A Kiss from a Rogue

by Elisa Braden

  Jonas walked a mile of beach before he stopped seeing Hannah lying dead inside that dusty cellar. Another mile before he could think of her without a red haze of bloodlust for the man who had threatened her with a blade. Wounded her with a bullet. Touched her with trespassing hands.

  By the time he stopped and leaned against a wave-splashed boulder, his rage had dispersed into a lesser fire. But the pain remained.

  You would never be whole, the old dragon had said in a voice that knew. You would only ever be waiting. And, in your weaker moments, remembering.

  Grunting against the tightness in his chest, he dug into his lowest pocket. Withdrew the box. Ran his fingers over the surface as he watched the sea caress golden sand and dark stones.

  He had everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he’d tucked away inside this box.

  But what if he lost it? What if he lost her?

  Nothing lasted. Even the boulders on the beach would be ground to dust in time. Cliffs would be hollowed out by water and wind.

  She could fall ill. She could die and leave him with nothing but the waiting. Biding his time with a box full of paper.

  He scraped a hand over his face. She wanted children. She wanted to hold babes like her nephew, tiny and fragile. She wanted him to love them.

  What if he lost them, too?

  Alone was easier. No complications. He could live in whatever county he wanted without having to ask whether it was better to be close to Holstoke or Dunston. He could wear whatever coat he damn well pleased without wondering if he pleased her. He could be free of fear’s weight.

  But, then, he’d have to live without her. And who in bloody hell needed a coat with pockets if he had nothing precious to put inside them?

  He ran his thumb across the moon and stars. Then, he slipped his dreams back where they belonged and started toward the castle.

  Inside, he discovered most of Lady Wallingham’s guests had returned from Chatwick. Dunston and Blackmore waylaid him on his way through the grand hall to ask a dozen questions. They were soon joined by Atherbourne, Tannenbrook, Conrad, and Lacey, who all wanted details about the thief’s apprehension.

  Jonas answered as briefly as he could, but the men kept at him. He itched to break away. He wanted to find Hannah. He wanted to kiss her sweet mouth and make sure her wound didn’t pain her too much.

  “And you didn’t kill him?” Dunston asked for the fourth time.

  Jonas rubbed his forehead. “Bloody hell, Dunston.”

  “Seems to me you could have done. I doubt the magistrates would give you any trouble. If they did, I could intercede on your behalf.” The dapper earl grinned. “The Home Secretary is a friend.”

  “She asked me not to.”

  Blackmore hummed his sympathy. “Yes. Women often have different sensibilities about such things. More’s the pity.”

  “Sometimes killing is the best thing,” said Colin Lacey. The man who looked like he fell from a painting wore a distinctly uncivilized glare. “The only thing.”

  Dunston clapped Lacey’s shoulder with an approving nod. “I always knew we had more in common than appearances would suggest.” His eyes dropped to Lacey’s waistcoat, which was plain brown linen. “You may be a glorified country tutor and father of three, but that waistcoat is taking drudgery a bit far, my good man.”

  Lacey chuckled. “If my life is drudgery, then may every day grow more tedious.”

  “You make a fair point about killing those who need killing,” Dunston said in a darker tone. He looked at Jonas, his eyes hard and purposeful. “Putting down Horatio Syder balanced scales that were long overdue.”

  Jonas’s entire body flushed at once. Sparks of red flew across his vision. Without thinking, he moved in close to Lacey. “You?” he said, his voice an unrecognizable growl. “You killed him?”

  Lacey raised his brows in a wary fashion. “I did. Must say, I haven’t regretted it a moment since.”

  “I wish I had done it.” The words were pulled out of him, raw and guttural.

  But he could see Lacey understood. The other man’s eyes held sympathy and savagery and satisfaction in equal measures. “A thousand times over,”

  “For a thousand years,” Jonas finished. He remembered what Dunston had told him about the man who had killed Syder. “Your wife—she survived.”

  Lacey smiled. “Yes. She is strong. Like Hannah.”

  Jonas didn’t know what to do with everything inside him. Gratitude to Lacey. Pride in his woman. The need to hold her again. It was too much. He had to grit his teeth against the force of it.

