A Kiss from a Rogue

by Elisa Braden

  She was white. Utterly white. Her lips, her cheeks.

  It froze him to the bone.

  “Christ, Hannah. What the devil is wrong?”

  Her eyes remained open, but she was gone. Just … gone.

  Bloody hell, had she been poisoned? The very thought sent a blaze of panic through him. He didn’t think. He stooped to retrieve his coat and wrapped it around her, then bent and lifted her into his arms. She said nothing. Moved not at all. Stared vacantly ahead.

  “God Almighty, love.” He scarcely knew what he said as he ran with her through the rain. “Stay with me, do you hear?” He kissed her cool cheek. Breathed her rain-on-roses scent. “We’ll get you back to the castle. We’ll find you a physician. Everything will be all right.”

  He whispered the reassurance over and over—perhaps for himself more than her. But the urgency inside him was screaming. And his heart was thundering a warning. Something was wrong. He must discover what it was then battle it with everything he had.

  Because this woman was his.

  His to carry. His to kiss. His to keep. And whatever the cost, he would see her safe.

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Your kiss changes nothing, Bainbridge. You are, however, welcome to try again. One never knows when practice may turn the tide toward improvement.”

  —Lady Dorothea Penworth to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter challenging said gentleman to develop latent talents.

  Six-and-a-half feet of mass and muscle stood between Jonas and his woman. And if Sebastian Reaver hadn’t brought his equally large cousin, the Earl of Tannenbrook, to help contain the “bloody mad wolf,” Jonas would even now be holding her.

  Or tearing her brother apart to find out what sort of plant Holstoke had fed her. It was the only explanation, he’d decided. He hadn’t smelled liquor upon her breath, but her bizarre behavior had suggested intoxication. Then, she’d collapsed.

  His heart was still pounding, though not from the exertion of carrying her up the hill to Grimsgate. He’d shouted for Holstoke the moment Nash had opened the door. The earl had appeared moments later, grim and nearly as pale as Hannah. He’d tried to take her from Jonas’s arms, but Jonas had threatened to cut his hands off at the wrists. Confusingly, the earl had given him a look of sympathy before nodding and leading him upstairs to her bedchamber. Holstoke had sent Nash to fetch his wife, and while Jonas sat on the bed with Hannah in his arms, the earl had quietly asked what happened.

  Jonas had explained as briefly as possible, sparing the more intimate details, and demanded to know what Holstoke had given her.

  “Nothing,” the earl had insisted, his brow furrowing. “She resists taking anything that might be considered an intoxicant. Strong drink. Laudanum. I had to coax her to try valerian tea, despite the severity of her discomfort.”

  Jonas had recalled seeing evidence of her monthly pain the first time they met. It had gnawed at him in the most peculiar way. He remembered demanding she explain what was wrong, feeling a bewildering concern for a woman he didn’t know. He should have let it alone—she’d been embarrassed when she’d realized he suspected the cause of her discomfort. But from the beginning, he’d been unable to distance himself from her. Unable to think of her as faceless and nameless, the way he did with most people.

  There was the problem. Nobody else compared. Her beauty. Her grace. The stillness and the niggling sense that entire worlds existed beneath her pristine surface. She’d intrigued him from the first and, despite his best efforts, his preoccupation hadn’t abated.

  Which was why it had taken two giants—Reaver and Tannenbrook—to wrestle him away from her and out into the corridor.

  Now, they stood shoulder to shoulder, one black-haired and the other dark blond, both rough-hewn and outsized and wearing matching sympathetic expressions. If hitting them hadn’t been a sure path to unconsciousness, he’d be tempted to try it.

  Through the bedchamber door, he heard Lady Holstoke arguing with her husband. “This is her decision, Phineas. She understands the risks, and they are hers to take.”

  “She is not ready. I told you—”

  “If we continue treating her as fragile, she will never heal.”

