Dearest Rogue

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  A corner of Trevillion’s mouth twitched up. “Grown wise in your old age, have you, Da?”

  His father mirrored his expression. “I have indeed.”

  Trevillion nodded slowly. “Then maybe I’ll be back.”

  His father looked down at his hands. “It’s for the best you take her back to her family, Jamie. Your mother”—he grimaced to himself—“ah, but she was a beauty when she was young. I couldn’t help myself, though she was much too young for me. But after we were married, she pined. Pined for a husband not so dour and old. Don’t make my mistakes, Jamie. An unhappy wife makes for an unhappy marriage.”

  “Never fear, Da. The mistakes I make will all be my own. Besides”—Trevillion looked the old man in the eye, gentle but firm—“I’m not you and Phoebe isn’t Mother.”

  Half an hour later Trevillion pulled back the carriage curtain to wave to Agnes and a sobbing Dolly, to Da and Old Owen, to Betty and Young Tom. Toby barked and ran after the carriage wheels until his stubby legs could no longer keep up.

  And when the house disappeared around a corner, he let fall the curtain.

  Trevillion looked across the carriage at Lady Phoebe, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping, and knew for a fact in his heart that all his future mistakes, good, bad, insignificant, or ground-shaking, would involve her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Corineus pulled the iron chain from the sea horse’s neck. Before his eyes she turned into a faery maiden with long white hair and uptilted green eyes, once again whole and beautiful.

  “My name is Morveren,” she said.

  Corineus caught her hand. “Stay with me this night, Morveren.”

  To this she consented and they made love there on the beach to the sound of the crashing waves.…

  —From The Kelpie

  Phoebe couldn’t tell night from day, but she knew they’d been traveling for hours and hours when they finally stopped at an inn.

  She stepped down wearily from the carriage, her hand on Trevillion’s arm. They were no longer in hiding, running from possible kidnappers, so James said there was no reason for them to continue to pretend to be man and wife.

  But still he hadn’t taken back his mother’s ring.

  She touched it now with her thumb, rubbing it surreptitiously like a talisman. She’d grown used to its being on her finger. A better-mannered lady than she would offer to give it back.

  She didn’t.

  The inn was larger than the ones they’d spent their nights in on the way to Cornwall. She could hear men calling to each other as they changed horses on a carriage, the bark of dogs, the bickering of weary travelers.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Reed said close by as they made their way to the inn. “The private dining rooms are all taken.”

  “We’ll dine in the common room, then,” Trevillion said. “Unless you’d rather our dinner be brought to our rooms, my lady?”

  Rooms? He meant for them to sleep separately tonight? And another thing: he was back to calling her by her title. Truth be told she rather resented it. “No, let’s eat in the common room, please.”

  They went in to the smell of cooking beef and the low chatter of guests. Trevillion steered her to a table and she sat, pressing her fingers against the worn wood in front of her.

  “What’ll ye have?” asked a woman’s coarse voice.

  “Beer for both of us and two plates of the beef,” Trevillion ordered.

  “Right you are, luv.” And footsteps clattered away.

  Phoebe turned her head, sniffing. She could smell the smoke of the fire, but there was also tobacco smoke from the gentlemen enjoying their pipes. Someone nearby had apparently never washed in their life.

  A tankard was banged down in front of her.

  “There ye are,” the same woman said. “Say… is she blind?”

  Phoebe smiled. “Yes, I—”

  “That’s a burden,” the maidservant said, her voice sorrowful. “A wife what’s blind. God bless ye, sir.”

  Phoebe found herself with her mouth still half open in the silence as the woman left again. She suddenly wondered if everyone was staring at her, thinking the same thing as the maidservant: poor man.

  “Damn it,” Trevillion hissed under his breath. “Don’t pay attention to her. You know damned well you’re not a burden, Phoebe. Any man—any man—would be honored to have you as wife.”

  She smiled then, though it might’ve come out a bit wobbly. “Would you?”

  “Yes.”

