The Infamous Rogue

by The Infamous Rogue (lit)

  “You don’t need me anymore, remember?” he said hoarsely.

  He returned to the opposite bench seat, trembling.

  She glared at his stiff cock, the erection pressing against his trousers. “But you need me!”

  He offered her a wicked, even cruel smirk. “I can give myself pleasure.”

  A cold, dark impulse gripped her heart. She was so very tempted to slice his gullet.

  He took up the oars again.

  The boat’s jerking movement upset her balance. She quickly closed her legs, still quivering with unresolved lust.

  She wanted to disembowel him.

  She wanted to drown him.

  She wanted to beg him to give her satisfaction.

  As only you can.

  Urgh! She was such a ninny. She was letting the brutal cutthroat torment her, make her miserable…but she could make him miserable, too.

  The rest of the boat ride was quiet.

  Sophia gripped the parasol again and stared at the landscape, searching for a distraction. But with the black devil so close, the pressure between her legs remained.

  She crossed her ankles and squeezed her thighs together. The damnable pirate captain worked off his frustration through vigorous exercise, but she had to suffer in silence.

  She would make him suffer, too.

  “Ahoy!” called the earl.

  James steered the craft toward the embankment. The earl bounded to the boat and assisted Sophia from the bench seat.

  “How was the scenery?” said the earl.

  She gathered her composure. “Lovely, my lord.”

  James picked up his coat. “It was a pleasant trip.”

  He was breathing hard. It might seem to the rest of the party he was suffering from fatigue after an exerting boat ride, but Sophia knew the truth. He was suffering from unquenched lust—like her.

  “Would anyone else like to go for a ride?” said James. “Miss Rayne?”

  “Oh thank you, I’d—”

  “No!” snapped Sophia.

  The party looked at her, bewildered.

  “Miss Rayne is still eating lunch,” Sophia said with more aplomb. She wasn’t about to let Imogen inside the boat with the ruthless brigand. The craft might “turn over.” “A boat ride will make her queasy…take Miss Bedford instead. She’s finished her meal.”

  Anastasia blanched.

  So did Black Hawk.

  Chapter 11

  James gazed at Sophia from across the dining table. The room was dim. The candlelight warmed her features, darkened her complexion. He admired the shadows. She looked tanned…as on the island.

  The table rustled with guests. He ignored the tiresome company and fixed his eyes firmly on the cold-blooded viper. In truth, she looked more and more like the old Sophia he remembered from the island. She was attired in a white dress, so similar to the cotton shift she used to wear in Jamaica. And there was no garish bauble choking her throat. Instead, she revealed her full and tempting bustline.

  Slowly she lifted her eyes; firelight flickered in the dark brown pools.

  A sharp sensation welled inside James; it crippled him. He thought about their heated encounter in the boat, so intimate. He had pressed his pulsing body against her. He had tasted the briny sweat at her throbbing throat. Still he burned for her. Still he trembled with need. But he would not come to her. He would not give her what she wanted—what they both wanted—until she begged him for it.

  Servants bustled inside the room with platters of freshly cooked fare.

  The earl sniffed. “Hmm…what’s on the menu tonight, Mondie?”

  The chit beamed. “Pork loins glazed with applesauce and honey.”

  Honey.

  James closed his eyes.

  “Are you hungry, Black Hawk?”

  He looked at her, blood and bones throbbing. She had made a mess, smeared the honey across her breasts, her belly. The glaze glistened in the firelight. It glowed like liquid gold over her sun-kissed skin.

  James opened his eyes. He stiffened at the haunting memory. He still tasted the warm honey in his mouth, his belly. He had sucked and lapped it off her nipples…her breasts…her midriff. The witch had even smeared the sweet syrup on her quim…and he had feasted there with great pleasure, too.

  He shuddered.

  Sophia was watching him closely. She was flushed. She was thinking about the same erotic memory, he could tell…and it stirred the blood in his veins to know she was dreaming about him—about being ravished by him.