  Alarm pealed down Jonas’s spine. God Almighty, she was ill. She’d sworn she wasn’t, but this could only mean—

  An enormous hand landed hard in the center of his chest. “Calm yourself, Hawthorn,” Reaver ordered.

  Jonas hadn’t realized he’d charged the door again. This was driving him mad. He needed to see her. He wanted answers. “Let me through,” he growled.

  Tannenbrook shook his head. “We ken you’re out of your head, man. But we cannot let ye pass.”

  Reaver nodded his agreement. “Trust Holstoke. He’s been caring for his sister a long time. He’ll let no harm come to her.”

  A small, quiet maid appeared in the corridor carrying a stack of linens. He recognized her as Hannah’s lady’s maid. She bobbed a curtsy and handed him a towel. “For you, sir.” Her accent was faintly French.

  He took the towel, realizing he was still soaked from the rain. He’d left his hat on the road, his coat around Hannah. The two giants parted to allow the maid to slip into the room. He strained to see through the opening then cursed when the door closed.

  “If you don’t let me in, I’m going to hurt you,” he warned the giants. “I don’t want to. But I will.”

  “Dry off,” Reaver advised. “Calm down.”

  Just as Jonas planned his attack on Reaver’s knee and Tannenbrook’s throat, the door opened. It was the maid.

  “Mr. Hawthorn? Miss Gray would like to speak with you.”

  The giants parted.

  Jonas swallowed. God, his heart was going to beat him to death. He nodded and ran the towel over his face. Then, he followed the little maid into the chamber.

  Hannah sat in a chair staring out an open window. She was still wrapped in his coat. Her hands clutched the wool as though someone might try to steal the thing.

  “Jonas,” murmured Lady Holstoke, drawing his attention by tugging his sleeve. Brown eyes that normally danced were solemn as she gazed up at him. “Gently, hmm?”

  He didn’t know what that meant. Gently? What the devil was wrong with Hannah?

  “She has recovered,” the petite countess answered before he could ask. “She will explain.” She glanced at her husband, who did not seem pleased. “We will leave you two alone, now.” Her tone was firm, as though finishing an argument. She then shooed the maid out, grasped her husband’s hand, and tugged him from the room. The door closed softly.

  Barely daring to breathe, he drifted toward her. “Hannah.” His voice was coarse gravel. “What happened?”

  That moonlight gaze fell from the window to her hands. “I wish I could tell you.”

  “Try. I need to know what’s wrong.”

  For a long while, she didn’t speak.

  He wandered closer, careful not to startle her. “Did I cause this?”

  “No. You are not the cause.”

  “Are you ill?”

  Her lips pressed together. “In a … manner of speaking. But I am attempting to get better.”

  He moved closer, unable to bear the distance. Then, he crouched at her knees. Breathed against the need to demand answers. Feeling his way, he decided to use one of his old tricks—distraction. “Do you like my coat, love?”

  Her fingers tightened, and a little smile curled the corners of rosebud lips. “Yes. It is warm and smells like you.”

  He chuckled. “It should. I wear it often. Probably more than is sensible, given the heat.”

  “It has a great many pockets,” she observed. “I can see why you would find that useful.”

  He let silence fill the space between them while he soaked in every detail of her—the damp, black hair, now plaited over one shoulder. The soft, creamy skin of her throat and the soft, petal pink of her lips. Her color had returned, though she still tremb
led.

  “I am sorry I frightened you, Jonas,” she whispered to his coat. “That was not my intention.”

  A surge of remembered panic nearly knocked him on his backside. He’d never felt that. Not even during battle. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I lost my head …” He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his damp hair. “You’d obviously taken some kind of herb or—”

  “No.”

  “—poison to be talking such nonsense, to kiss me like you did—”

  “I was not intoxicated in the slightest.” Her eyes, downcast since he’d entered the room, lifted to his shoulders. “I meant every word.”

