Dearest Rogue

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “For taking me here. For showing me your horses.”

  “They’re my father’s horses,” he said, the reply rote. “Not mine.”

  She merely shook her head and smiled. “This is such a lovely place. Might we walk up on the moor? I’ve never been so far west and I’ve never been on the moor.”

  He sighed and took her arm, turning to lead her back toward the house. “It’s beautiful on the moor, but rough as well—the ground is quite uneven.”

  “The horses graze there.” Her plump mouth was creased with stubbornness.

  “And they have four legs and are used to it,” he retorted. “It isn’t safe, my lady.”

  He felt her fingers squeeze his arm. “Perhaps I’m tired of being safe.”

  “It’s my job to—”

  She stopped, jerking him to a halt.

  He looked down at her, watching her brows draw together over unseeing eyes, her mouth turning down in a definite frown. “I don’t want to be your job anymore. I hereby sever your commitment to protect me. And before you tell me that my brother is the one who employs you, let me remind you that you left his employment. You aren’t my guard anymore and you haven’t been since before I was kidnapped. You’re doing this for reasons beyond dashed employment and I’m tired of—”

  He stopped her tirade by the simple expedient of covering her mouth with his own.

  His cane fell to the ground as he yanked her body against his, forcing her head back with the pressure of his lips. Her pretty mouth parted under his, and something animal surged in his chest as he thrust his tongue into her. He licked his way inside, tasting her, grinding her body against his, wanting to bear her to the ground and put his cock in her. He wanted so much more than what she could give him here.

  Only when she sighed into his mouth, a small submission, did he whisper against her lips, “I’m tired of you tempting me.”

  “I’m not tempting you anymore,” she murmured back, her wet lips brushing his.

  He nipped her bottom lip in punishment. “Aren’t you?”

  “No,” she whispered. “You’ve given in.”

  He groaned and bent once more to her, losing himself in her softness, her hope.

  It wasn’t until he heard someone clear his throat that Trevillion lifted his head again.

  And saw his father glaring at him.

  PHOEBE WAS QUITE pleased with herself when she started off to dinner with Agnes that night. She’d managed to spend the afternoon taking a quite decadent bath with the help of Agnes and Betty. The bath had performed the double service of cleansing her and giving her a reason to hide in her room from Mr. Trevillion. It’d been rather embarrassing to be discovered shamelessly kissing his son in the middle of the stable yard.

  And while she’d been hiding in her lovely steaming bath, turning into a veritable prune and languidly scrubbing her knees, Betty had sponged and brushed her one dress. That, together with a clean chemise borrowed from Dolly, meant that she felt quite presentable.

  So she was rather looking forward to seeing Trevillion again until she, Agnes, and Toby neared the dining room to hear shouting. Again.

  “Does your grandfather argue at every meal?” she inquired of Agnes, who, it turned out, was quite a font of information.

  “He didn’t used to,” sighed the child. “Does Uncle James?”

  “I’ve never noticed it before.” Phoebe cocked her head. They seemed to be shouting about… a neighbor? How intriguing. “They sound a lot alike, don’t they?”

  “Yes,” Agnes said emphatically. “I hope they stop. Mother doesn’t like it.”

  Phoebe hadn’t even thought about Dolly and how all this was affecting Agnes’s mother—which made her feel quite guilty. But of course discord in her house would be confusing for Agnes’s mother. And on that thought came another: who was Agnes’s father? No one had made any mention of him.

  A crash brought her back to the present problem.

  “We really need to stop them,” Phoebe said, making up her mind.

  She marched into the dining room with Agnes by her side.

  The men immediately stopped yelling, though to judge by the heavy breathing they were by no means calmed.

  “Where is your mother, Agnes?” Phoebe asked.

  “She’s already at the table,” Agnes said, and a distressed muttering from one end of the room confirmed her pronouncement.

  Phoebe lifted her chin. The men ought to be ashamed of themselves, upsetting Dolly, really they should! “Well, let’s sit by her, shall we?”

  She followed the tug on her hand and found James already waiting with a chair.

