teach them restraint, but our, er, director reminds me that what’s proper can be relative, especially for a child struggling for survival in a harsh world. I have learned quite a lot.”

She wasn’t a senseless prude. Her bold speech had been calculated, and on her lips, and in this setting, not vulgar.

Her eyes had grown darker, like the ocean at night, and the blue vein in her neck pulsed. She was capable of restraint, but she was also capable of boldness and knew when to risk it. She’d risked boldness in succumbing to that kiss at the inn. She didn’t regret it, not much.

How bold could she be? He wanted her, tonight, damn the consequences.

“Answer, sir,” she said. “It is your turn.” Each word came out with a tiny puff of breath, and he sensed her excitement, as if she was the one carrying out a seduction this night.

He leaned in close, so close as to taste that breath. “When I was only just the heir to a disgustingly wealthy man, peers impoverished enough to disregard my social standing threw their daughters my way. Blood is of little consequence if the purse is heavy enough. Now that I am titled, a status of only months, the offers have grown loftier. Not all women put up for auction are from the lower classes, my dear. And no one cares whether I’m handsome or not. Looks are of no consequence, my dear, except for those without money.”

She blanched, thinking of herself probably.

“Yes.” She nodded, looking into the fire. “You are right, of course. Did your father wish you to marry to raise your family’s status?”

“It was his fondest wish.” And other than his own patriotic pursuit of Bonaparte, their greatest point of contention. He’d been raised as a gentleman, but he found more comfort with the lightskirts who looked up to him than the debutants who looked down their noses. In truth, he felt more akin to the brutish Scots of his father’s side. And, by God , he needed a woman with that kind of fierce heart, not a sniveling highbred snot trying to lead him along like a dancing bear on a golden chain.

She blinked, eyes glistening as she studied the fire.

“Rosalyn,” he whispered. Her scent—good soap and warm woman—stirred him.

She let out a long breath. “Go back for the Season next year, Cathmore. You cannot hold the sins of the fathers against the daughters. You will find a wife among the ton , a woman with character and intelligence, and suitable beauty, even if she has no proper dowry.” She gazed up at him. “A father’s wishes are important. You will find her.” Moisture shimmered in her eyes, her gaze as intense as that of the lady in the portrait.

Rosalyn of the fiery hair and the sparkling green eyes.

He closed the gap between them and touched his lips to hers. She stiffened immediately.

“Rosalyn,” he whispered, and kissed her again, nibbling and coaxing for long moments.

“Cathmore—”

“Shhh.” He lifted her hair away and found the sensitive spot on her neck, until she shivered and sighed, and turned to him, lips parted.

Sweet Rosalyn . He slipped an arm around her shoulder, easing her closer.

A hand slapped him and he remembered the barrier between them. Young William shook a fist and pursed his lips. The lad might have glared if he hadn’t been fast asleep.

“We must find you a better resting place, young man.” He eased young William away, and carried him to a deep armchair near the fire, covering him with Rosalyn’s shawl, and returning to her.

Her eyes, big and dark, gave evidence of her desire, but fear shone in them as well.

“You can’t leave him there. He’s old enough to have begun rolling over.”

He moved an end table against the chair. “There. He’ll be all right. If he sleeps like his father, he’ll sleep like the dead. Logan was my aide, but he was the devil to wake, even on a day of battle.”

“But the table won’t stop him from rolling off the?—”

His kiss silenced her for long moments. Her resistance, what there was of it, weakened.

She tasted of the same leftover roast he’d had, nicely crisped on the outside, but tender and juicy and full of flavor. She was so blissfully responsive, he dared more. He slid his hand from the curve of her cheek to the smooth column of her neck, across her shoulder until he stroked her arm and moved inward, under the velvet lapel of the dressing gown, landing one deft finger on the hard point of a nipple that poked up tall and proud and raised the devil in him.

He had to have her.

He shed his coats, tossed them aside, and then loosened the tie on her velvet robe.

“Cathmore.” Her hands crept to his arms, slid up to his shoulders and?—

She shoved him away. “I’ll take William and go back to the kitchen.”

“You’ll be warmer here.”

He settled a hand on her breast.

She pushed it away. “No, Cathmore.”

No? Did she mean it? Could he stop now for her sake?

“I won’t ruin you.” He blurted the words, shocked to realize they were true. This lady was a treasure, one he’d go about winning properly.

“You have already ruined me.”