  Had she but breathed upon him, he’d have fallen backward. How could it be true? She’d bloody well asked about his horse then proposed marriage. “Perhaps you’re still a bit—”

  Suddenly, she grasped his hand where it propped on his knee. Her fingers were cool and slender. They gripped him with surprising strength. “I am perfectly lucid. Phineas would not have left me alone with you otherwise.”

  True enough. Her brother’s pattern was too protective. He stroked her fingers with his thumb and frowned. “But that would mean you intended to—”

  “Yes.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Do you want me?”

  God, she knocked the air from his chest. He couldn’t inhale, let alone answer.

  Her hand squeezed his until her knuckles went white. “Do you?”

  “Bloody hell,” he breathed, his voice worn to a thread. “Yes. I want you.”

  She shuddered, her shoulders heaving. Trembling. Then, she raised those extraordinary eyes to his. “I shall be yours,” she said, locking his heart in a vise. “But I have c-conditions.”

  In his head, he wondered what her demands might be, of course. But no other part of him gave a damn. She could ask him to ride naked through a beehive covered in jam and chicken feathers, and he’d agree to it, fool that he was. Still, he would hear her out. “What are they?” he asked.

  She swallowed, her eyes revealing nervousness. Turmoil. But also courage. “You must marry me. Soon. Straight away, in fact.”

  He examined her closely, trying to decide what the rush was about. “Now?” He gave her a grin. “It’s already full dark.”

  “Tomorrow would be fine.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Yes.” That proud little chin rose. “I wish to be your wife. Very, very soon.”

  He rubbed his jaw and tried to persuade his cock to calm the hell down. “Understood. What else?”

  “I should like for there to be rules when we … when we lie … together.”

  “What sort of rules?”

  “I shall explain after the wedding.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “There are to be rules governing how I make love to you, but I’m not to know until after the wedding.”

  “You have it.”

  “Afraid not, love. Give me one. I deserve that much.”

  Her breathing quickened. A small flush appeared in her cheeks. “Very well. Whilst I have no objection to your touch, I would prefer to remain clothed during our … whilst we are … engaged in … intimacies.”

  He frowned at the odd request. “Why?”

  She blew out a breath, her shoulders slumping. “This is the reason I wanted to wait to tell you. Now, you’ll think me strange, and you won’t wish to marry me.”

  If she suspected how eager he was to pick her up, put her on the back of his hired horse, and ride the few miles to Scotland, those soft cheeks of hers would be scarlet rather than pink. “It is an odd request, you must admit. But so long as I may touch you as I please, I suppose it is not too much to ask.”

  Her eyes fell to where their hands clasped and twined. “I loved kissing you, Jonas,” she whispered. “Much more than I anticipated.”

  Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough, by God. But since she was confessing her desires, he asked for more. “Tell me another condition.”

  At first, he didn’t think she would acquiesce. Her chin turned stubborn, those pale eyes narrowing. Then, she wetted her lips and nodded. “I want children. You must provide them.”

  “Well, children are often a consequence of—”

  “No. Not a consequence. You must apply yourself fully to the task.” She was frowning in a way that grasped his ballocks and twisted them up tight—as though she suspected he might be a laggard in his husbandly duty and was quite vexed about it.

  He suppressed his grin with all his might. In the end, he had to cover a cough to disguise it. “You are demanding my—”

  “Your seed. Yes, I am.”

  Whatever blood might have been freely roaming in his body rushed to deliver her order. His head swam. Another sleepless night loomed as a near certainty.

  “I have studied this in some detail,” she continued. “Regularity is the key. Multiple attempts per week would be ideal, though I shall certainly make allowances for any difficulties that arise. Not all males share similar … drives.”

  He covered another, deeper cough and cleared his throat. “Mmm. And, if greater frequency is required? Conceiving a babe can be an uncertain business, you know. Might take months. Are you willing to accommodate my ‘drives’? So long as I’m applying myself, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, his hand settling over his mouth as though deep in thought. “And I may touch you however I please.”

  “Yes. So long as I am clothed.”