  “You’re seated between Dolly and me,” he said.

  “How nice,” Phoebe murmured acidly, and sat.

  She felt a brush against her legs and realized that Toby had sneaked under the table and was now leaning against them.

  “What are we having?” she asked with forced cheer.

  She began making her usual exploration of the table edge only to find Dolly’s hand at her right. It was large and soft and trembling slightly. Phoebe gave Dolly’s fingers a reassuring pat.

  “Roast beef,” rumbled Mr. Trevillion from the head of the table, “boiled vegetables, and bread made by Dolly.”

  “I make bread,” Dolly said softly from Phoebe’s side.

  Phoebe realized now that the woman had the faint scent of yeast about her. “Do you? How lovely. I’ve never made bread.”

  “Mother makes all the bread for us,” Agnes chimed in. “She’s very good.”

  “Sometimes I make small cakes,” Dolly said slowly. “But mostly I make bread.”

  “You’ll have to show me how,” Phoebe decided.

  “There’s beer as well,” James said in her ear. “A bitter ale.”

  “Why are you giving the lass beer, boy?” his father said irritably. “Wine’s a lady’s drink.”

  “I like beer,” Phoebe said.

  “Do you?” James asked just for her ears.

  “I’m almost certain I do,” she murmured back.

  “Stubborn.” In a louder voice, James said, “If she doesn’t like the beer, she can have the wine later, Father.”

  Mr. Trevillion muttered something that sounded like “Daft.”

  “James showed me your horses today,” Phoebe said as she felt the plate before her. “I quite enjoyed them. They were so beautiful.”

  “How do you know that, might I ask?” snapped Mr. Trevillion.

  Phoebe heard a clatter from James’s plate and knew if she didn’t say something fast none of them would be able to eat the meal.

  “Because I could feel it, that’s how. Lack of sight hasn’t stolen either my wits or my perception.” She reached out and found James’s hand to her left on the table. It was in a fist. Gently she covered it. “I was wondering who named your horses, Mr. Trevillion? Guinevere seems a fanciful name.”

  “I did,” Agnes said. Her voice was very small.

  “Did you?” Phoebe fought to keep a pleasant expression on her face, despite Mr. Trevillion’s ill humor. Antagonizing the old man would get her nowhere. “How many horses have you named?”

  “Almost all of them,” Agnes said, her voice relaxing with what was obviously a favorite subject. “I name the new foals when they’re born and sometimes a new mare when she’s bought. Not the stallion, though. His name is Octavian, which I suppose is good enough.”

  Phoebe didn’t have trouble with her smile anymore. “And what are some of the names you’ve chosen?”

  “We-ell,” Agnes said. “There’s Guinevere, you already know. Her name was Chalk when Granfer bought her, which was an ugly name. Then there’s Seagull, Mermaid, Pearl, Sky, and Merlin—he was sold just last month to the younger son of the Earl of Markham.”

  “Paid well for him, too,” Mr. Trevillion said, sounding pleased for the first time since Phoebe had entered the room. “Merlin’s a bonny lad.”

  “And I named Uncle James’s mare,” Agnes said, sounding
shy again, “the one he had in London.”

  Cowslip, Phoebe remembered. Had Trevillion told his niece what had happened to poor Cowslip?

  She cleared her throat. “Will you name the new foals as well when they’re born?”

  “Yes, if Granfer lets me.”

  “Oh, aye, you’ll do the naming, lass.” Mr. Trevillion’s voice was gruff, but Phoebe rather had the idea he doted on his granddaughter. “Might as well since all this will be yours when I’m gone.”

  Phoebe felt the fist clench under her fingers. “But surely James—”

  “Jamie left us of his own accord when we needed him most,” his father said, his voice hard.

  “You know damned well why I had to leave, old man,” Trevillion said, his voice low and lethal. “I had a price on my head. You yourself told me—”

  “I never told ye to stay away over a decade!”

  “You kept writing that it was too dangerous. That Faire was still looking.” While his father’s voice had risen, James’s voice had lowered, grown more controlled. “I sent you what money I made. I—”

  “You came back a cripple!” Despite the harshness of the older man’s words, there was an undercurrent of anguish. “What good to me is a cripple? Tell me that, boy!”

