To Seduce a Rogue

by Tracy Sumner

  His footfalls echoed in the hallway as he strode to the library. He threw the door open, pleased to see a blaze fluttering in the fireplace. Tossing his coat to the nearest chair, he began unbuttoning the neck of his shirt as he walked to the desk. He had once told his father a buttoned shirt was the reason he had decided against becoming a lawyer. Needless to say, Judge Chase had not been amused.

  He sank into his chair and pulled off his boots. They hit the floor with a thump, a bit of stubborn straw still clinging to them.

  Comfortable and ready to do battle, he reached for the stack of letters sitting in a neat pile on his desk. Solicitor Bailey. Solicitor Jameson. Nothing but correspondence from—

  His hand stilled.

  He dropped the other envelopes and held one in both hands as if it were a newborn babe. Then he sucked in a breath and ripped it open. He could not halt the rapid acceleration of his heart, nor the slight quiver in his hands. Miles always mentioned Charlie at least once or twice in his missives.

  Adam was grateful for any news. He worried about her. She was alone, with a home to care for and a job to perform. The town ostracized her because she dared to want a career. A career she needed. Which was the concern at the top of his list: she was as poor as a dirty orphan. He often wondered if there was a way to send her money.

  Although he knew she would not take it.

  He held the letter in the light from the oil lamp and skimmed the words. Finishing, he threw the letter to the desk and grabbed the envelope, which he had torn in two in his agitation. He held it open and looked inside, thinking Miles must have made a mistake. “She would not do this.”

  The envelope was empty.

  He grabbed the letter again. As he reread it, his anger grew.

  Had she been lying to him all along?

  With a muttered curse, he propelled his arm across the desk, sending pencils and paper flying. Rounding it in two strides, he stalked to the fireplace, crumpled the letter into a tight ball and flung it into the hearth. His gaze never left the paper as it sputtered and caught fire, turning into a pile of black ashes.

  Much like his heart.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Mitigation

  The act of making a condition or consequence less severe.

  Edgemont, South Carolina

  Adam pulled the coat close about his neck as he traversed the street. The scent of smoke and whiskey rose from the coarse wool. At least the material had absorbed the pleasant odors from the train. If it was not so cold, he swore he would have come on horseback.

  Hell. He didn’t even know why he was here. In this town. Again.

  Shifting the leather satchel he carried from his right hand to his left, he pulled his hat lower on his head and hunched his shoulders into his jacket. The last thing he needed was for someone to recognize him.

  Freeing a visible breath, he increased his pace. He was almost there.

  Leaving the whitewashed buildings of the town and the few people traipsing about behind, he gazed to the heavens. The sun had set only moments before, transforming an ordinary cloud-filled sky into a brilliant exhibition of red and gold.

  Winter had certainly come to Edgemont.

  The underbrush edging the road was stringy and brown, lying dormant till spring. The grass was golden, dry and bent by the wind’s nimble fingers.

  He followed the road as it curved. The way was familiar. Many times he had passed by, on foot or astride Taber. He had never been able to pass Charlie’s home without glancing over, hoping for a glimpse of her.

  A taut breath rushed from his lungs as he came to her drive. Unable to check the action, he turned his head, his heart coiled tight in his chest. Her cottage looked harsh compared to what he remembered. Probably due to the withered azaleas and naked, gray dogwoods standing guard in front. The wealth of welcoming blossoms was absent, as were the rose petals that had once littered the ground.

  Maybe she was at the Sentinel office. He hadn’t checked when he was in town. Maybe she was not even—

  The screen door opened, ending his conjecture. At first, all he could see was a large wicker basket piled high with wet clothing. Then a flash of jet black hair amassed atop a down-turned head emerged. She let the door swing behind her as she struggled with the basket, walking stiffly, bouncing the basket from side to side as if she were about to drop it at any moment.

  He stepped forward, automatically going to help her, but a nervousness dissimilar to any he had felt until that moment kept him from following through. What would he say to her? His anger had not disappeared, although seeing her again acted upon his senses like a rainbow on a cloudy day.