He sat back and swiped a hand over his face. Rosalyn might not be a young miss, but she was an innocent. He didn’t despoil innocents, nor would he.

“No. I haven’t. And I won’t.” Unless…he could marry her. Neither of them were married. He could have her and marry her within the week.

And where had that idea come from?

“W ill you trust me, my dear?”

Cathmore’s intense gaze and deep baritone sent a shiver through her, a sure sign that trusting him would be a terrible mistake.

“I think not.”

“I won’t despoil you. I promise you that.” He whispered the words to her neck, stirring a tickling pleasure and?—

“ Cathmore .” Pleasure arced from her neck to the private spot between her legs where his hand had landed.

Before she could speak, his lips silenced her, and he kissed her as if he needed her lips to draw his own breath, muddling her senses and her resistance.

And then he drew back abruptly. “Shall we stop now?” Under the white linen of his shirt, a wide chest rose and fell, and a lock of dark shadowed the hooded gaze pinning her.

She didn’t want to stop. She’d never felt anything like this desire that he stirred.

And yet…she thought of the baby left with Miss Harris.

“I will not despoil you. When this night is over, you will still be a virgin.”

“And I can trust you ?”

“My word as a gentleman. Or better yet, my word as the son of Simon Maxwell.”

He skimmed a finger across her cheek, waiting.

On the morrow, she’d leave Brockton Manor. She’d never see Cathmore again, and he’d never see her, not here, nor in London. His money and title gave him entrée to the world of the ton, a world she would never be part of.

Tonight, a few kisses, some stolen pleasure could leave no permanent harm. He wouldn’t get her with child.

Her chest tightened. She nodded and lifted her lips to meet his.

Then he moved, kissing a trail to her breast, licking her through the nightrail. He found the garment’s hem and cold air touched her bare ankle, followed by warm fingers.

He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath and froze.

What…?

He’d changed his mind. When she pushed at her nightgown, he opened his eyes.

His mouth firmed. “Just…just a moment.”

“What…this is probably a mis?—”

“No.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “Not a mistake.” His lips moved to her cheek. “I just needed a pause.” He kissed her neck. “I was almost undone.”

“Undone?”

“Mmm-hmm. Overcome.”

One finger touched a sensitive spot and pleasure shot through her.

“ Oh. No one ever?—”

“Touched you there? Good.”

He pressed his lips to hers, pressed a palm to her most private of places and she was lost.

C athmore eased her hem higher, counting to ten again, gathering his self-control.

He wanted her so. Why not take her now. She could have it all. She could have the damn title, the manor, the furnishings, if he could have her, tonight, right now.

He eased in a breath and reached for his genteel training and his Maxwell good sense. The girl was a virgin. He wouldn’t take a virgin without taking her as his wife, and though marriage to her had its appeal, he mustn’t forget she’d stolen a ring.

Her breasts strained against the nightrail, rising up and down as she studied him, her eyes dark and luminous, her body, slick like an overturned honey pot.

Perhaps he would marry her.

“You are safe with me.”

She lifted a shoulder and nodded, a shy smile breaking. That smile and her trust sent his heart tumbling.

She would know pleasure, by God.

He kissed, and stroked, and touched, and watched her desire mount until she shattered beneath his hand, calling his name.

She fell against him, boneless and trembling. “I had no idea.”

He tucked her close and smoothed a hand over her…and felt the lump below her breasts.

While the afterglow of pleasure distracted her, he traced the thin cord of ribbon at her neck. She still had the ring, this wicked, delicious, puzzling woman.

A new jolt of desire rocketed through him. He gritted his teeth and waited for his cockstand to calm.

Rosalyn stirred, retrieved the babe, and seated herself at the end of the sofa, face aflame, eyes averted. “You will keep this private, will you not?”

“Is there a suitor you’re concerned about?”

“No. No suitor at present.”

And no suitor in the future if he had a say about it. He pulled her with the babe in her arms back onto his lap.

“I was probably already ruined because of the kiss at the inn, and because I am staying at your home unchaperoned, but perhaps I will someday meet a freethinking man who can excuse one kiss, and the visit to your house as an alternative to freezing to death. What we just did, though, well, for impoverished ladies, virtue is also of great consequence, Cathmore.”

He pulled her closer. “My lady Rosalyn, the only witness to our passion slept through it like the infant he is. You’re not to worry. What we have between us will be private unless you wish to make it public. Now, I will keep you warm, and you will sleep.”