Sophia sensed a muscle in his forearm dance. She removed her hand, brushing the bone at his elbow in a deliberate caress. It was a subtle movement, an innocent gesture. But it was also an intimate act…and it lighted the man’s arousal.
She smiled inwardly. She had learned a hard lesson on the island: a respectable woman showed little emotion and had stiff mannerisms. It was deemed a virtue to be asexual, a purity of the soul to have no desires. Too much emotion was considered a form of mental illness; hysteria, she had heard. And she didn’t want the earl to think her hysteric. No man wanted to sully his wife with his sexual cravings. No man wanted his wife to be passionate; it was a trait reserved for a mistress. And Sophia would be nobody’s mistress—ever again. However, every man wanted his wife to be chaste and sensible. That was attractive. That was arousing.
“We must make things right, Miss Dawson.”
“How so, my lord?”
“Will you permit my sister and I to expose you to every bit of culture before the season’s end?”
“You are too kind, my lord.”
He beamed. “Next week is the final performance at the opera house for the season. You must allow Lady Rosamond and I to take you to London for the production. We have a private box.”
Sophia was filled with restless energy. The earl was smitten with her; she had suspected it all along. The pirate captain’s insinuation otherwise was unfounded.
What makes you think the earl is interested in you…and not one of the other eligible females?
She snorted inwardly. If the earl had ever been interested in Anastasia as a potential bride, he wasn’t anymore, Sophia was sure.
“I would be honored to attend the opera with you and your sister, my lord.”
“Splendid!” He was quiet for a moment before he said, “I do hope you will allow me to escort you to many other functions, Miss Dawson?”
Sophia wanted to shake the man, make the proposal pop from his tongue. She’d do the bloody chore herself if it wasn’t considered so scandalous. But she couldn’t afford to lose Maximilian, to wait another year for another season and another suitor to come along. Very soon she would be on the shelf as the pirate captain had so boorishly expressed.
She suppressed a sigh. “I can think of no one I’d rather teach me about this great nation.”
The couple walked in quiet.
The earl paused and crouched. “Look, Miss Dawson!” He snapped the blossom from its stem and handed it to her. “Centaurea cyanus.”
Sophia’s heart beat swiftly. She accepted the cornflower, a mark of love according to folklore. She peered into the man’s soft green eyes, keeping her features prim yet inviting.
Ask me, damn it!
But the earl only smiled and resumed the walk.
Sophia huffed quietly and fell in step beside him. She twirled the brilliant blue petals between her fingers, admiring the striking shade. It was such a rich, dark color. So intense, like the tropical sea…like James’s eyes.
“I believe the cornflower originated in southern Europe,” he said.
She pinched the bloom’s underside, forcing the blossom to open even more. She peered into the deep blue center. “No, it was northern Europe.”
“I see.”
Maximilian fell quiet. A cramp gripped Sophia’s breast. She quashed the reflection about the pirate’s eyes. The blackguard disturbed her senses even now. He distracted her from the well-orchestrated seduction.
“Let us join the rest of the party for tea, Miss Dawson.”
Sophia sensed the earl’s withdrawal. She had wounded his male pride by correcting him about the cornflower. Oh, curse James for upsetting her thoughts! She quickly searched her brain for a way to bridge the sudden distance between her and the earl.
“Ouch!”
Sophia grimaced and crumpled.
Maximilian crouched beside her and grasped her hand. “Miss Dawson, are you all right?”
Lady Lucas skirted toward her charge and knelt, too. “What happened, Miss Dawson?”
Sophia reached for her foot. “It’s my ankle.”
“Oh, my dear!”
The earl glanced at her foot. “Might I examine it, Miss Dawson?”
Sophia pinched her lips together as if in agony. “Yes, please.”
Gingerly the man pressed his fingers to the bone at her ankle. She eyed him closely. He kneaded the joint in slow and circular movements, searching for a breakage.
“I don’t think it’s broken, Miss Dawson.”
“Oh, thank heavens!” said the matron.
