Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  At that moment Beau would have sold her soul to be able to beg her mother's forgiveness.

  She felt a tear tremble on her lashes, then slip free. Tenderly Sophie wiped it away. "Enough of this weeping from both of us. This is a time for joy, my darling. You are here. Here. I shall take you with me to Italy and France. I shall show you the Continent, all the things Lianna and I were never able to share." Sophie gave a watery laugh. "And God help the man who attempts to take you from me again!"

  "But—but Grandmother, I don't—don't think..." Beau stammered. She glanced at Griffin. He stood apart from them, as if separated by some invisible wall.

  His face was impassive, his eyes unreadable. She had thought that he would have told Sophie of the future. Of the love they shared, the dreams. But from the old woman's words and the bright glow of satisfaction in her eyes, it was evident that Griffin had said nothing about their love. Nor that he intended to make Beau his wife.

  The joy Beau had felt, the cleansing and healing of childhood wounds shifted into a pain so deep she staggered with its force.

  She wheeled on him, her eyes blazing. "Blast it, Stone, say something! Tell her—"

  The dowager countess stared, taken aback, her eyes clouded with confusion. "Oh, dear, tell me I did not offend you already, child. I fear I am somewhat impetuous. If you do not care to rove the Continent, I vow I will be satisfied to keep you by my hearth fires forever."

  Beau began to answer, but before she could speak Griffin broke in. "I fear Mistress DeBurgh and I need a few moments alone, your ladyship." His voice was quiet, so level she wanted to black his eyes.

  "But of course." Sophie's hand fluttered to her breast. As she left the room she turned once again to Isabeau, clasping the girl's stiff hands in hers. "I am so grateful, child, so grateful I have been given this chance to know you. I just want you to know... this is your home now. Whenever... if ever you want it."

  Silence cloaked the room when Sophie left it, quietly shutting the doors behind her.

  Beau's hands knotted into fists, and she wanted to scream at Griffin, to rail at him. But for once in her life her ever-sharp tongue failed her.

  "Isabeau, if you would allow me to explain," Griffin began.

  "Explain?" She spun around to face him certain all her anguish was writ plainly on her features. "I'll wager you'd best explain if you expect to keep that cowardly hide of yours intact! You did not tell her about us! About... about the promise you made me, that we would wed."

  "You made that promise when you had no other choices, when I was all you knew. Now Sophie can lay the world at your feet. You heard what she said—"

  "Aye! I heard a woman who is still just a stranger—a kindly one, but a stranger nonetheless—planning out the rest of my life. Well, my next seventy years are already spent, I'm sorry to say, in making your life pure torment. Have you changed your mind? Don't you wish to be saddled with me any longer."

  "Damn it, Beau, you deserve a man who is respectable, a gentleman you can be proud to call your husband. You deserve to be courted and wooed and won like any other woman."

  "Of all the stupid, addle-pated, idiotic, brainless bits of nonsense I've ever heard," Beau cried, her eyes snapping. "I'm not a bloody heifer at a fair to be awarded to the most aggressive bull. And as for being wooed, I thought we'd gotten that out of the way in the coach on the way home from Ranelagh."

  "Don't you see? That is exactly what I am attempting to point out to you. I was your guardian, trusted with the task of protecting you. You should have had white lace, a wedding gown, and a bridal bed decked all in flowers. Not a man fire-hot with passions bearing you down in the seat of an infernal coach when half of London might have been looking on."

  "I would not trade that night for all the insipid bridal beds in England, you lout! I learned every inch of your body in that coach, Griffin Stone, felt the power in it, the passion. We were hungering, both of us, starving for each other. And it was the most glorious feeling I've ever known. But it is obvious you have forgotten, for you've not even bothered to touch me, to kiss me, since the night we vanquished Valmont."

  "Forgotten? I've not been able to think of anything else except tasting you, touching you. But damn it, Beau, I'll not have your honor slurred by licentious servants, not have it bandied about that—"

  "That I was your lover? Your mistress? That I lay tangled up in the coverlets with you night after night, learning what it was to bury myself in someone else's soul? If you want my opinion, you goat-brained fool, it is a little late for you to be so bloody particular!"

  "Just wait one blasted minute, woman!" Griffin said, pulling her against his big body. "You may not bloody appreciate it, but I'm trying to have just a little honor, just a little restraint for the first damned time in my life! I'm trying to be a gentleman worthy enough to love you."

  "A gentleman? A gentleman!" Beau spat the word as if it were the most infamous of epithets. "Well, if you are planning to turn into one of those, I shall cry off the engagement myself! If I had wanted a blasted gentleman, I would have waylaid one years ago. I could have taken any one of a dozen fops prisoner. Maybe I should go back to the highroads and try to find some other reprehensible, stubborn blackguard who loves me just a tenth as well as you once did."

  She turned and stalked toward the door. In a heartbeat he was beside her, his hand gripping her arm. When he spun her to face him the raw fury, raw pain flashing across his features made her heart leap in her chest.

  "Damn you to hell, woman, I'll not let you go back to that life! Not let you get yourself hanged!"