  The tension broke when Rutherford joined them. The marquess handed his hat to Nash and approached, coming to stand between Atherbourne and Tannenbrook. “I thought we weren’t supposed to discuss Colin’s foray into espionage and assassination.” He gave Jonas a sardonic smile. “Delicate subject, you know.”

  Blackmore slanted a disapproving glance at Dunston, who shrugged and replied, “You are the one who saved the boy’s skin, Rutherford. Twice. Yet, you’re the one who insists I refrain from mentioning it.”

  Turquoise eyes glinted annoyance. “I believe you just did.”

  Dunston’s grin was unrepentant. “Slip of the tongue.”

  Jonas was glad to see he wasn’t the only one Dunston enjoyed vexing.

  Atherbourne chuckled. “Ben always did prefer to be regarded as wicked. Mustn’t spoil the illusion.”

  “As I recall, you relished following my lead on that score, Luc,” Rutherford replied. “Alas, our wickedness must now be reserved for quarters in which it is best rewarded. We’ve daughters to consider, do we not?”

  Laughing, Atherbourne clapped Rutherford’s shoulder. “Quite right. If your Margaret and my Mary Sophia are to believe us saints, we cannot afford even the illusion of devilishness. I dread the day my girl ventures into the marriage mart.”

  Tannenbrook frowned at the pair. “Marriage mart? You intend to send your lambs out amongst the wolves, then, do ye?”

  Atherbourne shook his head. “This again. I’ve explained already, man. You’ve four daughters who, thanks be to God, resemble their mother. The odds of them remaining unmarried forever are—”

  “Better they be spinsters than subject to the appetites of wolves and devils.”

  “I agree with Tannenbrook,” said Blackmore.

  “You would,” said Dunston with a snort. “I predict Emma and her sisters will have different ideas when the time comes.”

  Lacey chuckled. “And, if I know my brother, they will have him dancing to their tune as easily as Jane does.”

  Blackmore seemed about to protest but eventually smiled and conceded, “I suspect they will.”

  As Jonas listened to the men ribbing one another about who indulged his wife’s whims most readily, another pang of longing for Hannah struck. He excused himself and went to find his wife.

  He found her in the nursery. She sat in a chair by the window, holding her nephew. Westerly light slanted through the glass, painting raven-black hair with watery shadows and gentle whites. Her smile was tender. Her finger wrapped in a tiny fist. And as his chest tightened, she began to hum.

  The song was light. Soft as snowfall.

  Familiar as his breath.

  His legs carried him closer. His hand moved to his pocket. His eyes couldn’t leave her.

  Her lashes fluttered and lifted. Riveting green focused upon him. “Jonas,” she whispered. “Y-you came back.”

  Heart in his throat, he rasped, “Always, love.”

  Her eyes filled. She smiled, her lips trembling. Then, cradling the babe, she stood and moved close. “Would you like to hold him?”

  Alarmed, he started to shake his head.

  “Here now,” she murmured. “He won’t bite.”

  “Hannah—”

  She transferred the babe into his arms, positioning his hands to support the tiny head. “It is all right. Griffin doesn’t mind.” She stroked the plump cheek with her finger. Adored the little crea
ture with her eyes. “Isn’t that right, my darling? A good meal makes for a happy boy.”

  Jonas didn’t look at the babe. He watched her. No wonder she’d demanded he give her children. She was made to be a mother.

  Whereas he had little experience with tiny humans. No siblings, no nieces or nephews. He held his arms as still as possible, hoping not to drop the future Earl of Holstoke on his fragile little head.

  “I must speak with you.” His voice sounded like frayed rope.

  Her eyes came up to his. “I’ve imagined you holding our sons just like this.”

  He swallowed.

  “Am I silly for wanting them to be as handsome as you?”

  “Hannah.”

  “I love you, Jonas.” Her eyes filled and gleamed bright. Tears spilled onto pale cheeks. “Please look at him.”

  He didn’t want to.

  “His name is Griffin. He likes bright colors and miniature fruits. He’s a curious boy. Clever. He fusses when he’s hungry and sleeps when he feels safe. His eyes are like mine.”