  She felt a thrill go through her at his word, firm and without hesitation.

  She leaned a little forward. “Then why do you want us to sleep in separate rooms?”

  “Try your beer,” he said. “It’s the color of oakwood and I think you’ll like it.”

  She wasn’t such a fool that she didn’t notice he hadn’t answered her. “James—”

  “Here ye are, luv.” The same maidservant set down plates on their table.

  Phoebe felt with her fingers, touching a pewter plate and warm meat covered in gravy.

  The woman tched. “Like a little child, isn’t she, sticking her fingers in her food.”

  Phoebe froze.

  Trevillion growled and she heard the clink of coins. “We’ll not need any more of your help tonight. Begone.”

  The woman huffed and stomped away.

  Phoebe licked her finger and picked up her fork. She knew her cheeks were flaming, but she sat straight as she carefully pushed some food on the fork.

  Trevillion huffed a laugh under his breath and she froze.

  Then she heard his voice, low and intimate. “You look like a princess, did you know? I’m surprised she had the bravery to say anything at all to you. But then I don’t think she actually looked at you. Anyone who did would know what you are: a petite Amazon princess.”

  Her lips twitched at his hyperbole, sweet though it was. “I think you might be biased.”

  “No.” His reply was sure. “When you walk into a room, every man looks at you and it’s not because you’re blind. They see sweetness. They see a laughing face and a figure that a man just wants to touch.”

  Oh, she was blushing now!

  “But the few who look closer see something else as well. They see a woman who meets adversity every day and walks right through it with a smiling face. They see strength and perseverance and endurance and they are in awe, my lady. They are in awe. Now”—he took her hand in his big warm one—“drink your beer.”

  She did, licking her lips of the foam.

  “Well?” he asked, his voice huskier than before.

  “I like it,” she pronounced. “In fact I love it. I think I shall make Maximus serve beer at every meal in Wakefield House.”

  He choked. “I’d like to see Wakefield’s face when you propose that.”

  She tilted her chin in the air. “Can I help it if my brother isn’t such a person of the world as I?”

  He laughed aloud at that and she was uncommonly pleased with herself.

  The meal wasn’t particularly wonderful, but the company was, and when they were finished she was disappointed. Trevillion rose to talk to the innkeeper and Phoebe sat by herself for a moment, pensively tracing the edge of her plate.

  “Come,” Trevillion said softly when he returned. He helped her to rise. “Let me show you your room.”

  She didn’t reply, merely nodded. They would be back in London in another day or so. It seemed a terrible waste to sleep apart tonight.

  They climbed a flight of stairs, the wooden steps creaking beneath their feet. The voices from the common room faded as they made their way to the back of the inn.

  “It isn’t much,” Trevillion said as he opened a door, “but the innkeeper assured me it was his best room.”

  He ushered her in, his hand still warm on her arm.

  And closed the door.

  She turned toward him. “I thought you had your own room?”

  His cane fell to the floor with a clatter as he took her other
arm, pulling her close. “I told the innkeeper that there’d been a mistake. That we didn’t need it.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, I am glad.”

  And then she reached up and caught his face with her hands and pulled him down to kiss him. She licked over his lips, widening her mouth, nearly sobbing. She wanted him so much—tonight and always.

  “Phoebe,” he groaned into her mouth, and she’d never heard his voice so deep.

  The earth whirled as he picked her up suddenly. She clutched at his shoulders, but never broke from their kiss, and he carried her easily as he walked. He set her down on a soft surface and she realized it must be the bed. Except she was sitting on the very edge, her legs hanging off.

  “James?” she asked, not really caring what he had in mind.

  He started to unlace her bodice, but then, seemingly impatient, abandoned it to push up her skirts.

  He ran both hands up her legs, over the silk of her stockings to her bare thighs.

  “Do you know what it did to me, when I took off your shoes and stockings that night?” he asked, his voice a growl.

  “N… no.” She’d started working on the hooks to her bodice, but she stilled at the sound of his voice.

