As one often does, his attention wandered to the familiar names and places. In Wensleydale he’d worked as a stable hand and first learned to cultivate pasture, he’d nearly been jailed for a year in Bradford, and in Wetherby he’d won his first wager on a horse.
“Have you located anything of interest?” Helen asked, peering over his shoulder.
“Not yet.”
She leaned against his back and her hair tickled his ear. She smelled like campfire and night and the heavy desire of his dreams. He tilted his head toward her an inch and drank her in.
“What is that?” She reached a hand around him and tapped on the map. “I think it says scar.”
Roane tried to ignore the shape of her breasts against his back and squinted at the map. The writing was lost in the creases.
He lifted the parchment closer so they both could see.
“It says Goredale Scar.” Helen pointed again.
Roane laughed, surprised. “Well done, buttercup. You have found our next clue.”
She laughed as well, a happy, throaty sound that made him want to turn and kiss her. “But what is it? A ravine, maybe?”
Roane shook his head. “I don’t know, but we shall soon find out. It’s not far from here.”
Helen jumped to her feet. “Let’s go now!”
“It’s better we wait out the night. We’ll leave at first light, I promise.”
She paced on the wooden planks. “Goredale Scar…It must be our clue. But what about lace? And why would James lead us there? Oh, how will we ever sleep?”
Roane leaned back and drank her in. Her flowing hair and shining excitement. Her long legs and shapely arse.
Tomorrow, if all went well, they would find the gold. And she would return to London.
For now, at least, she was his.
“Oh, I don’t think we’ll be getting much sleep tonight, buttercup.”
Not if he had his way.
Chapter Sixteen
Roane tilted his head and smiled that smile at her, and Helen couldn’t think for a moment. Was this how it was between a man and a woman? Where one became rather loopy and fuzzy-brained?
She wasn’t sure she liked it. Roane could walk all over her with a smile like that.
“Let’s play a game.” She clapped her hands, as if she could clap some sense into herself. “I assume you have a pack of cards?”
“I do like games.” Roane sat up. “But, forgive me, you do not strike me as the sort who engages in games of chance.”
“Who says cards are only chance?” James had taught her more than one way to cheat.
Roane crossed the barn and withdrew a deck of cards from his saddlebag. He shuffled them expertly in his hands, something he probably wasn’t aware he was doing. “What are the terms?”
Helen inclined her head to the side, feeling playful. “Truth. If I win a hand, you have to answer my questions. Honestly.”
He stopped shuffling and looked up at her. “A steep wager. And if I win a hand?”
“You may ask me a question, and I shall answer truthfully.”
“That hardly seems fair.” He returned to his spot on the dusty floor and placed the stack of cards before him. “I know about your past, princess. I cannot imagine there are any dirty secrets lurking in the corners.”
She raised a brow, trying to appear mysterious.
Roane laughed. He split the deck, shuffled again. “I shall decide my own terms. What is the truth worth to you? Would you wager…your clothes?”
Her clothes? She sputtered and coughed and plopped down on the floor next to him.
He slapped her on the back, his eyes twinkling. “Those are my terms. If you win a hand, you may ask me a question and I shall answer the truth. Any question at all. And if I win a hand”—his voice deepened, and he raked his gaze down her—“you shall remove an article of clothing.”
Hot fingers of excitement danced through her. In all honesty, she wanted to take her clothes off for this man. Here, in the privacy of the barn, she wanted all manner of things. And she was going to let herself have them, this once.
She took a deep breath. “I’ll accept your wager. Let’s play Vingt-et-un.”
That wolfish grin spread wider over his face. “Vingt-et-un it is.” He dealt the cards quickly.
In only a few turns of the cards, she won the first hand. She sat up straight. There were so many questions she was dying to ask him, her body was abuzz with them. “Is half the gold truly yours?”
“Yes.” He pulled a face. “Do you truly doubt me?”
“No, but I had to ask.”
“I’m not certain if I should be insulted or complimented,” he grumbled, shuffling the deck. “Insulted that you asked. Complimented that you trusted me to tell the truth.”
“Complimented.” She smiled. “Definitely.”
To her luck, she won the next hand as well. She did not try to contain her grin as she considered her question.
Where have you been these last four years?
Where did you acquire the lash marks on you back?
Do you know why James turned to drink? Why he couldn’t stop until his death?
Do you truly find me beautiful?
But one question had been at the front of her mind since their conversation with the tinker earlier that day.
“You are making me nervous.” Roane turned his head a few inches to the side. “Like the fox before she eats the ewe.”
Helen leaned forward and crooked her finger for him to come closer. He tilted his body toward her until only a handbreadth of space separated their mouths.
It was now or never. She exhaled a nervous breath. “Are you the Midnight Rider?”
Roane sat back with a startled laugh. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Christ, Helen.”
She sat back as well, trying to gauge his reaction. He was definitely surprised, and disconcerted.