Sophia thanked the heavens, too. The man was aroused again, his wounded pride forgotten. Sophia could tell; his fingers quivered as he touched her ankle.
She struggled to stand.
“No, my dear!” The matron pinched her wrist. “You might make the injury worse.”
“Lady Lucas is right, Miss Dawson. I will fetch help.”
“Did someone call for help?”
Sophia cursed in her native patois under her breath.
James quirked an inward smile. The remaining company didn’t hear the whispered expletive, too engrossed with the woman’s ankle. But even if the earl and harridan had heard the word, only James understood its meaning.
“Miss Dawson is injured,” said the earl. “I was just about to fetch the servants to bring her back to the house.”
James glanced down at the prostrated Sophia. A garish string of diamonds choked her throat. He resisted the impulse to snap the necklace and scatter the rocks across the woods, the unnatural beauty so distracting. He was blinded by the stones, so much so that the harridan sensed his lingering gaze. She removed her shawl and draped the diaphanous material around her charge’s shoulders.
James lifted his gaze. He detected the acrimony in Sophia’s handsome brown—lying!—eyes.
He crouched. “Might I be of assistance, Miss Dawson?”
Sophia’s features darkened; her eyes narrowed with warning.
James scooped the dishonest witch into his arms. “I’ll take you back to the house, Miss Dawson.”
Sophia glared at him. She slipped her arms around his neck. She looked like she wanted to strangle him. He rather admired that fiery stare. It suited her temperament.
The harridan parted her lips to protest the jostling. The earl appeared consternated.
James ignored the tongue-tied couple; he started for the house.
Sophia rested her cheek against his shoulder and whispered tightly, “What are you doing, Black Hawk?”
A quiver kissed his spine. He sensed the woman’s hot breath against his throat, her lips so close to his skin, her brow pressed against his ear. The tenderness disarmed him. It was such a contrast to her cutting words.
James’s heartbeat quickened. The deep boom in his breast was in sync with each heavy step he took. He tightened his fingers around her back, under her knees.
“I’m taking you back to the house, sweetheart.”
She slowly exhaled through her nose. The air roused the fine hairs at his nape. He closed his eyes for a moment: just one moment to better feel her warm presence in his embrace.
James dismissed the tread of footsteps behind him. Instead, he centered his thoughts on the woman curled in his arms.
Sophia’s thick, dark hair was gathered in a tight swirl, the layered locks pressed close to his nose. He took in a deep breath, the spicy scent of bay rum shampoo filling his lungs. He sensed the woman’s natural musk, too. He bathed in it, absorbed it. It had been so long since he had been so close to her: close enough to smell her…taste her…touch her.
James opened his eyes. He sensed soft petals brushing his skin just below his ear. She had a flower in her hand. He had seen the bloom just before she had wrapped her arms around his neck. Had she picked the blossom herself? Or had the earl given it to her in courtship?…Had the man proposed?
James firmed his back muscles at the dark thought. He imagined the earl slobbering as he asked the witch for her hand in
matrimony. And he imagined Sophia’s cheerful response.
James wanted to pluck the flower from her fingers and stomp on it. She was teasing him with the earl’s sign of affection, and the twirling petals at his neck were making his head throb.
But then he thought the witch might only be tormenting him. It was in her nature, after all. If the earl had proposed, surely he would have objected to another man embracing his fiancée? The harridan would definitely have voiced a protest. But the couple remained silent. Begrudgingly so. But silent.
Sophia moved her fingers. It was a faint shift. She burrowed the long and slender appendages into his hair.
James stiffened. He continued walking, but his every muscle was taut and alert. Sultry fingertips wove through his tight tresses, tied in a queue. Soon he sensed hard nails slip down his collar and stroke the back of his neck in a stirring motion.
The movement was fine, slow and steady. She teased the muscles, the bones with her tender touch, lighting his blood. But then the heady ministration turned rough, and he gnashed his back teeth as she dug her fingernails into his skin.
Did she think to cause him discomfort, even pain with the biting assault? She didn’t know true pain. She didn’t know the hell he had already suffered because of her, the anguish he had endured upon returning to the plantation house after a raid at sea—and finding it empty.