  He shook his head. Fought against her. Against himself.

  “Look at him, my love.”

  Slowly, he gave in. Dropped his gaze. Saw the tiny human with raven hair and Hannah’s eyes.

  “Griffin,” she murmured. “Say his name.”

  He clenched his jaw. Forced the word to come out. “Griffin.”

  Her soft palm came up to stroke his cheek. Her other hand stroked Griffin’s head. “This is what we’ll have one day, Jonas. This is what we must fight for. Our family.”

  The longer they stood there together, Hannah touching him while he held the babe, the more the tightness in his chest unraveled. Soon, breathing came easier.

  She stood on her toes and kissed him, her lips soft and tender against his.

  The boy fell asleep in his arms. Hannah showed him how to place Griffin in the cradle then took his hand and led him down to their bedchamber.

  Inside, brown velvet and blue silk were washed with gray light. She crossed to the window, tracing droplets with her finger. The rain had started up again.

  He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it across the foot of the bed. Running a hand through his hair, he paced as he tried to think of how he might explain. Where he might begin to make her understand. Finally, he came to a stop inches behind her. Looked down upon her graceful hand, her vulnerable nape. And the words fell out of him like rain from the sky.

  “I think I died once,” he said. “I was on a ship. We were blown to bits. Everyone around me was dead or dying.” His throat tightened. “It was hell. Worse than I’d seen before, though God knows, I’d seen enough death by then. My mother. Father. Boys I knew in London. Soldiers in battle. Death, death, death.” He sighed. “I always came out alive. Felt like a perverse joke, after a time.”

  Her head turned until her chin rested on her shoulder. “How did you bear it?”

  “Tried to see outside the hell. Find something beautiful wherever I could, as my mother had taught me. That day on the ship before the battle, I sketched the shoreline. But even beauty becomes a taunt when you watch so many men die for nothing.” He shook his head. “I was hit toward the end. I don’t know if I was dead or dreaming or … or what, but I had a vision. So bloody vivid, I can still feel the mist on my skin. I was in a garden. Scent of thyme in the air. Willow branches. A house with turrets. And a voice. Soft. Sweet. Humming. I’d never been there, that much I know. But it felt as real to me as anything. It felt like … home.”

  She stepped back into him, and he slid his arms across the front of her shoulders and around her waist. “A good dream, then,” she said.

  “Mmm. It gave me something to want. Something to work toward. Not that particular house or that particular garden, exactly. But land of my own. A place I belonged.” He rested his chin upon her head. Gathered her close. “On a soldier’s pay, that was a leap. So I left the army. Went back to London. Worked on ships for a time. Became a runner. But the dream never left me. It’s what I’ve saved for. Every bounty. Every spare shilling. All to make a place for myself far from death and suffering. A place no bloody nob could take away. It was my something beautiful.”

  They fell into silence, holding one another while rain pattered glass. After a while, she whispered, “I am terrified of losing you.”

  He frowned and held her tighter. “You will never lose me.”

  “I can feel it, Jonas.” Her voice contorted, choked and trembling. Her fingers dug into his forearm. “I can feel how much you want to pull away, and I don’t know how to keep you.”

  He had no answer. No words to explain. What she feared was impossible. What she wanted was already hers.

  She turned in his arms. Wrapped herself around him. “I need inside. Just as you needed inside.”

  His eyes closed. “It is dark in here, love.”

  “I like dark places.”

  “You mightn’t like this one,” he confessed against raven hair. “My love for you is consuming. More than you realize.”

  “Show me.”

  “It will frighten you.”

  “Show me anyway.”

  He kissed her head. Drew her chin up so he could kiss her mouth. “Very well.” He went to the foot of the bed. Dug inside his lowest pocket. Withdrew the box. Offered it to his wife. “Open it.”

  She ran her fingers over the relief of moon and stars. Traced their lines then looked at her ring. Her lips trembled as she flicked open the small brass latch. Finally, she raised the lid. Setting the box on the bed, she carefully unfolded each of the pages contained inside white satin. Then, she spread them out on brown velvet. Looked at them in watery light. Covered her mouth with shaking fingers.