“You don’t hold your punches.” His eyes darted around the barn, looking anywhere but at her. Finally, his gaze settled on hers. “Yes.”
She wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. “Yes, you are the Midnight Rider?”
“Yes, I was the Midnight Rider.”
“I cannot believe it.” She let out a startled breath, shocked into silence for a moment. “I mean, I can. Once the tinker mentioned Zeus, I thought of the illustrations in the papers. But still…” Her mind clicked through the meaning of his answer, attempting to make sense of it. She felt like she was trying to gather wildflowers in the wind. Her thoughts would not stay in place. “Is that why you have not collected the gold yet? You were on the run?”
“That is two questions. You are only allowed one.” He studied her intently under a heavy brow, gauging her reaction. His habitually expressive face was devoid of emotion and he actually appeared serious. What he had just revealed to her…it was important on so many levels. She wanted to take a break from the game so she could just think. Because, in the taught silence, it seemed her reaction was of great importance to him.
But what reaction? He was worse than a gambler, worse than a rake, worse than a rogue. He was a highwayman.
And he’d trusted her with the truth. He’d given her a piece of himself, believing she would keep it safe. This is what made her catch her breath. This is what made her skin flush, her heart race.
Whatever was between them…it was real. It was more than just flirtatious words and shared adventure. This living bond…this kinship…it had weight to it, enough that Roane was leaning against it, letting it hold him up.
She was thrilled.
She was scared.
Roane didn’t allow her anymore time to think. He dealt another hand and easily won. His eyes darkened and he dropped his gaze to her bosom. “Take off your cloak.”
She hesitated a moment, but fair was fair. She pulled off her wool cloak and dropped it on the dusty floor. It couldn’t possibly get dirtier than it already was.
Roane watched her, his expression still hard. He dealt another hand. Won again. “Your shirt.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. She hadn’t much clothing to lose. Men wore decidedly fewer layers than women. “I believe my boots should come next.”
He shook his head. “I choose. That is the deal.”
“Fine.” She gathered the long hem of her borrowed shirt, her fingers shaking. She still wore her half corset and chemise beneath. Roane watched avidly as she drew the wool over her head. “Happy?” she asked, nervously balling the shirt in her lap.
“Good lord.” He sat back, breathless, as if he’d been punched in the belly.
Helen blushed and looked down. It felt so odd to be sitting before him, half undressed. But it was a rather beautiful corset, with the pink ribbons threading through the lace. She straightened and lifted her chin. “Deal.”
He fumbled with the cards, dropping a few before he dragged his gaze from her and dealt the next hand.
“My win.” She was growing accustomed to his attention and almost enjoyed it. Her mind clicked through her questions. “Where were you these last three years?”
He took his time answering. He was so silent, she felt like she could hear the dust settling around them. It made her nervous. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I was in Australia.”
Her breath was sharp in her lungs. “You were deported?”
“That is a second question.” He shook his head. “You are not very good at this game.”
She won the next hand, too. “Were you deported?” she asked again.
“In a manner.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“‘Tis the truth.”
She crossed her arms and his gaze dropped to her bosom. “Roane.”
“Yes?” He did not look up.
“You are not following the rules.”
Still, he did not look up.
“Can you look at me when I am talking to you?”
Finally, his gaze met hers. “I was not officially deported. My brother-in-law was the one who sentenced me.”
“What?” She dropped her arms and he sat back, wiped a hand across his brow. “Your own family?”
“Another question.” He smiled, his jaw clenched. “It is my turn to deal again.”
He played quickly, and won quickly. Then time slowed as his gaze lingered on her and he considered what, exactly, she should remove next. His breath sounded raspy, his voice deep as he instructed, “Let down your hair.”
His voice, more than her sense of modesty, sent Helen’s fingers into a nervous tremble. She unwound the ribbon from her braid and then combed out the long strands. The blond curls reached below her breasts.
“You are lovely,” he whispered.
Neither said anything for a long moment. They just considered each other, the light of the candle sending shadows dancing between them.
“Deal again.” Her voice was a mere breath.
But he heard her, sent the cards flying, and won again. “I’ll take pity on you.” He laughed and scrubbed his hand over his forehead. “I can’t lie. I take pity on myself. Your shoes, milady.”
She leaned down to unlace her boots, and he let out a muffled groan. She should have been embarrassed, she knew she should have, as her breasts pressed against her corset and she offered him a view of her décolletage.
But she wasn’t embarrassed. She was emboldened.
She took her time unknotting her laces. When she straightened, Roane’s hair was standing on end.
They played the next hand in a bit of a daze. Even as Helen won, it took her a moment to recall the question she had asked him earlier. “Who is your brother-in-law, that he could sentence you to Australia?”
“He is the Lord Lieutenant of Nottinghamshire and the Earl of Radford.”
Helen’s befuddled mind tried to wrap around this. Roane was related to an earl? She was so distracted, she lost the next hand.
“Your breeches,” Roane ordered.
