Helen’s gaze jolted up to his. He was unsmiling, his arms crossed over his chest, and she was wary of him at once, this man she did not know.
But she would know the truth about him. She tossed her head back and gathered her courage. Roane wasn’t going to like this. “Where did you draw these pictures?”
“Ah, the assumption they are my drawings.”
His first avoidance tactic was to call into question the verity of the evidence. It wouldn’t work, not on her. “I am too familiar with men who talk in circles, Roane. Don’t try your tricks on me. Where did you draw them?”
He shrugged. “Here and there.”
Tactic two: broad generalizations and no real answers. She was going to have to be more direct. “Why do you have pictures of men making a road? Where were you?”
His eyes were cold as he glared at her. She’d never seen him like this before and a chill settled over her skin. Suddenly, she didn’t know if she even wanted the truth.
Who whipped you?
“Were you in some kind of trouble?” she asked
A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he didn’t reply.
Oh, this was not good. “Are you wanted by the law?”
“I am not wanted by the law,” he snapped. “I didn’t realize you were a Bow Street Runner. Are you a spy, Lady Helen?”
Avoidance tactic number three. Make it about her, not him.
“We are a team now, of sorts. It is important I can trust you. I want to trust you.” She huffed a breath. “Enough avoiding the issue. Where were you? What did you do?”
His lips widened into a harsh smile. “What didn’t I do, buttercup?”
Frustration burned through her. “Can you not take anything seriously?”
“What business is it of yours?” He uncrossed his arms and glanced at his journal on the ground. “It’s in my past now.”
Helen bent down and retrieved the book. He could take if from her if he pressed, but not without a fight. “How can I keep riding with you when you’ll not tell me more?”
“I don’t see that you have much choice in the matter. You’re as good as stuck with me now.”
“Am I to be your prisoner, then?” She challenged, angered by his refusal to tell her anything of use. “Will you tie me up?”
“I would like that, to tie you up.” He stepped forward and her breath froze in her lungs. “And I wager you would like it as well.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” she breathed. He was close now, close enough she could feel the pulse of fire between them.
“Pleasure, Helen. My mouth on you. Your submission.”
Hot, she was hot everywhere. And shaking.
She thrust his journal at him and moved out of the way. He tossed the book on his bags and watched her for a moment, then turned back and dug two small pits beneath the shelter. He placed rocks, heated by the fire, into the pits, then lay pine boughs and finally their bed rolls on top.
She could only watch. After all this they were, in essence, sharing a bed.
This was not good.
It was one thing to, well, drift together in the middle of the night when they were both half asleep and not fully cognizant of their actions.
It was something else entirely to make a bed together.
Her movements stiff from riding and cold, Helen pulled on her damp cloak and boots and wandered into the dark woods to have a moment’s privacy. The sky was pitch black, the clouds blanking out the stars and moon. A breeze ruffled the leaves, scattering droplets of rain on the earth. She looked back toward the makeshift bed. The bed they would share.
Roane was secretive. And willful. And dangerous.
He was not a man for her taking.
Whatever he made her feel, he was not for her.
He was trouble. Trouble. Trouble. She repeated that over and over until it started to seep through the thick haze of her brain.
She could let herself enjoy the warm bed, but not him.
With a stern nod of her head, she returned to the shelter.
Roane sat near the fire, golden and shirtless beneath his open cloak, and watched her approach.
“I’ll hang up your jacket and keep your boots close to the fire,” he murmured. His words, and the soft set of his mouth, told her he wanted to make peace. She supposed that was best. For now.
Without looking at him, Helen shrugged out of her cloak. His woolen shirt hung halfway to her knees, but she was, in essence, naked. Quickly, she slipped into the blankets and sighed as the heat of the rocks penetrated her cold bones.
Roane pulled up the edge of the blanket and scooted next to her.
Suddenly, the pallet felt small. Entirely too small. His body dwarfed hers, even back to back as they were.
He was right: his body was hot. A veritable furnace. The bedding, warm from the rocks, heated another thousand degrees with him inside. Helen felt wide awake. Warm and exhausted, but not tired. Not at all. Really, it would all be much easier if she could just fall asleep.
Roane shifted and his hip bumped her buttocks. She felt him freeze, then inch closer. His hand wrapped around her belly and he drew her back against him.
Awareness poured through her. Awareness of his size, his breath, his nearness. Acute knowledge of the pleasure of his kiss.
She was way beyond the realm of control, and she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to manage this situation. Goodness, she didn’t even know what she wanted.
She wanted him to kiss her.
But that would be ill advised. Highly inappropriate and foolhardy.
“Your arm is wrapped,” she said, nearly breathless. “Was the cut very bad?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Might I look at it?” She tried to roll toward him but he held her tight.
“In the morning, perhaps. I am more concerned about you.”
She pursed her lips. Really, he should let her tend to him. Any kind of infection could fester out here in the wilderness. “I’ve dressed my brothers’ wounds more than I care to admit. You should let me look tonight.”