  “Aye, love. It is you. All you.” His voice was in shreds, his chest tight and cold as he waited for her to say something. Condemn his obsession. Tell him he was mad.

  She didn’t. A tear streaked her cheek, but she didn’t say anything. Just stared down at his sketches—her in the drawing room at Holstoke House, half-turned and silhouetted against the window. Her sitting at his bedside at Primvale, hair frayed and eyes closed while her hand lay on the bed within an inch of his. Her naked but for moonlight, fingers covering a sensual smile. There were more—ten more, to be precise—and still more to come. He’d redrawn the ones he’d burned and added new ones each day since their wedding.

  “You are my something beautiful,” he said. “You have been from the first moment I saw you.”

  Another tear fell. She squeezed her eyes closed.

  He felt sick. He’d known he shouldn’t tell her. He’d known the damage it could do.

  “Did you think I wasn’t strong enough?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Did you think I would mistake you for him?”

  Yes, he had. Strong though she was, he would do anything to keep from frightening her, reminding her of what she’d endured.

  “I am not wet paper, Jonas Hawthorn.” She swiped a tear away, her eyes beginning to blaze. “And I will not let you hide from me.”

  Suddenly, he found himself gazing down into sheer feminine fire.

  She cupped his jaw. Held him tight. Refused to let him look away. “Touch me.”

  Gently, he clasped her wrists. Tried to pull back.

  She wouldn’t have it. She snagged his hand and brought it to her breast. “Touch me,” she repeated in a growl. “I need no protection from you.”

  Arousal surged before he stifled it. Controlling his breathing, he moved his hand to her waist, just above the hip that had been grazed by a bullet. “You do.”

  Her nose flared. Her jaw flexed. “I wore this gown for you. Do you like it?”

  His gaze was glued to her breasts, so he vaguely perceived the color. “It’s lovely.”

  “Yes,” she snapped. “Do you know what I imagined while I dressed?”

  Her nipples were hard. Swollen. Pouting against blush velvet. He licked his lips and willed his fingers to ease their grip on her waist. “What?”


  She started gathering up her skirt. Moved into him, forcing him backward until his thighs hit the bed.

  He sat, surprised at her ferocity.

  Yanking her skirts up to her thighs, she braced her hands on his shoulders and straddled his hips. “I imagined you tearing it from my body,” she said. “I imagined your mouth here.” She took his hand and brought it between her thighs, pressing his fingers into her wet, silken folds. She moaned and threaded her hand into his hair. “I imagined your teeth on my breasts. Your tongue on my nipples.”

  He wasn’t going to make it. The moment he felt how wet she was, how swollen and sweet and ready, his body flooded with fire. His skin tightened. Flushed. His cock was so hard it threatened to go off like an overheated pistol. Then, she began describing her fantasies. And nothing had ever been so bloody torturous.

  Visions of her laid out upon the torn remnants of her gown, writhing for him as he feasted upon her, made him a prisoner of his lust.

  “Then, I imagined you inside me,” his tormenter continued, her breath hitching, her voice ragged as she rocked her hips against his hand. “Fucking me.”

  He groaned as the word hit him with a cannon’s force. He nearly came, just from seeing rosebud lips form two syllables.

  She was his Snow Queen. Pristine. Untouchable.

  But that word—ah, God. That word was filthy. And it excited her. He’d noticed it before, when he’d used it, but that had been unintentional. This wasn’t.

  Helpless to stop himself, needing some small thing to answer his hunger, he slid two fingers deep into her core.

  She clenched him hard, rippling a welcome. Mouth open with awed pleasure, she gasped and bit her lip. Gripped his nape. Ground her hips hard against him.

  “Take me,” she demanded, grasping his other hand and bringing it back to her breast. “Do not stop. Do not be gentle.”

  The grinding agony of holding back seized his ballocks, demanded he do precisely what she described. He shook his head, his lips helplessly falling upon her throat, his lungs filling helplessly with wet, silken roses and hot, sweet woman.

  She unpinned her hair with jerking motions, bringing raven-black curls tumbling down around their faces. “Look at me, Jonas.”