  “Oh.” Phoebe couldn’t help the exclamation. She knew how much Trevillion hated the weakness in his leg. For his father to—

  James’s chair scraped against the floor as it was shoved back. “Stop calling me that. I haven’t been a boy for over a decade.” His fist slipped away from her hand as he rose.

  She heard his boot steps leave the room.

  Next to her, Dolly whimpered, and underneath the table Toby had his warm little body pressed against her knees, shivering.

  Phoebe wanted to follow him. He’d followed her once when she’d argued with Maximus and stormed out of the room. But that had been in her own house, which she knew inside and out.

  Here she was still a stranger, learning the paths and distances between objects. She couldn’t follow James. Couldn’t ask why, for God’s sake, he’d had a price on his head. Couldn’t comfort him or argue with him or possibly make love to him, because she was blind.

  Now and forever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Agog, the last of the giants, lived in the cliffs that led to the beach along the sea. He was three times as ugly as his brothers and ten times as mean. Two heads lay upon his broad shoulders, each with one eye and one long fang. His hair brushed the clouds and with one stride he could cover ten leagues. He carried a club made from an oak tree and he could kill a hundred men with only one blow.…

  —From The Kelpie

  It was just before dawn when Trevillion pushed open the door to Phoebe’s bedroom. He held the candle high as he walked to the bed and for a moment he simply looked at her.

  Her brown hair was spread upon her pillow like skeins of unraveled silk. Her plump lips were slightly parted and her hand was tucked under her chin.

  She looked all of twelve.

  He was a lecherous bastard, plain and simple, but he could no longer deny the pull she exerted on him just by breathing.

  He was well and truly damned. What was worse, he knew that inevitably their time in Cornwall would end. The kidnapper would be found, Wakefield would want his sister back, and they would have to return to London.

  Would he be able to walk away from her when that happened?

  He shook his head, bringing himself back to his present mission.

  “Phoebe,” he said out loud, and gently stroked that pink cheek. “Wake up.”

  She stirred, murmuring sleepily. Those sightless hazel eyes opened and stared directly into the candle. “James?”

  “Come,” he said. “Guinevere is foaling. I thought you might like to witness the event.”

  “Oh!” She sat up, affording him a gorgeous view of her round breasts. “Do I have time to dress?”

  He cleared his throat, tearing his gaze from her bodice. “Yes. I’ll wait in the hall.”

  Trevillion went out and leaned against the wall near the door, listening to the small sounds she made as she dressed: rustling, a murmur or soft exclamation now and again. This was the house he’d been born in, had grown up in. He’d always thought he’d never leave—until almost a dozen years ago when it had all fallen apart. Strange. What would his life have been like had he not made that one terrible mistake? He probably never would’ve left Cornwall, never would’ve joined the dragoons and learned to lead men.

  Never would’ve met Phoebe… that he could never regret.

  A moment later her door opened and Phoebe peeked out. “James?”

  “I’m here.” He straightened, touching her arm so she knew where he stood. “Place your hand on my arm. I’m holding the candle in my left hand.”

  Slowly he led her down the dark-wood-paneled hallway and to the stairs. They were without ornament, but the wood was kept polished to a gleam by Betty. Downstairs they left by the kitchen door, which led out into the stable yard.

  “I can hear a bird,” Phoebe murmured as they made their way across the yard.

  “Dawn’s just breaking,” he answered, glancing toward the east. “There’s a sort of pink glow on the horizon.”

  “Mm.” She tilted her head back, sniffing the air. “I can smell the sea and the heath on the moor. Will it be a beautiful day, do you think?”

  He looked at her. “Oh yes.”

  She smiled at him and then they were at the stables. Guinevere was in the largest stall at the end, five people watching her over the door. He led Phoebe toward the stall quietly.

  As they neared, Agnes turned and hurried to them. She gave him her usual shy glance and then whispered to Phoebe. “Granfer says we must be quiet for ’tis best for Guinevere. I had to lock poor Toby in my room so he wouldn’t bark.”