James breathed deep to quiet the storm in his breast. He slowly turned his head, dropped his chin, and whispered roughly, “You’re not the only one with power here, sweetheart.”
He sensed her muscles bristle. Her fingers quickly skimmed his throat in withdrawal. But it was too late to mollify him now. He was filled with a savage desire to make her suffer, too.
He was holding her, so he had little movement with his hands. Still he worked his fingers under her knee, groped under the layers of fabric until his hand was against her stocking.
She started to breathe in short, loud gasps. The moisture condensed on his throat, making him shudder in ecstasy.
He was careful to keep his movements concealed beneath her overflowing skirts. He didn’t want the meddlesome couple behind him to see what he was doing.
With the same deliberate touch she had tortured him with, he pinched her silk stocking and yanked it down a tad.
She twitched and moved her knee away, closer to his chest. But he only cupped her again, and grasped the stocking between his thumb and forefinger, dragging the silk legging another inch down her thigh.
She quivered in his arms. Her breasts swelled. He could feel the heat, the sweat starting to seep through the thin fabric of her faint yellow day dress and dampen his palms.
James glanced at her, but she had buried her face in the nook between his ear and shoulder, so he couldn’t see her features. But he could still feel the softness, the warmth of her cheek against the underside of his chin, and feeding off her growing arousal, he trained his eyes on the road ahead and maintained his steady assault on her senses.
Once more he fingered the delicate stocking, and once more he yanked the supple material, wrinkling and clumping it together at her knee, exposing her smooth and rounded thigh.
There was a burning sentiment inside him to carry her into the shelter of the woods and set her on a leafy bed for a more thorough seduction, for in tempting her, his own need thickened.
But he ignored the impulse. He remained firmly fixed on his desire to bring her to a pulsing want. He wanted her to feel the promise of fulfillment…and the agony of unquenched passion.
He had always tended to her needs during their affair. He had never denied her her deepest wish or her wickedest desire on the island. Let her endure the discomfort of unfulfilled longing now. In time she would come to him for sexual release, for freedom from unnatural bondage…and then he would have his revenge.
James pressed his fingers against her bare leg—and stroked it. Slowly he skimmed the soft underside of her thigh. She was shaking in his arms, and the shudders rolled across his chest and belly. She weakened him. He sensed his legs waver under the pressure of her arousal.
But he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop touching her. The trees, the woodland creatures, even the hounding couple at his heels were barred from their intimate encounter, their secret struggle against the heat ballooning in their blood.
James was restrained by Sophia’s weight. He couldn’t run his fingers across the length of her body as he desired. Still he reached the sensitive part of her thigh, the hollow of her knee, and rubbed his fingers back and forth over the small patch of skin until he sensed the goose pimples spread across her flesh.
There was a deep, dark satisfaction in the pit of his soul. He raked his trim fingernails over her leg before he removed his hand from under her skirts. “You see, sweetheart. I can make you suffer, too.”
She was warm. His own body was doused with sweat. He maintained a firm hold on her as he stepped out of the woods and into the bright sunlight.
He headed toward the back of the house. There was a white tent pitched in the wide and open yard, a gaggle of females hiding beneath the canopy and lazily sipping tea or lemonade. As soon as he and Sophia were spotted, the fuss ignited.
“What happened, Miss Dawson?!”
The supercilious chit, Lady Rosamond, was the first to make a ruckus as she glanced at the approaching troupe without rising from her padded seat.
“Miss Dawson’s injured her ankle,” said the earl. “She needs to rest.”
“Take my chair, Miss Dawson.”
Imogen Rayne presented her seat, and James set the witch down before he backed away from the rabble.
He was stiff, his muscles twisted with longing for Sophia. But he would gladly endure the crippling spasms to see the viper succumb to him once more.
James eyed Sophia closely. He studied the wayward tresses escaping from her sophisticated bun. He wanted to shake the chignon, set the wild locks free. Pinned down, the hair looked tight and uncomfortable. He was tight and uncomfortable watching her.