  His hands reached the tops of her thighs, his fingers spread, framing her mons. “I was so close to this and yet I couldn’t see. Couldn’t touch.”

  “Oh!” She was aware suddenly that he could see now—all of her, laid before him like some pagan offering.

  “Open your bodice and stays,” he said, nearly absently. “I want to look at your titties as well.”

  She gasped and obeyed him, oddly aroused at being a display for him. She pushed aside the edges of her bodice and stays, loosened her chemise just enough to pull it down under her nipples.

  Cool air brushed her breasts.

  And he pushed with his hands, forcing her legs apart widely as she lay back.

  “So so pretty,” he murmured. One of his hands left her leg and she felt a finger, delicately stroking her. “Do you like this? Is it good?”

  She arched her neck, pressing the back of her head into the mattress. “Yes.”

  He stroked through her open folds to circle her entrance. “You’re wet.”

  His hands left her and she waited, breathless, open and wanting, the night air cooling her flesh.

  There was a rustle of clothing and then he was over her, around her.

  Thrusting into her.

  She gasped at the sudden intrusion. He thrust once, twice, seating himself fully in her.

  And then he stopped.

  “I thought about this all day in that damned carriage,” he whispered in her ear.

  She felt his mouth, hot and wet, close over one nipple, sucking strongly. She whimpered at the pleasure, clutching at his head, feeling his hair, pulled back and braided.

  He still wore his coat and waistcoat, she realized.

  Then the thought scattered as he found her other breast, cupping it for his mouth, drawing on her nipple.

  She bit her lip, not wanting to cry out. It was so lovely, what he made her feel. And she was aware, all the time that he made love to her breasts, that he was still sheathed within her. Hard and waiting. Heavy and wide.

  He drew back to flick both nipples with his thumbs and she gasped. “Please.”

  He chuckled to himself, a dark sound. “You have the most beautiful breasts, did you know? Plump and round, with big rosy nipples. I used to dream about your nipples, before I saw them. I once put my hands on myself while thinking of your breasts.”

  She clenched as she thought of his doing such a wicked thing while thinking of her. “Oh God!”

  She couldn’t wait any longer. Her sex was wet and swollen, open and throbbing, and she needed him to move. To give her that exquisite feeling again.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist, shifting.

  And now he was the one to gasp.

  He abruptly took his hands away from her breasts and by the shift of the mattress, braced them by her shoulders. He withdrew and shoved himself back into her.

  Hard.

  She groaned. So close. So very beautiful. She scrabbled to clutch at his shoulders, but they were still covered by his shirt.

  She wanted his bare skin.

  He thrust into her again, swift and powerful, and now the bed was shaking.

  She put her fingers on his face, feeling the prickling of his stubble, the dampness of sweat on his forehead and temples, his lips parted, the breath huffing out hard.

  He worked himself in her, on her, faster and faster, and she pulled him down to her, chanting, “Now, now, now.”

  As his mouth touched hers, wet and open and feasting, she felt him shudder. Felt that one last powerful thrust and the spill of his hot seed.

  And she arched into his kiss, into his arms, filled and filling, and quaked anew with delight.

  TREVILLION WATCHED PHOEBE sleeping from across the carriage the next day and knew he couldn’t leave her.

  Couldn’t live without her.

  If she’d have him, he’d make her his wife.

  The decision brought a certain calmness—but it also brought innumerable problems, the biggest being the Duke of Wakefield. He knew that Wakefield in no way thought of him as good enough to be a husband to his sister.

  Nevertheless, he wasn’t going to keep Phoebe from her family. If he simply eloped with her she’d be an outcast. He couldn’t do that to her, not after watching her laugh and chat with her sister and friends.

  Somehow he was going to have to court the sister of the Duke of Wakefield.

  Trevillion frowned and looked out the window. They were making good time now that they no longer had to take the less traveled routes. Too, they could change horses at the posting inns along the way, so Reed could drive faster.