  Phoebe held out her hand to the girl. “We’ll give Toby a special treat later, shall we?”

  Agnes nodded and tugged Phoebe’s hand. “Come and see—Oh!”

  Phoebe smiled. “That’s all right—you can see for me.”

  Trevillion watched as his niece led Phoebe to the stall. Somehow she’d won Agnes’s trust when the girl was still wary of him, though he’d sent her letters since she’d learned to read. He sighed and followed. His father and Owen were at the rail, Reed hanging back a bit with Young Tom. Owen and his father were of an age, but his father towered over Owen. Usually his father wore a white wig, but this early in the morning he was bareheaded and Trevillion noticed that his short hair had turned white.

  It’d been merely gray when he’d left for London.

  Owen looked up and made room for him at the railing. The mare was lying in fresh straw, laboring, her sides glossy with sweat.

  “How goes it?” Trevillion asked.

  “Won’t be long now,” Owen said sagely. He’d midwived dozens of mares in his time. “It’s her first, but she’s a strong un. She’ll do well, I reckon.”

  Agnes was whispering a commentary to Phoebe, who had her face pressed to the rail so she could listen. Trevillion noticed that his father was watching the two out of the corner of his eye.

  Trevillion glanced at Owen with a question. The old man looked from him to Phoebe and nodded.

  Trevillion moved over to the females. “Would you like to touch her?” he asked Phoebe.

  She turned her face to his. “Can I?”

  He smiled. “I don’t think it’ll bother her. She’s quite close to the stall door.”

  He took her hand and, opening the stall door slowly, crouched in the doorway. Guinevere rolled her eyes toward them, but she was obviously caught in her own body’s task.

  “Here.” He laid her palm against the mare’s distended belly.

  Phoebe’s eyes widened. “I can feel the foal… and her labor. Oh, she’s so strong. So beautiful.”

  Guinevere suddenly heaved and Trevillion drew Phoebe back.

  He wrapped his arms around her and whispered in her ear. “She
’s pushing now with all her might. There’s a—”

  A gush and a slither and the foal was all at once there, wet and trembling.

  “Oh!” Phoebe whispered, her hands clutching his. “Is it here? Is it alive?”

  “Yes and yes,” he said, smiling at her eagerness. “Owen’s gone to tend to it.”

  “A lass,” Owen called. “Bonny and fine! Now what’ll ’ee call her, Miss Agnes?”

  “I think…” The girl’s brow crumpled as she thought. “Lark! Is that a good name, Granfer?”

  “A pretty name for a pretty filly,” the old man pronounced.

  “What does she look like?” Phoebe asked.

  “She’s very delicate,” Trevillion said, observing the foal. “Her knees look much too big for her legs, and she’s a dark gray at the moment, but she’ll turn white as her dam as she grows.”

  Phoebe sighed contentedly. “How wonderful.”

  “It is,” he murmured close to her. The foal lurched to its feet and wobbled to its mother. “And she’s already found her mother’s teat. Which reminds me, we ought to go in for our breakfast as well.”

  “I’m starving,” Agnes said. “And Toby must be so sad.”

  “Best we go in, then, lassie,” his father rumbled.

  Agnes took Phoebe’s arm, chattering to her as they started back to the house.

  Trevillion found himself a few paces behind with his father by his side. The old man was matching his stride to Trevillion’s own limp.

  “She’s a fine woman,” his father said.

  Trevillion glanced at him, surprised. Up until now he’d seen only indifference or a slight contempt from the old man toward Phoebe.

  His father lifted his chin as if sensing Trevillion’s surprise. “Well? I’d have to be daft not to see that. Despite her blindness. She’s a good woman. Good with Agnes and Dolly. Good with the horses.”

  “Yes, she is,” Trevillion said.

  “Is that why she’s wearing your mother’s ring?”

  Trevillion cursed himself for forgetting to ask Phoebe for the ring back. “It was easier to travel as man and wife. She needed a marriage ring.”

  “And you had to use your mother’s ring for that?”