“So commanding,” he teased, nestling against her. His breath was hot on her ear and sent thrills chasing up and down her spine.
She stiffened, needing to wrest control of the situation. Her emotions were a tangled jumble, but Roane was familiar territory. She knew how to manage rogues.
Questions. Lots of boring questions, with endless commentary. Make them forget what they wanted in the first place. She pushed against him, rolled onto her side and looked at him.
Bad idea. He rolled onto his back and propped his hands behind his head. The man was so handsome it made her legs twitch to climb on top of him. She looked over his chest at the fire instead. “Will you tell me about James?”
Best she not start another argument. She’d get the information she wanted in a more roundabout manner.
Roane raised both brows. “Tell you about your brother?” He turned and glanced at the fire, most likely wondering what she was staring at, then back at her. “What if I told you James was acquainted with the Midnight Rider?”
Her gaze flew to his. “I’d be shocked, though I suppose I shouldn’t be. James did befriend the oddest characters.”
“Yes.” He exhaled, a half laugh. “I suppose he did. Shall I tell you about the night we buried the gold? I believe I mentioned we were not, ah, in the best frame of mind.”
“You were stewed.”
“Something like that, yes. And being followed by any number of men. In our great wisdom, we decided to bury the small fortune.”
She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. But it was truly just air passing through her nose, for she did not snort.
Roane smiled, and she looked at him and was warm everywhere. “After burying the money, James and I roughed each other up a bit. We were feeling wild and didn’t hold our punches. When we stumbled back into Cromford, we were bruised and bloody, and ever
yone believed our claim that we’d been set upon by thieves.”
“You had a row with my brother?”
He smiled again, a warm smile that drew her gaze to his lips. “What do you suppose men do together, knit? Of course we fought. More than once, in fact, and not always in jest.”
She rolled away from temptation, settled onto her back and looked up at the pine boughs. “I do not understand men and their penchant for fighting.”
Roane laughed. “It’s in our blood. It’s how we talk.”
“It’s unrefined.”
“It’s honest. What a body says, it means.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” He paused until she looked at him again. “For example, the set of your shoulders, the tilt of your lips just here.” He motioned with his fingertip, and she licked her upper lip as if he’d touched her, her skin flaming hot. “You are exhausted and holding yourself together by sheer will.”
“Anybody could tell you that.”
“And you liked my kiss.” He smiled wickedly, daring her to deny it.
Her gaze dropped to his lips again. Then slowly traveled up his face, back to his eyes. She took a breath that stuttered through her lungs. This conversation was not helping. “Are you going to kiss me?”
His eyes darkened and he brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. “Is that a request?”
She blushed, tingling all over. This was not working. She needed to try harder. She rolled over, all pointy, pokey elbows until he backed away. She lay on her belly and rested on her arms. “I am curious about your plan. How does one go about seducing a woman, exactly? Is there a prescribed number of steps to follow? A general set of rules passed from one rake to another?”
He shrugged. She could not look away from the muscles of his arms and shoulders. “Who says I am going to seduce you?”
She felt a moment’s disappointment.
“Perhaps I have made a vow not to touch you.”
“And you are good at keeping your vows?” she asked.
He caught her gaze. “Hell no.”
She didn’t mean to smile, it just happened.
“I am no saint, Helen. Especially when you are pressed up against me.” He scooted toward her so the sides of their bodies were molded together from ankle to shoulder. “We are alone with only the woodland creatures about.”
“Oh,” she breathed.
“I am not going to pretend to be someone I am not. I’ll give you pleasure, enough to carve a line in your life. Enough that you will never forget me.”
“My.” She swallowed. She knew she had started this conversation, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember why.
Roane wrapped his calloused hand around the back of her neck and pulled her face down to his. “Kiss me, Helen.”
Fear froze her in place. He was too handsome. Too charming. He would break her heart, if she let him.
But what if she didn’t let him? What was the harm if they just kissed? There was no one about to see them, just the raindrops and squirrels.
She’d keep his brand of trouble boxed up and at arm’s distance. Already she’d survived far worse than she thought she could. Perhaps she was stronger than she realized.
Let the storms come, she would stand up and yell into the wind.
She leaned down and pressed her lips against his. He made a sound, something between a sigh and a growl, and it snaked down to her belly, down between her legs, and made her squirm.
“God, yes,” Roane muttered between deep, breathless kisses. “I’ve been thinking of this all day. I’m going to taste you everywhere.”
Somehow, whether he moved her or she straddled him of her own will, she ended up atop him.
“You are so beautiful.” He cupped her face and kissed the corner of her lips, the edge of her jaw, her eyelid. “Looking at you makes me ache.”
His words settled deep inside her and she tried to laugh them off. “You hardly need to compliment me now. You have me where you want me.”
He slid his mouth across hers in soft, achingly tender kisses that were more powerful than any thunderstorm. “Do you doubt I mean it?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I can’t think.”