  “Well, some parts of you cannot be clothed. For conceiving purposes.”

  She clicked her tongue. “I am hardly ignorant, Jonas.”

  “No, of course not.” He pretended to think. “Would I need to be clothed?”

  Her eyes flared wide. She blinked and glanced at his chest, her cheeks firing hotter. “I—I think I should prefer you weren’t, actually.” Her desire appeared to confuse her. “You are very handsome.”

  “I’m delighted you think so, love.”

  “I mean your whole body, not merely your face.”

  He nodded. “It pleases me that I might please you.”

  “Oh, you do. Very much.”

  “Good. Now, are there any other conditions I should know about?” When she hesitated, he cajoled, “Come now, I haven’t balked at anything so far.”

  Warming to her subject, she nodded. “You must permit me to purchase a proper home for our family.”

  His gut hardened and went cold. “No,” he said softly.

  “Our children need a safe—”

  “I will provide our home, Hannah. Me.”

  She frowned. Glanced down at his coat then back up at him. “But—”

  “I’ll be your husband. You must trust that I will provide for you. Can you do that?”

  Glaring at him with apparent pique, she shifted her hand and slid their fingers together. “Yes. But my funds will be at your disposal.”

  He inclined his head as though he accepted her offer. He didn’t. “Is that the last of your conditions?”

  Her fingers tightened where they laced with his. “Eugenia says I am not being fair to you,” she said quietly. “It is true. I am not.”

  “What’s unfair?”

  Jaw tightening, she blew out a breath. “Asking you to marry me without telling you …” She shook her head. “I am not normal, Jonas. Perhaps you already suspected it. Perhaps not. I promise I will do everything in my power to improve, to be a good wife to you. But at first, I may need you to do certain things. Things to prevent more episodes as I had today.”

  “Such as?”

  “I may ask you to … cover your eyes. Particularly whilst we …”

  His shock must have been apparent because she brought her free hand up to her mouth.

  “Drat and blast. I shouldn’t have told you,” she mumbled through her fingers. Dismay crinkled her brow. Distress shook her shoulders.

  He stroked her hand with his thumb.
“You surprised me, that’s all.” The need to understand was grinding his insides. But she plainly did not want to tell him what was wrong until the vows had been spoken and they were permanently bound together—which meant it was bad.

  And if it involved her keeping her clothes on and him covering his eyes, she was either disfigured or had visible signs of an illness. Neither of which changed his mind, of course. He didn’t give a damn except that he would die to keep her from hurting. She’d admitted to an illness “in a manner of speaking.” Perhaps she was recovering from a childhood ailment. Or perhaps she wouldn’t recover at all.

  What if she died? What if he married her, planted children in her belly, had two or three years, and then she was gone? It would fit the godforsaken pattern of his life, to be sure.

  “At least tell me this,” he rasped, scarcely able to get the words out. “Are you dying? Is that the source of the urgency?”

  Soft, tentative fingers touched his jaw, bringing his eyes up to lock with hers. “No, I’m not dying. No more than anyone else, at any rate. Barring unforeseen misfortune, we shall have a long life together, Jonas Hawthorn.”

  As far as he knew, she’d never lied to him. And he saw no evidence that she did now.

  Relief nearly sent him rolling onto his backside. Instead, he hung his head forward then lifted her fingers to his lips. Kissed them over and over. “Promise you’ll tell me everything once we marry,” he said when his heart settled into a normal rhythm.

  “Yes. I promise.”

  “Promise we may revise your conditions as needed.”

  She hesitated. Then, “I promise.”

  He lost a small piece of his control and made his final demand. “Promise I may have you, Hannah Gray. That I may keep you.”

  She paled a bit. Squeezed his hand so hard, her nails formed grooves in his flesh. Thick, dark lashes fluttered oddly. Then, she swallowed. Leaned forward. Brushed his mouth with rosebud lips and whispered, soft as snowfall, “I promise.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Marriage? My dear Bainbridge, you are mad to suggest it.”