  Her hair evaded the pitiful knot on her head. She wore a tattered woolen dress of some type that looked older than Gerald’s teeth. She had never looked more beautiful. Even from this distance, her eyes shone brilliantly in a face alive with intelligence and emotion.

  As she teetered around the corner of her house, hoisting a burden that was surely as wide as two of her, he decided enough was enough. He would help her with her damn laundry, and they would talk. His mind filled with questions, images, accusations. What Miles had written in his letter could not be true.

  Starting forward before he lost his nerve, he rounded the corner of her house just as she stopped at the foot of the clothesline. Dropping the basket of laundry, she pushed her hands against her lower back and stretched.

  A strong stir of sympathy flooded him. How hard it must be for her, alone in the world. He was alone, yet she didn’t have his resources which, awful truth that it was, made life much easier. And she was a woman. No one expected a woman to be able to take care of herself. In fact, people resented it like hell when they witnessed one who could.

  A leaf crunched under his boot as he stepped forward.

  Charlie paused and cocked her head to the side. She dropped the shirt clutched in her hand and turned cautiously.

  When she completed the turn and stood facing him, he stopped, stunned to realize just how much he had missed her. He searched her face, looking for any indication of how she felt to see him. Had she missed him? Did she lie awake at night thinking about their time together? Did the taste of him, the smell of his skin, haunt her every waking moment?

  He frowned as he noted the dark crescents, almost bruises, beneath her eyes. Her mouth was pinched, her skin pale.

  She looked remarkably young and exceedingly frail.

  She shook her head once, still staring at him, then closed her eyes. A moment later she flicked them open. A gust of air rolled in, kicking black tresses into her face.

  He watched her throat tighten as she swallowed.

  “Jared?” She licked her lips.

  He took a step forward.

  Lifting her hand to her head, she closed her eyes again and said softly, “You’re back.”

  He dropped his satchel to the ground and rushed forward, but before he could reach her, she swayed and slipped to the ground as weightlessly as a piece of parchment in the wind.

  * * *

  He pressed the damp rag to her brow, gently wiping away the flecks of blood. She’d bumped it when she had fallen. If he’d only been closer, he could have caught her. Once again, the sight of her dropping to the ground flashed in his mind. He cursed as he dipped the rag in the basin of water on the night table.

  Was she sick?

  When he’d picked her up to bring her inside, her weight had shocked him. She’d always been petite, but now, she was gaunt. He lifted her hand from the coverlet, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. The steady rhythm of blood flowing beneath her skin calmed him. He glanced down. Her hand was tucked securely between his fingers, the bones of her wrist protruding at harsh angles.

  What had happened since she left Richmond? If she did not awaken soon, he was going to find Doc Olden. With a ragged sigh, he placed her hand on the bed.

  “Charlie? Wake up, sweetheart.” His heartbeat and her breathing were the only sounds in the room. How he wished for her inf
ectious laughter and audacious wit. Her smile that was at once rebellious, then seductive. The quick boldness of her sapphire eyes.

  What was he going to do when she roused?

  Scream like hell? Hold her? Make love to her?

  He dropped the rag into the basin with a dejected groan. No. He had come to Edgemont for a reason. No doubt the rationale behind it was asinine. But he wanted an explanation. He needed an explanation.

  He had never had one from his mother, or from Eaton. Their deaths had not been mysterious, but the manner in which each existed just before death was still an immense mystery. Why his mother had stayed with his father, he would never know. And Eaton. Why, oh God why, had Eaton not come to him with his problems? Adam would have done anything in his power to help his brother.

  It was too late to know. Moreover, he was so tired of guessing.

  It was not too late with Charlie. He refused to live the rest of his life wondering why she was making such an inconceivable mistake.

  “Jared?”

  He lifted his gaze to her face. Her eyes were tiny slits, barely open, but she was awake. “Charlie, sweetheart.” He lifted her hand and cradled it against his cheek. “You scared the hell out of me.” The smell of ink and freshly printed paper lifted to him in a light wave as he caressed her palm with his lips. “I think I should get Doc Olden.”