  She stroked her throat. It was feather-light, the touch. She moved her fingers just under her ear before she skimmed the breastbone.

  She wanted him to look at her bustline. She wanted him to stare and…what? Imagine the honey slathered across her voluptuous breasts? Long for her? Ache for her? Suffer?

  James lifted his gaze to meet hers. He had already suffered. The witch had already scraped and sliced and drained the blood from his heart. But she wanted more, it seemed. Was that why she had dressed like her old self? To tease his senses with thoughts about the past?

  She wanted to punish him. She had purred in the boat, voice thick—and sweet—like honey. She had gasped wanton cries of pleasure. But she had not begged him for more. She had dismissed him instead. And so he had dismissed her. And she had yet to forgive him for it. The loathing, the scorn burned bright in her eyes even in the dim room.

  She wanted to give him pain.

  Go ahead, sweetheart.

  James dismissed her and cut into the meal. The party was merry. Even the harridan wasn’t glaring at him anymore. For a few minutes, he enjoyed the food in peace.

  He stilled.

  A dark expression slowly crossed his features as a toe moved up his leg, caressed his shin.

  He lifted his gaze to meet Sophia’s.

  She smiled.

  Not with her lips…but with her eyes.

  Wicked laughter danced in her eyes.

  She cocked her hip to better lift her foot. He noted the subtle movement…he sensed it, too.

  James firmed his lips. The toe stroked his inner thigh in a soft and sweeping gesture, making the blood pound in his cock.

  He parted his legs even more.

  Take what you want, sweetheart.

  She stared at him—a hot and stabbing stare. She wanted to make him sweat. She wanted to seduce him, to make him beg.

  Not in everlasting hell.

  James twitched.

  She pressed her slippered foot between his legs—and rubbed. In a slow and teasing manner she tickled his sensitive cods, making him gnash his teeth to quell the pulsing need growing in his belly.

  He was pinned between prim and passionless matrons, stupid and spoiled chits. He was trapped—and the she-devil was tormenting him.

  Let her.

  He had endured far worse on the island. He had suffered even greater anguish then. Heart hard, he welcomed the pain she unleashed within him. He embraced the agony pouring through his veins.

  Let her see.

  Let her see he was unbreakable. Let her know he was able to bear far worse, that he would not submit to her—before she submitted to him!

  James slipped his left hand beneath the white linen tablecloth and grabbed her ankle.

  She stiffened.

  He sensed her warm blood pulsing against his palm. One tug at her foot and she would tumble and fall. She would be exposed for the wild creature she was…but he wasn’t after the woman’s public ruination. He lusted after far more intimate revenge.

  James stroked the bone at her ankle before he maneuvered her foot and pressed it against his cock. He watched her quiet. He watched her breastbone expand as she took in a big breath of air.

  She attempted to pull back her foot, but he maintained a steady hold of her ankle as he resumed his meal with his right hand.

  He thickened.

  Sophia quieted even more. She stopped struggling.

  That’s it, sweetheart. Grow hungry for me.

 
; He moved her heel against the tip of his swelling prick. She stared at her plate, the food untouched.

  James was putting himself through hell. But he was putting her through hell, too. And he would suffer the torment. He would endure the pain if he made her sweat and ache and gasp for his touch, too.

  Beg me.

  “Is something the matter, Miss Dawson?” said Rosamond. “You haven’t touched your food.”

  Sophia quickly picked up her fork. She stabbed at the roasted carrots on her plate and popped the vegetables into her mouth.

  She chewed slowly. She still stared at her plate, but it was not the food she longed for in her mouth…it was he.

  James sensed her arousal. It made him harder in return. He slipped a finger into her slim satin shoe, brushing the sensitive underside of her foot.

  She shuddered. The quivers vibrated right down to her toes—and against his lengthening cock.