She pulled them off. She was down to two garments now—her corset and her ripped chemise, which fell just below her buttocks. He stood up, collected her pile of clothing, then sat back down.
Perhaps, rather than asking him another question, she should require him to remove an article of his clothing. His shirt would do. She wouldn’t mind the view of his chest.
But that was not why she had engaged in this game. She made herself focus and won the next hand. “Who were your parents, that your sister could marry an earl?”
“Ah, clever girl.” His lips tilted into his first smile of the game. “My father was the Earl of Redesdale. My mother was an upstairs maid. Mazie, the current Countess of Radford, is my half-sister, from the legitimate side.”
Roane was a member of the aristocracy. A bastard, yes, but the son of an earl all the same.
And a highwayman.
And a convict, of a sort.
“Good lord.” Her hands were shaking. “Might I have a sip of your flask?”
He crossed the barn to fetch his whisky from his saddlebag, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Do you wish to play more? Or shall you retain the little clothing you still have?”
“I think I’d best retain my garments.” She held out her hand. “I’ll take my other clothing back, now that the game is finished.”
He leaned down and offered her the flask, a naughty tilt to his smile. “We did not discuss the terms of retuning your clothing.”
She coughed, the whisky warm in her belly. “But that is not fair.”
“Whoever said a rogue plays fair? You know, I would have answered all your questions, without your taking your clothes off. But this way is much better.” He tossed her clothing out of reach.
She crossed her arms. “What do you want?”
“I want any number of things.”
A wealth of innuendo was contained in those words. Her stomach flipped. “What are the terms?” she echoed his phrase from earlier.
“I would like to ask you a question. One single inquiry. Upon your answer, you may have your clothing back.”
It seemed simple enough. Why, then, was her heart pounding, her breath coming in quick rasps? “What is your question?”
Roane dropped his gaze to her lips before looking back into her eyes. “Do you want to kiss me? Even knowing the truth?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper. But she had no difficulty understanding the question.
Did she want to kiss him? With her whole being, yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes a thousand times.
Her palms felt damp, her mouth dry. He already knew the answer to his question. How could he not?
But his eyes crinkled at the corners, and not from amusement. He was nervous. Vulnerable.
More than the truth, his honesty affected her.
Oh, certainly she would think more about his revelation on the morrow, when her wits returned. But now, all she wanted was to touch him. Reassure him.
She swallowed. “Yes. I want to kiss you.”
His expression changed. Softened and hardened at once. She leaned back, but he was already reaching for her. He pulled her to him and crushed his mouth to hers, devoured her with his lips. There was a fever and a passion in his kiss, as if he could no longer restrain himself. As if he needed her.
Helen opened her mouth and welcomed his tongue inside. She matched his force with her own, straddling his lap, grabbing his shirt and pressing her breasts against his chest. His heart beat frantically, his hands grasped and roamed and could not settle. She’d never seen him like this before, so undone, not even last night when he’d shown her how to pleasure him.
He pulled her against him so tightly they could not kiss and simply lowered his head into her neck. His hot, panting breaths stirred her skin. She reached down and pulled up the hem of his shirt, forcing him to lean back so she could draw the garment over his head. Then she rained kisses over him, over his face and chest, nipping his shoulders as
she lowered her palms onto the smooth skin of his abdomen.
He threaded a hand into her hair. It was shaking. The other stole up her thigh and tangled with the curls between her legs. Without warning, he slipped a finger between her damp folds. She cried out, and his hand tightened against her scalp and brought her mouth back to his.
She cradled his erection in both her hands, trying to focus as he drove her wild. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, mimicking the motion with his fingers as he rubbed her and drove her higher and higher. Beyond thought, she caressed him back, hardly knowing if she was doing it the way he’d taught her. But then she was winding impossibly higher, impossibly tighter, and he was holding her close, holding her open. And still the pleasure built, stealing her breath, tightening every muscle, drawing her to a precipice between pleasure and need. And she was crying out against his mouth, shuddering and throbbing as he was kissing her, devouring her.
Then he lifted his hips and thrust into her hand and cried out into the night.
***
They did not sleep, but watched the single candle dance and sputter in the darkness. Beneath the hayloft, the horses shuffled softly on the earthen floor, and Mittens scampered here and there, hunting his dinner.
Roane leaned back against the stone wall and held Helen in his lap. She sat sideways, resting her head against his bare chest. He could hold her like this forever. He nuzzled his head into her hair, drinking in the moment. Content for now.
His body wanted more.
His heart wanted more.
But he would not press her. He was lucky she’d not run screaming into the hills after the truths he’d just shared. She’d stayed. She’d given herself to him. He couldn’t ask for more.
“News of the Midnight Rider reached London,” she murmured into the quiet.
“Mmm.” So, they were back to this. Of course they were.
“I saw the caricatures in the paper.” She looked up at him. “Did you see them?”
“I did, yes.” He smoothed a hand down her hair. “It was years ago, Helen. I am surprised you remember.”
The Rogue Returns.smashwords Page 18