  She blinked, forcing her eyes open. “No. I’m fine.”

  Losing patience, he dropped her hand and leaned in until his face was only inches from hers. “Fine? The circles under your eyes are darker than your hair. And your lips look like charred wheat.”

  Pressing the lips in question together, she glared at him. “Thank you for the lovely compliment.”

  He quelled a smile. Her voice was as weak as a baby’s, but her spirit was as strong as a mule’s.

  “I have balm in the top drawer of the night table.”

  “That putrid stuff?” he asked, remembering the balm she had put on his finger months ago.

  She rolled her eyes. “No, this is different.”

  “Thank God.” In the drawer he found a pair of spectacles, a book, two pencils and a small tin that must be the balm.

  As he turned back, he was powerless to do anything but stare, lost.

  “Are you going to put the salve on or not?” she asked, resigned and cross.

  Smiling then, because she’d closed her eyes and could not see it, he dabbed the ointment on her lips.

  “Not too much,” she grumbled.

  “Hush.” He tapped his finger against her mouth. As passion interfered, he softened his touch, smoothing the pad of his thumb across the swell of her lower lip, pronounced by her stubborn pout.

  She raised her lids and their gazes collided. Blue and brown, each turning darker by the second.

  Charlie, stop looking at me like that, he warned, even as he leaned in to her. A limb slapped the window, reminding him where he was. What he was about.

  Abruptly, he pushed the chair back and rose to his feet. He dropped the tin on the night table and ran his hand through his hair. “You need to get some sleep. We can talk later.” He raised a brow to bolster the command.

  “I don’t need to—”

  “Just do it.”

  Closing her eyes, she flounced to her side, away from him.

  He waited until her breathing slowed, then walked to the bed and pulled the coverlet over her. It did not cover her completely, but at least she was sleeping. The circles beneath her eyes suggested this had not come freely to her of late. He could sympathize. Some nights, whiskey had been his only companion.

  Forcing himself to leave her room, he shut the door behind him, then sighed and leaned against it. He closed his eyes, fighting the sensations running through him. He recognized the taste of fear.

  Charlie Whitney was frightening when she looked at you dead in the eye, her gaze relentlessly absolute. It unnerved him about as much as a ruler against his knuckles had in school.

  They would talk in the morning.

  If he only knew what he was going to say.

  * * *

  Adam flipped the eggs in the iron skillet and reached for the loaf of bread. He had forgotten what good bread Charlie made. He surveyed the kitchen table. Salt. Pepper. Bacon. He had never been able to find the butter. Shrugging, he took the eggs off the heat and slid them onto a plate.

  As he lifted the knife to cut a piece of cheese, the sound of a wagon rolling down the drive intruded upon the peace of the morning. After wiping his hands on a dishtowel, he nudged the curtain aside. Miles’ broken-down wagon sat in the drive.

  Adam swung the door open just as Kath lifted her hand to knock. Her arm locked in place as panic crossed her face. She tried to compose herself, brushing wrinkles from a dress that looked as if it had jumped off an ironing board minutes before. “Adam, what are you...um, it’s nice to see you,” she said, her gaze skipping to the knife in his hand.

  “Thank you for the sincere welcome. Come in, come in.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, shutting the door with a snap.

  “Mercy, I really ought to be going. I was just stopping by to see if Charlie needed a ride into town. The Sentinel—”

  “She’s not going to work today,” he said as he waved the knife in the air. “But, I’m glad you stopped by. Charlie is still sleeping. Since yesterday evening, I might add.”

  Kath threw a quick glance at the closed bedroom door. “She hasn’t been getting much sleep lately.”

  “Why?”

  Kath turned to him with wide eyes. Her gaze once again dropped to the knife in his hand. “The newspaper, why, Benjamin Folkes is an old man.” She smiled uneasily and cleared her throat. “He has a bad back. Charlie is left with the bulk of the work.”