  She fluttered her lashes. A dreamy look entered her eyes. She was chewing on her bottom lip now. If she wasn’t vigilant, she might betray the lust ballooning in her belly with her wanton gestures.

  A servant entered the room and approached the table with a silver tray. “A letter for Captain Hawkins.”

  James dropped Sophia’s foot.

  She gasped, stunned. Blood filled her cheeks. Quickly she glanced across the table.

  Don’t worry, sweetheart. I alone know what you were thinking…what you were feeling.

  The servant rounded the table and served the tray.

  James took the missive and shredded the seal. A snort from one of the haughty matrons cooled his fingers, and he opened the letter with more restraint. He scanned the epistle:

  Come home.

  —W

  James glared at the tidy penmanship. Blood pounded in his head. He wanted to tear the blasted paper to pieces. He folded the succinct message and tucked it into his pocket instead.

  He was stiff. Every bone and muscle throbbed inside him. He missed the warm touch of Sophia’s foot against his cods. He missed the feel of her pulse pounding against his palm.

  Curse William! James was so close to victory, so close to getting Sophia back into his bed—where she truly belonged. If he headed home now he would lose the passion he had stirred within her.

  But William wouldn’t pen such a curt note unless it was a matter of dire business—pirate business. It was too dangerous to expound on the matter in ink, for the letter might fall into the wrong hands. The Hawkins brothers always handled “family affairs” in person.

  James beat back the dark desire growing inside him, tamped it into submission. There was only one thing to do.

  He looked at Sophia.

  This isn’t over, sweetheart.

  With every eye watching him, James returned to the meal. He would head home tonight—after supper. If he got up from the table now, he would create a spec tacular stir…although the image of fainting matrons was an agreeable thought.

  “I trust all is well, Captain?”

  The nosy chit.

  He responded to the vicious fire-eater coolly. “I’m afraid there is a matter of business that requires my attention, Lady Rosamond. I must return home after supper.”

  “Oh.” The chit feigned a pout. “We are sorry to see you go, Captain.”

  She lied with such fierce spite; every fool in the room could tell she wasn’t the least bit sorry…except for her brother.

  “Yes, truly sorry,” said the earl. He sounded genuinely aggrieved. “I’ve yet to extend my full hospitality.”

  “You’ve been most gracious, my lord,” said James.

  “Still, I can’t help—I know! You must accompany us to the opera on Wednesday. My sister and I are escorting Miss Dawson to the last production of the season. Will you attend?”

  Rosamond made a garish noise; she mewled as if a mouse were gnawing on her toe. “And you are welcome to come, Anastasia and Imogen.”

  “Yes, we will all go,” said the earl. “We’ll have a wonderful time.”

  “Oh, drat!” Anastasia frowned. “I can’t attend. I’m leaving for the country.”

  Rosamond glanced at the other young woman with a pleading look in her eyes. “And you Imogen?”

  “Thank you,” the girl said quietly. “I have no other plans. I’d be honored to attend the opera.”

  Rosamond sighed. James ignored the malicious brat. He glanced at Sophia instead.

  The witch was still blushing.

  Good.

  I wish you nothing but pain until we meet again, sweetheart.

  “I would be delighted to attend the opera, too,” said James.

  “William!”

  James kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. It was shadowy inside the town house. A few oil lamps still burned throughout the space, beacons to guide the fledglings throughout the apartments, for Edmund and Quincy often staggered home in the wee hours of the morning.

  James snatched one of the glowing glass orbs as he moved through the dark passageway, footfalls pounding.

  He reached the study and entered the room. He slammed the door closed. It was stifling inside the small space. He set the lamp aside and rent the noose from his neck.

  James tossed the scrap of fabric into the fireplace. There was no flame burning in the coal-fueled hearth; however, it pleased him to see the wretched cravat where it belonged—in hell.

  There was a table with bottles beside the bookcase. Lamplight bounced off the shiny crystal decanters.