  "I'd like to see you stop me! The month we wagered is over. And besides, what use would a puffed-up, pinch-nosed gentleman have for the likes of me?"

  "I love you. I want to bind you to me forever." Griff’s jaw knotted granite-hard; his eyes glittering with such fiery passion that Beau's breath snagged in her throat. "I want to make love to you every night until you can't breathe, can't speak. I want to fill you with sons and daughters. And I want you to fill... fill me... with light, Isabeau, with laughter. But I must be certain I can give you the kind of future that will give you joy."

  "You have given me more joy than I have ever known."

  "But I have also given you sorrow. Life with me would not be easy in the best of circumstances. But now, Beau, life with me will mean a future in the colonies, far away from your grandmother, from England. Far from everything you know."

  "I can write my grandmother copious letters. And as for England, I've no love for a land that leaves a man as fine as my father no choice but to ride the High Toby. I'm sure the colonies cannot be so much different, Griffin, for they must have sunrises there, and sunsets, and midnight rides across the highroads."

  Griff laughed. "I promise you there are no brigands that cut a dash as elegant as the Devil's Flame, if that is what you are asking."

  "I am only asking to stay with you, be with you. I could bear losing everyone, everything, save you. I've only had three nights away from your arms, and I've never been so miserable in my whole life!"

  "Neither have I!" Griffin's voice broke, filled with wonder, with sorrow, with infinite love.

  "Blast you, Griffin Stone!" She balled up one fist, thumping him on the arm. "If this bout of sackcloth and ashes is what you intend to indulge in every time one of us flies into a temper, then maybe we shouldn't be wed! We'll spend our whole lifetime groveling for each other's forgiveness! And I'd much rather spend the hours I have with you indulging in other pursuits. Like kissing you, loving you, feeling your mouth on my skin."

  She trailed her fingernails down the cord of his neck, felt a shiver of desire rack him, his hard lips parting.

  "Isabeau." His fingers framed her face, and they felt warm, rough, infinitely loving. "The best thing that ever happened to me was the night you blazed down upon that coach, pistols firing. But I never thought... never believed that I could hold you. That any man, even one who loved as much as I did, could ever hope to catch a flame
."

  Tears filled Beau's eyes, but her lips parted in a beaming smile. "You know, Stone, if you'd just had the decency to shed your cloak that night upon the road, you would have saved us both considerable trouble."

  "Is that so, milady?" Griff arched his brow, his lips tipping up in anticipation.

  "It is. You could have kept your baubles and your sword point to yourself. For I'd have taken one look at you, Griffin Stone, and demanded your virtue or your life."

  "My virtue?"

  "Aye. I would have made it well worth your while, I vow. Perhaps once we get to America I shall take to the highroads with a vengeance. Every night I shall lay in wait for you, my pistols ready."

  "And once you have me in your dastardly clutches, what will you do with me?"

  "Ravish you. Shamelessly. If we can but take our leave of my grandmother, I shall give you a demonstration."

  Griff looked out the window to where the Ravensmoor coach waited, his eyes aglow with the memory of their first wild-sweet loving.

  He grinned.

  "I am at your mercy, milady Flame."

  About Kimberly

  Called “a master of the genre” by Romantic Times, Kimberly’s thirty-three bestselling, award-winning novels are noted for their endearing characters, emotional impact and their ability to transport the reader to the mists and magic of the British Isles. Kimberly has also penned historical romances as Kimberleigh Caitlin and contemporary romances under the pseudonyms Kimberly Cates and Kim Cates. She writes historical fiction as Ella March Chase.

  For more information

  @KimberlyCates5

  KimberlyCatesBooks

  kimberlycatesbooks.com

  ellamarchchase@ellamarchchase

  More Sizzling Rebels

  The Raider’s Bride

  The Raider’s Daughter

  To Catch a Flame

  Kissed

  by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Spicy

  Part I

  What sweet thoughts, what longing led them

  to this woeful pass?

  Dante

  Chapter 1

  April 1763

  England, Rose Park

  What sort of man paid to have his sister’s heart broken?

  Lord Christian Haukinge tossed the parchment aside, and reclined deeper into the leather desk chair, contemplating the inconceivable notion.

  He didn’t bother considering the issue it raised: What sort of man accepted such a proposal? He already knew the answer to that one.

  The scribbled letter before him bore no salutation—a deliberate rudeness, a flagrant omission of his title—courtesy though it may be—and his demeanor, as he retrieved the parchment, shifted from indifference to keen irritation. His gaze skimmed the page once more, settling upon the last paragraphs.

  ... as she seems to have convinced herself no other beau will do, save you, fatuous as it seems, and she has set her face against the new contract I have put before her, clinging to your annulled betrothal simply to defy my wishes, I am forced to offer this proposal. Please consider the above remuneration for your services; the amount is more than adequate for your brief employ, and, indeed, should prove quite useful in the refurbishment of your newly purchased estate. As to that, please accept my condolences.