“Never let a man kiss you if he doesn’t compliment you first, buttercup.”
She nodded, not wanting to think about other kisses, other men. She just wanted to be here, with Roane, for as long as she had him. She threaded her fingers through his hair and pressed her lips to his.
Chapter Thirteen
If kisses were raindrops, this was a deluge.
Helen was drowning in him, in her sense of him and the things he made her feel. Roane slid his hands inside her woolen shirt, covered her naked breasts, and touched her nipples so that she fell to her elbows, shaking.
Mindless, she arched and grabbed and nipped. Ground against him, seeking more, seeking harder, seeking him.
He rolled her onto her back, on to the hot bed of rocks beneath the pines, and pulled off her shirt. She couldn’t think of being cold with his lips on her breasts, his mouth licking and biting and oh God.
“I want to make you feel good. Yes, let me.” His hand was stroking her thighs, pressing them open. She wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him against her, flesh against flesh. The pleasure of it, the intimacy, was dizzying.
Roane.
She caressed his bare back, his ribs, his chest.
“Yes, touch me.” His voice shook, and she could feel him, that part of him, thick and hard against her leg.
She must have tensed, for he lifted his head to hers and kissed her with long, drugging, breathless kisses. “I’ll not enter you. Just pleasure.”
Trusting him, she closed her eyes and sank into the warm rocks, into his touch, and let him caress her there, between her legs. Let him draw long, arching cries from her. Let him kiss her breasts, her mouth, her ears, until she was whirling. His hand moved with a rhythm that scared her and pleasured her and rooted her until she was soaring and bursting and falling apart.
Undone.
She curled into him, this man she should not want. Curled into his strength and warmth. He held her tight, murmuring sweet words into her ear. And her heart beat and beat his name.
***
Roane woke up stiff and hard.
His cock, that was. The rest of him was pleasantly relaxed.
At some point in the night, he must have rolled onto his back. Helen, as well, had rolled toward him. At present, her head rested on his shoulder and her naked thigh was thrown across his.
Good Lord, she felt good.
Too good.
Gently, he touched her thigh and was relieved to find it warm. Then he laid his palm over her forehead. It, too, was warm but not feverish. He wanted to touch her more places. Dangerous places. He contented himself with stroking back her silken hair. He’d much rather be stroking her breasts, and the curve or her hip where it pressed against his, then deeper, where he knew she would be wet.
Yes, definitely there.
He exhaled sharply and Helen sighed in her sleep, such a provocative little sound.
She’d made similar noises last night, sensual and throaty and totally honest little noises that drove him wild. The woman was erotic as hell.
Unable to stand her so close another moment more, he extricated himself from the long delight of her limbs and rolled over.
Didn’t help.
She was so lovely in her sleep, he ached just looking at her. He traced her jaw and pale cheek, wondering at her delicate beauty and his fierce reaction to it. He wanted to wrap her up and hie her off to his cave like some creature from the dark. Wanted only to keep her safe and protected and happy. He’d known women before, almost loved a few, but he’d never felt like this. He was ready to dig through mountains with his bare hands, change the course of rivers, anything to keep her from harm.
She was so vulnerable and honest and brave. The way she fough
t for her family. The way she rode headlong into the wilderness. And the way she had honored her own desire and allowed him to pleasure her last night.
He buried his nose in her hair, picturing her spread open to him, her head thrown back and her thighs wide apart.
Christ.
He pulled back and scrubbed a hand over his face. He was not going to spread her thighs again. He was not going to sink his hard cock into all her wet softness and take her with long, deep thrusts. He was not going to make her cry out his name in throaty ecstasy.
Muttering a curse, he rose to sitting and stretched his back. Mittens swatted his feet and launched onto his big toe.
His day, it seemed, had begun.
And not entirely the way he wished it to.
Roane stumbled through the dark to check on the horses. They were quiet and restful in their tight copse of trees. The night had passed peacefully for all but him.
He fetched the kettle, walked to the cold stream and splashed water on his face. He was trying to move slowly with Helen, let her set the pace, but it was killing him.
Shaking off thoughts of her as best he could, he picked his way downstream, investigating the water crossing. The stream was truly raging now, the rough waters still impossible to cross. If the men tried to follow them down Wildboar Clough, they would be stuck on the other side for days.
Roane continued another half mile downstream, wanting to assure himself there truly was no other possible crossing. The waters grew angrier as the stream narrowed into a canyon of sharp cliffs. No horse could cross; neither could a man on foot. But something caught his attention and he looked up. A small campfire burned high on the hill, near Torside Clough. His heart slammed against his ribs, and his muscles tensed, ready to fight.
Only someone with much to gain would camp on the edge of Bleaklow in a storm, with little shelter from the elements and no food for their horses.
Whoever they were, they risked their very lives to follow him.
Money was a great motivator, to be sure. But there was something else, something more dangerous, that pushed a man to the edge of danger like this.
Revenge.
Had that tall figure been Harrington?
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