  Adam trailed the blade along his palm. Damn Oliver Stokes. Wasn’t it possible to find an editor young enough to stay awake during a press run? However, the idea of Charlie working beside a handsome, talented editor rankled. “What about Gerald?”

  “Gerald does what he can, but he’s no spring chicken, either.”

  “What about Tom Walker? He can at least help her here.” Until they married, and she moved into the man’s house. He could not force himself to utter that sentence. Charlie and Tom in the same house, the same bed, made him want to put his fist through the wall.

  Kath’s neck muscles jumped as her gaze roamed the room. She swallowed and patted her chest with her hand. “Would you look at the time.” She started for the door. “I really must be going.”

  “Katherine Lambert.” Adam tossed the knife from hand to hand as if it were a rock.

  He forced himself to remain silent as she closed her eyes, folding and unfolding her hands in her skirt. “Tom Walker won’t be helping Charlie with this place,” she said with a shaky laugh. “He may be helping Lila, though.”

  Adam glanced over her bowed head, lifting his gaze to the patch of sky he could see through the curtain. Gray clouds prevailed, promising rain. Lila? Why would Tom be helping Lila? He would only help the woman he was to marry, right? The picture of what was really happening here began to form in his mind. “Is Tom marrying Lila?”

  A blistering flush spread across Kath’s face as she lifted her head and met his gaze. She nodded.

  He blinked and fingered the edge of the blade. The rational part of his mind felt swift, certain fury at being played like a pawn on a chess board. But his heart, irrational and weak, thumped against his ribs in what he feared was extreme relief. And fear. Fear that this barrier—one he had been prepared to respect at all costs after an honest discussion with Charlie—had disappeared.

  The fury checked back in as he realized he was once again tangled in the Whitney web.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Compliance

  The act of conforming, acquiescing, yielding.

  “Oh my God!” Charlie dropped her fork into her lap.

  Kath coughed and spread her palms along the table, not quite meeting her friend’s gaze. “I
know. It was a crazy idea. Mercy. I only wanted to help.”

  Charlie snatched the fork from her lap. She swallowed the eggs sitting on her tongue; they tasted like sawdust. “You sent him a letter saying I was marrying Tom.” She jabbed the fork into the eggs on her plate. “How could that help?”

  Kath sighed. “I want you to be happy. You love him and he loves you. It’s so obvious.”

  “I told you before. He is not Miles.”

  “I know he isn’t. Believe me, I know.”

  “Where did he go?”

  Kath traced a scratch on the table without comment.

  Charlie clicked the fork tongs against her teeth. “Probably to punch Miles in the face.”

  Kath’s face paled. “Do you think so?”

  Charlie smiled. “He did write the letter.”

  Kath jumped up. “I have to find them.”

  “Sit.” Charlie pointed to Kath’s chair. “I’m joking.” That was not altogether true; she didn’t know what Chase was likely to do. He was angry. Justifiably so. What were they thinking, to manipulate him—telling him she was going to marry Tom. Surely, he had known that could not be true.

  But he had come.

  Heat rolled through her. She had been dead inside for months, writing articles and washing clothes, printing newspapers and darning socks, setting type and pulling weeds. While trying to survive, she had pushed all those forbidden memories to the back of her mind. The sensation of a man inside her. No...not any man.

  Only one man would ever do that to her. Or be that for her.

  He was all she’d ever want and seeing him again had swept those memories before her eyes, and into her mind and heart. The salty taste of his skin; the sweet smell of him lingering on crisp sheets; the touch of his fingers, caressing, seeking, exploring. Thank you, God, she thought with a nod to the heavens.

  Thank you for letting me see him one more time.

  * * *

  Charlie sat on the porch stairs, a thick sweater draped over her shoulders, a worn-out hat swinging from her fingers. She took a deep breath and watched Chase walk up the drive, her heart thudding in her chest. As he drew close, the setting sun fading behind him, he dissolved into shadow. His eyes, his face, his body, all eluded her. She leaned back on her elbows as he reached the bottom step, waiting for him to tear through the shadows.