  I am certain you shall wish to begin with all due haste, and look forward to your timely response in this matter. The sooner she has been suitably disillusioned, the sooner you might be compensated for your troubles. For the greater good, I do hope we might overlook the nature of our past relationship, and endeavor to assist each other in persuading my dear, misguided sister in choosing the right-minded course. The advance will assure you see it my way. Accept it in good faith. I shall enlighten you further when we are face-to-face.

  Signed simply, Westmoor.

  For the greater good?

  Bloody bastard.

  Christian’s lip curved with contempt—and then a thought occurred to him: If Westmoor knew he’d purchased Rose Park, doubtless his own brother had gotten wind of the fact, as well. Philip was likely choleric with rage, having to discover something of that nature second-or even third-hand. Damn… Christian might have given much to glimpse the expression on his brother’s face when he’d been informed of the fact.

  Gazing out from his office window, at the unkept garden, a rueful smile touched his lips. What a family he had; the elder a greedy thief, the younger a contrebandier.

  With a sigh he reached back to rip out the satin tie that bound his hair, and then thrust his long fingers through the unpowdered length of it, muttering sourly beneath his breath.

  Hell, at least he had no qualms over admitting the fact. Though it might seem appropriate to bear some measure of guilt… too bad he couldn’t muster the sentiment. In fact, he’d burn in hell before he’d regret a damned thing. And that in itself should have disturbed him, he supposed. But it didn’t. Not in the least. He was what he was, and he felt absolutely no remorse for his... enterprising. Supplies were needed in the colonies, and he simply transported those goods. Nor had he any falsely noble incentives to declare. His motives were quite simply self-indulgent.

  He wanted money.

  Aye, and he wanted respect.

  He wanted land.

  He wanted more than anything for the sons he intended to sire to all have equal shares of the empire he would build for them. Damned if he’d leave one alone to fend for himself in a world such as this. And nay, it was not so much the lack of title he abhorred, for he might truly have been happy in most any situation—save the one in which he found himself. Youngest son, nonentity.

  All that disdain without anyone having known of his greatest social flaw, even. His wry smile deepened. What a field day the gentry would have if they were to discover his bastardy.

  All those years he’d settled for what little his father had cared to give him. Which was nothing, not even a momentary-lapse pat on the head, a “good show, son.” Nothing. The only one thing he’d counted on, was his bequest of Hakewell, his mother’s dower land. It was to be hers, until her death, and then it was to go to Christian. And God’s truth, he’d been perfectly content to bide his time, however long that should be, for he cherished his mother and would have her live an eternity were it possible. But he had counted upon that estate someday. And then he’d been offered a betrothal with Westmoor’s young daughter, and he’d found himself with such great expectations, such dreams. Security for his heirs.

  Shattered, all of it shattered upon his father’s death. The old man hadn’t been gone more than a single month when Philip had set in motion Christian’s disinheritance. All very discreetly done, of course. He’d finagled possession of Hakewell through legal loopholes and treachery.

  Certainly Christian knew he could contest it, for Hakewell was his mother’s to give, but Philip—the son of a bitch—had resorted to extortion, knowing Christian would never sully his mother’s good name. And then he had run to Westmoor to inform him of the transfer of property, and with his bequeathal gone, Westmoor had annulled the betrothal at once; as the sole reason for the contract to begin with was Hakewell. Without that parcel of land, Christian was worth no more than a brass farthing.

  In the blink of an eye, everything had been stripped away, and like a man caught in the throes of a riptide, he’d been helpless to do anything but let it bear him away.

  No more.

  He was helpless no more.

  And never again.

  His gaze returned to the letter in his hand, and his fingers closed about the parchment, crumpling it. He slammed his fist down against the hardwood desk.

  By damn, he wanted revenge.

  The certainty of it struck him full of force.

  Despite that he’d sworn himself against it—even after what had happened before—he wanted it, with a bloodlust that was almost palpable. Cold fury seized him and he determined, instead, to give the cocky young duke his due. The idiot had offered him a ridiculously low sum for this insu
lting task, as though he were a green boy fresh out of Eton with a bulge in his breeches and little in his purse. But that was not what rankled most. Rather it was the snobbery and contempt at the heart of the insult offered.

  One too many from the almighty Westmoor.

  Not good enough to wed the man’s sister, was he? But good enough to—what? bed her?

  So he would have his sister disillusioned… for the greater good?

  Christian wondered what, precisely, that entailed.

  From the letter, he’d gotten the distinct impression that Lady Jessamine Stone was not too receptive to her brother’s choice of husband. He supposed it was her bastard brother’s intent that once her little heart was duly crushed, she would more easily bend to his will. But to what end was Westmoor willing to go?

  And why choose him, save to rub salt into his wounds?

  Christian’s eyes narrowed. God’s truth, he had no wish to do Westmoor any favors, but there was some sense of justice in that he would be paid now to avail himself of what should have already been his.

  Poetic justice.

  Aye, he’d do it, all right, but if Westmoor thought he meant to honor the letter of the agreement, he was more fool than Christian supposed. His cobalt blue eyes glinted with ruthless determination. The truth was that Christian had already ruined the father... He now fully intended to finish the business—and he didn’t give a bleedin’ damn who was brought down along the way, the virginal little sister included.