  Wakefield had written a frustratingly cryptic letter, omitting the kidnapper’s name and motive and even how he’d been captured.

  Trevillion frowned, shaking his head. The whole thing seemed unfinished to him, but perhaps after he’d heard from the duke himself he’d be satisfied that everything was over.

  By tomorrow they would be back in London, and then…

  And then he would deliver Lady Phoebe to her brother and withstand the man’s justifiable wrath.

  Good God, he’d set himself up with an impossible task.

  Phoebe murmured and yawned before sitting up. “James?”

  “I’m right here,” he assured her.

  “Oh, good,” she said, slumping back on the seat. “How close are we to stopping for the night?”

  He judged the sun. “Several hours away.”

  She nodded, not saying anything.

  He cleared his throat, feeling unaccountably ill at ease. “I wondered…”

  “Yes?” She cocked her head to the side.

  “Ah. Well. I’d hoped to call upon you once we’re in London again. That is, if it’s amenable to you?”

  A dazzling smile spread across her face. “It would delight me above all things.”

  He couldn’t help an answering smile, though she couldn’t see it. “Would it?”

  “Indeed, Captain Trevillion,” she said, teasing. “But don’t you have to ask my brother as well?”

  “I thought I’d best make sure of you before I bearded your brother in his den.”

  “Very wise of you.” She nodded and then yawned again. “Oh, dear, I’m so sleepy, but the cushions of this carriage aren’t very cushiony at all.”

  “Then let me help.” He crossed to her seat and drew her against him. “Lean on me.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured sleepily against his shoulder. “You aren’t very cushiony either, but you are very comfortable.”

  And Trevillion thought he might be very content with that.

  PHOEBE STEPPED FROM the carriage and discreetly stretched. One wouldn’t think it would be so tiring to sit all day, but in fact it was.

  The inn seemed much the same as the one the night before
: crowded, the smell of horses and manure in the yard, warm cooking inside. She sat across from Trevillion at yet another worn wooden table and thought, This might be our last night. Even if Trevillion succeeded in convincing Maximus to let him court her, it would be a very, very long time before they were allowed to be alone together again.

  So after they ate, after she’d tried another beer, after he’d seen that Reed was comfortable for the night, after he’d shown her to a room and told her where the bed sat and where the fire, she took his hand.

  “Make love to me,” she said. And it wasn’t in any way a seductive whisper or a plea.

  It was a command.

  She reached up on tiptoe and pulled his head to hers, crushing her mouth against his. She’d had some practice in the last week in kissing, but this wasn’t a graceful kiss. This was a desperate crashing of mouths.

  This might be our last night. This might be our last night. This might be our last night.

  It was a terrible chant, repeating itself in her brain. They were out of time all of a sudden and she wasn’t ready for it. She couldn’t stand the thought of parting from him. Of all the uncertainty London and Maximus brought.

  Tomorrow was coming much, much too soon.

  She scrabbled, losing all delicacy, all finesse, plucking open the placket of his breeches even as his hands tried to stop her.

  But he wasn’t prepared for her to drop to her knees. For her to rip open his breeches and reach in—

  “Phoebe. God damn it, Phoebe.”

  His words ended on a groan as she found him, already half erect, and here she paused and slowed. Oh, he was so warm, so hot. She pushed her face against him, inhaling, and smelled him, Trevillion. Her man.

  Hers.

  He throbbed against her cheek and she turned her face to kiss him, that thick shaft, pulsing, growing. She opened her mouth wide and tasted salt and man.

  Somewhere above her he groaned again.

  The funny thing about being blind was that sometimes people thought you were deaf as well. It made no sense, but there it was. She’d had occasion once, a year or two ago, to overhear two maids talking—and the discussion had been most enlightening.

  She tasted him, holding his cock so that she might lick up the underside, and he actually staggered, his hand coming down on her hair, not heavily, but there. Whether to hold her or to hold himself steady, she wasn’t sure, but it hardly mattered.