Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 7

Seven

T he babe must have been tugging for some time at her hair before he finally convinced her with his lungs it was time to wake up…and free her lips from another inflaming kiss.

She sat up sharply and the man under her gasped aloud.

He was in the same hardened condition she had noticed the night before. Her face baked with heat remembering all that had transpired. All that she had done.

Life as she had known it was over. Despite his promises, Cathmore would talk, as men did, and even now, his masculine presence was stirring a reaction in her traitorous body.

She squirmed against the grip of his hands at her waist. “Let go, my lord, young William is wet.”

He quickly released her.

“I’ll hold you to your promise of privacy, milord.”

Cathmore stretched out his long legs. “Would that you would hold more than my promise,” he grumbled.

Her face heated again, and she hurried from the room with the crying babe.

Last night had been a mistake, but, she prayed, not a fatal one. She’d behaved like a wanton, but it could have been worse. If Cathmore had been more of a barbarian, or less of a gentleman, she might be leaving with a babe in her belly instead of a memory of that hot, unexpected ecstasy.

Even so, if what she had allowed became known, she’d be excluded from her small circle of polite society, perhaps barred from Miss Harris’s charity even, and that would break her heart.

She must leave Brockton Manor as soon as possible, and he must never know her true identity.

In the kitchen, Sally was heating water and bringing out pots and bowls, beginning the preparations for breakfast.

“Happy Christmas, miss.” Sally rushed over. “Is that the babe? I couldn’t see him when he arrived, he was wrapped so tight.”

The girl was a bit simple, her face twisted with a defect Rosalyn hadn’t noticed the night before. Great houses rarely employed servants like her. Miss Harris always had extra difficulty finding positions for their slow or maimed children.

Sally offered to search for clean linens for William’s fresh clout, so Rosalyn handed the babe over and took charge of the cooking.

She heated some milk and gruel and watched Sally spoon food into William’s greedy mouth, blessedly ending his wailing.

“Just like a man,” Rosalyn said.

The girl raised her head, surprise lighting her face. “It’s true, milady, they’re happier after their stomachs are filled.”

The girl cooed and coaxed until she had the baby smiling. Baby William would be in good hands, even if his parents neglected him.

And she herself must carry on with her escape.

Outside, snow had drifted part way up against the high window, obscuring the view. If the snowfall had stopped, the roads might be passable, at least on horseback. There’d be no need to return to Glen Murray. Another village with a coaching inn lay on the other side of the estate, and she knew every structure and shelter in between. If she could reach one with proper supplies, she could abide there even if the weather became foul again.

Cathmore seemed a good master to his staff, but he was a danger to her. He stirred her in ways she’d never known possible. She was only a dead baron’s daughter, one with no dowry to entice a noble suitor, nor any family to come to her aid. Cathmore would never marry her.

She wouldn’t stay another night here, no matter that it should be her home.

The door to the kitchen opened and she jumped, but it was only Mr. Logan. He spotted Rosalyn, made a polite bow, and turned to Sally. “I’ve come for my son. Thank you for watching him last night.”

“Oh, sir,” she said, “the lady here looked after him.”

A worried frown crossed his brow, but he took the baby and wiped a spot of gruel from his cheek.

“Mr. Logan,” Rosalyn said, “I must apologize for my interference yesterday. I didn’t know. Please tell your…your new wife that I am sorry.”

“You may tell her yourself at dinner,” he said. “Just now, Cathmore told me he plans a small Christmas celebration. You are to come.”

“I must leave as soon as possible. Today, I hope. And I’m sure my presence will not be desired.”

William wailed again, and Logan propped him on his shoulder. “Your presence will not only be desired, miss, it has been ordered. Cathmore was always a fair-minded commander, but he wants what he wants when he wants it. He’s not a man to be trifled with, in business, or in war.”

And which is this, business or war? She bit her lip while Logan hurried off with his son.

Staying here was out of the question. She’d find her clothing and slip away.

Preparing to brave the cold stairs, she cinched her belt tighter and reached up to pat the ring…and froze.

Rushing to the privacy of the nearby pantry, she lifted the neckline of her nightrail, feeling for the silky ribbon that held her ring. It was gone, as was the ring.

A fter his interruption by Logan, Hamish pondered how to go on. He studied the library mantel, fingering the carving there. The work, the coat of arms of the Barons Montagu, was centuries old, according to his father. The craftsman had also worked the family motto in script along the top.