  James grabbed the first bottle in reach. He dropped the stopper on the table. The sharp noise resounded in the quiet room. He filled a glass with liquor.

  At the sound of the soft whistle of iron hinges, James turned around and confronted his brother. “I’m home.”

  “I heard.”

  William stepped inside the room and shut the door. He was dressed in trousers, feet and torso bare. He had a dark brow, heavy with sleep. And a peeved expression crossed his tired features, making him look like a surly brigand.

  “How was the house party?” William yawned. “Or will I read all about it in the gossip papers?”

  James bristled. Even his brother thought him a barbarian, incapable of keeping his temper and composure, wont to cause scandal wherever he went.

  James dropped his head back and guzzled the fiery spirits, slaying the turmoil, the chill in his belly. “Why did you summon me home?”

  William rubbed his eyes. “Are we going to do this now?”

  “Why not?”

  William looked at the timepiece on the mantle. “It’s almost four o’clock in the morning.”

  James set the decanter aside and wiped his mouth. “I can’t sleep.”

  He was restless. As soon as he had departed the earl’s home, the blood in his veins had roiled in protest. Even now the stiffness in his joints was acute. He wanted Sophia. He wanted to be close to her. He had walked away from her in the middle of a heated battle of the senses. He had severed their intimate connection before either of them had had the satisfaction of a thorough bedding.

  And now he was in pain, the separation from Sophia bleeding him. He had to wait two more days to see her again.

  Wednesday.

  At the opera.

  Would she be engaged by then?

  James reached for the spirits again. He tamped the nausea in his belly with another hearty swig.

  What did it matter if she was affianced? He would still have his revenge. He would still have the woman in his bed. He would still hear her admit she needed him, she craved him. He would still have her disengage with the earl and come to him…before he walked away from her.

  William’s expression soured even more. “You can’t sleep, so to hell with the rest of us?”

  “Something like that.”

  James stared at the painting on the wall: a sea witch. Quincy had brought the infernal artwork home one night. It was his favorite piece. But James loathed it.

  William approached the desk and cocked hi
s hip against it. “Am I to assume the picnic didn’t go so well?”

  He turned away from the garish artwork. “Thanks to your interruption. Now what the devil is wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” William folded his arms across his chest. “Our lives are in danger, that’s what’s wrong. And while you’ve been following the stirrings of your cock, we’ve been hunting the impostors pirating in our names.”

  James slammed the bottle against the table. “I’m here! So drop the righteous horseshit and tell me what’s the matter!”

  The door opened.

  “Waz all the shouting about?”

  Quincy entered the room, followed by Edmund’s long figure. The two bucks looked bedraggled. Words slurred. Shirts rumpled. Hair mussed.

  William frowned. “Are you two just getting in?”

  The fledglings settled into two winged chairs positioned beside the fireplace. Edmund closed his eyes, disinterested in the goings-on around him. Quincy grinned, however.

  “You told us to make sure it looked like we were having a good time,” said the pup. He hiccupped. “So we did.”

  Aye, they’d had a good time. James had only to glance at them to see they were foxed. He ignored the rubbish about it “looking” like they’d had a good time. He assumed it was besotted drivel. He focused instead on the “good time” and turned to William with pointed regard.

  “Aren’t you going to preach to them about responsibility?”

  “They were working,” returned William.

  “You mean whoring?” said James.

  “I mean working.” William set his eyes on Quincy again. “Well?”

  Quincy flicked his fingers for dramatic emphasis. “We spread the news.”

  “Word should reach them soon,” said Edmund, dozing.

  There was a creeping chill that gripped James’s bones. He sensed he was back at the house party. Once again he was barred from the conversation, barred from entry. Foxed and drowsy, the men still had a better grip on the conversation than he had—and he was sober and alert with all his faculties in place.

  James curled his fingers into his palms. “I’m going to shoot each of you if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on.”