Sophia was breathing in quick, hoarse gasps. She didn’t glance at him. Not once. She was flush, too. A half-dozen white and lacy kerchiefs fluttered in front of her, and she snatched the first one in reach, pressing it to her brow.
Imogen filled a glass with lemonade. “Drink this, Miss Dawson.”
Sophia set aside the blue flower in her hand and downed the cool tonic in one unladylike gulp. James twined his wrists behind his back and steadied his own irregular heartbeat. He wasn’t standing under the tent, so he was exposed to the roasting sunlight. But he maintained a good distance from the females pinched together in a tidy circle. He preferred the baking sun to their cold company.
“I’ll fetch the doctor,” said the earl.
“No!” Sophia hiccupped. She quickly pressed her fingers to her lips to suppress the undignified gesture. “I’m fine. I just need to rest, that’s all.”
She could sleep for a hundred years; it wouldn’t do her any good. And a doctor? A healer couldn’t cure what ailed her…only James could do that.
“You don’t look well, my dear.” The harridan fanned her fingers. “I agree with Lord Baine. We should summon the physician.”
Sophia dabbed at the moisture on her chin. “Really, I’ll be all right.”
“I insist,” said Maximilian. “I’ll go to see Dr. Crombie at once.”
“You mustn’t be headstrong, Miss Dawson,” said Rosamond.
It isn’t ladylike, thought James. He watched Sophia quickly wilt under the dire implication. She swallowed her protests and quieted.
The earl nodded in accord and strutted off.
Anastasia sniffed and sipped her tea in an easy manner. “Perhaps we should put her in the house?”
“Yes, that’s a good idea.” Rosamond turned to James. “Take her into the house.”
James bristled. He wasn’t a bloody servant. He glared at the impertinent chit as a muscle in his cheek twitched.
Sophia quickly interrupted: “I’d m
uch rather rest here, my lady. I prefer the outdoor air.”
“Oh, very well.” Rosamond sighed. “However, if the doctor orders you inside the house, you will follow his advice.”
“Of course she will,” said the harridan. “Miss Dawson is a sensible young woman.”
James dropped his stiff shoulders. He was dismissed once more; he preferred it that way. He preferred to remain in the allegorical shadows.
“Would you like a glass of lemonade, Captain Hawkins?”
He glanced at his side. Imogen was holding a cup of the concoction, her fingers shaking.
“No, thank you,” he said curtly.
“You looked parched.” The glass still rattled in her hand. “Won’t you reconsider?”
James stared at her, wondering what the devil was wrong with the woman. He wanted to be left alone. Surely she sensed it. The glass looked ready to crumble in her trembling fingers.
He took the lemonade from her.
She offered him a small smile before she returned to the tent and immersed herself in the hoopla still surrounding Sophia.
James ignored the lemonade in his hand. He eyed the witch instead. He watched her fingers dance across her features as she attempted to cool her face. But the frilly napkin wouldn’t absorb the heat stemming from her pores. James would, however. Soon he would press his tongue to her flesh and take in every drop of briny sweat that tormented her.
Chapter 8
There was a merry din coming from inside the house. Sophia wanted to squelch the laughter, so sweet and lyrical. The gay atmosphere grated against the turmoil churning in her breast.
She fixed her eyes firmly on the brilliant sunset, a blushing rose. She let the quiet night embrace her. It slowly stretched across the heavens, shrouding the sleeping earth like a blanket.
She closed her eyes. A set of thick and robust fingers gingerly rubbed her thigh, her knee. She parted her lips at the teasing movements. Air filled her lungs, pushing her breasts, her bones outward. In contrast to the deep swell in her bosom, the muscles in her belly clenched. Blood warmed and stirred her heart.
Sophia folded her arms across her chest and squeezed her shoulders in comfort. She swatted at the flames in her belly, crushed the rising pressure in her breast. But the heat still spread and strengthened; it consumed and ravaged her.
The Infamous Rogue Page 9