He lifted the ring into a ray of morning sunlight. He understood now why Rosalyn had filched it.

How had Ned Morgan obtained the baron’s signet ring in the first place? Not in any honest manner. Ned had either stolen it himself, or blackmailed for it, or swindled it out of the baron in payment of a debt.

A laugh gurgled up. He himself was the next thief in the line. He’d lifted the ring from Rosalyn, in the wee hours while she slept. When she’d stirred during the removal, he’d commenced kissing her silly—an effective tactic, since she hadn’t noticed the ring’s absence.

Rustling in the corridor roused him from that warm memory, and he stepped into a shadowed corner just before the door opened.

Rosalyn appeared in the doorway, clutching at her bodice and came around the back of the settee, frantically scanning the furniture and carpet. Tossing the cushions, she murmured prayers for help and sank to her knees, peering under the furniture with her bottom at an angle that addled his wits. Struggling to her feet again, she examined the patterned carpet.

He slid out from the darkness. “Is this what you’re looking for?” He dangled the ring on its silken strand.

She grimaced. “Thank you, yes.”

She reached for the ring and he pulled it back.

Anger colored her face and sparked in her eyes. “It is mine, sir. Give it to me.” She bit her lip. “Please.”

He smiled watching her cheeks redden and her gaze narrow.

“What game are you about, Cathmore?”

“Miss Rosalyn Crompton, what game are you about? This is the signet ring of the Montagus.”

She blinked and let out a slow breath. “I…”

She licked her bottom lip, the lip he had tugged on with his teeth while lifting the ring. The memory lit him inside again, and he struggled against the urge to sweep her up and kiss away the anger and fear he saw playing across her face.

There was no need for fear. He’d never harm her.

“Did you also purloin your valise from Ned Morgan, or is your true name Rosalyn Montagu?”

She huffed out a breath and paced to the mantel before turning back to him. “Very well. Yes, I am Rosalyn Montagu, the only child of the last Lord Montagu, and I purloined nothing from that scoundrel, Ned Morgan. That ring was promised to me by my father, and I cannot imagine how Morgan came to have it unless he stole it. I merely reclaimed what was mine to begin with.”

“ My father bought this estate, and all its appurtenances, furnishings, and holdings. I even have the Montagu family Bible. A legal argument could be made that the ring also is mine.”

“And possession is nine-tenths of the law?” She arched her pretty brow at him.

“Precisely.”

“Well, I shall just have to reclaim it from you.”

“You may try, Miss Rosalyn.”

She cast him the disdainful look of a noblewoman studying a vulgar mushroom, the type of look he’d received far too often in his forays into society, and headed for the door.

The arrogant cut drove his temper, and he thanked the gods he hadn’t taken her the night before and risked being leg-shackled. Forget his first impressions—she’d learned snobbery at the knee of some master, her mother or her father or perhaps that elderly cousin.

“Miss Montagu,” he said, “we will have an early dinner today to celebrate Christmas and the fortuitous reunion of two people in love. I trust that you can find suitable attire and will not show up in that velvet dressing gown. Please pick out a garment for Mindy as well. You are of a similar size.”

Her eyes widened, pools of shocked aquamarine in the morning light. “One of my mother’s dresses?” She huffed. “And if I do not wish it?”

“I will have a long talk with Mrs. Sullivan.”

Her lip quivered. “You promised.”

He waved his hand. “I mean I’ll discuss your theft of the ring. I’ll keep the promise I made last night about the other matter.”

She turned away and touched the door handle.

“And, Miss Montagu? Move back into the Rose Bedchamber tonight.”

Her tremble sent shame through him as he watched her slip through the door.

He sank into the wing chair and rubbed at his temples, the ring dangling and thumping his chest like the poke of an irate father.

“The Rose Bedchamber is just above this library,” he said. “It will be warmer.”

He told himself that was his reason for placing her there. He told himself there was a lock in the connecting door to the master’s suite. She would find that lock and use it, though, God help him, a part of him wished with all his heart she wouldn’t.

With her crushing his inflamed privy counsellor all the night, he’d barely slept, but he didn’t have to be rested for what he wanted.

He laughed. Having her in the next bedchamber was more of a punishment for him than a threat to her.