Sophia grabbed a meat cleaver off one of the tables. “Where is it?”
Fanny was shaking. “There.” She pointed to a chair. “Under the seat.”
Slowly Sophia advanced. She breathed deep to keep her fingers steady and her heart firm. If she made too much movement or ruckus, she might frighten the snake away. She suspected the yellow boa too big and lazy to move swiftly, but she still didn’t want to risk it getting away.
Sophia neared the chair. She spotted a tail curled around the furniture’s leg.
She smiled. “Hullo, Sophia.”
James thundered through the garden with long strides. He stomped the pebbled walkway and even some of the blooms as he rounded the sharp corners, searching for her.
He paused.
She was crouched beside a blossom, tenderly stroking the rich blue petals. It was her favorite color: deep sea blue. The long and fluffy material of her stark white skirt ballooned around her like a cloud. She was wearing a tight black spencer, and her thick, dark locks spilled over her back in lush waves.
She was so bloody beautiful, his heart ached.
“Witch!”
Slowly she glanced at him, her deep brown eyes spirited. “What’s the matter, Black Hawk?”
He approached her, loomed above her, casting her in shadow. “You have a black heart, woman.”
She lifted to her feet. There was a devilish slant in her fine dark brows. A wicked smile touched her plump and rosy lips. “Do I?”
The pressure mounted in his skull. “You lopped off its head!”
“It was terrorizing the household.” She matched his smoldering glare. “What did you expect me to do?”
“It was asleep under a chair,” he gritted. “Not terrorizing the household.”
The tip of her tongue darted between her lips as she licked her mouth. “What are you so angry about? I didn’t kill your precious snake.”
He stared at her damnable mouth. That hot, plump, kissable mouth. “But you thought it was Sophia, admit it. You heard there was a big snake in the kitchen and you darted after it to kill it. Belle told me about your ‘heroics.’”
“Yes, the maid’s a fool. She said it was a ‘big’ snake.” She huffed. “It was a long garden snake, is all.”
“But you thought it was Sophia.”
“Perhaps I did.” The rich brown pools of her eyes burned like liquid bronze. She hissed, “I hate that snake.”
I hate you, Black Hawk.
He grabbed her cheeks. He sensed the blooms in her hair, the mint leaves on her breath as she’d tasted the herbs from the garden. “Stay away from her.”
Sophia showed her fangs. “You protect that snake like a besotted lover guarding his mistress from his jealous wife.”
He pressed his nose against hers. “At least she’s a faithful mistress.”
Sophia took in a slow, deep breath. She slipped her hands across his breast and circled his throat. He shuddered. He let her touch him, even in that vile way, if only to feel her hands on him again.
Her breath quivered as her eyes darkened even more. In a broken voice, she whispered, “I hope one day she escapes from her cage, slithers into bed with you—and strangles you.”
She let go of his neck and flounced off.
James stood quietly in the garden, blood pulsing through his head, his heart. He gathered a shaky breath and closed his eyes, tamping the wild cravings stirring in his breast.
She had him. She had him by the mind, the heart, the bloody cods. And she twisted his innards with such a vicious grip, he winced.
James opened his eyes and let out the breath he was keeping. He looked through the garden for her, but Sophia was gone.
He headed back for the castle, his steps measured, his thoughts sluggish.
He was supposed to have her, the witch. He was supposed to make her see she belonged with him.
“Blimey!”
He stopped and rubbed his brow. Memories flooded into his head. She had always belonged with him, ever since the first time he had set eyes on her.
James was greeted by the barrel of a pistol. But it wasn’t the cold steel aimed at his nose that disarmed him, rather the pair of exotic brown eyes, trimmed with long, dark lashes, that peered at him suspiciously over the flintlock, mesmerizing him. The jungle mist reflected in the glossy pools of her eyes. She absorbed the gray and swirling light—drawing him into her, as well.
“Who is it, Sophia?” cried Dawson.
She recoiled the weapon and rested it over her shoulder, her lengthy, thick tresses like smooth cocoa, spilling over her generous bust in soft waves. “Black Hawk, I presume? My father’s told me all about you.” She stepped aside and welcomed him with a seductive smile. “Come in. Are you hungry?”
James closed his eyes again at the recollection. The hot and pulsing warmth that had seeped through his bones after he had first met Sophia welled inside him again. Their affair had lasted a year. But that year had filled him with such sweet life.
He gasped for breath, blood stirred. He resumed his slow march for the keep, struggling with the past, so warm at times…and so cold at others.
He had to make her remember the past. He had to make her remember how good it used to be, then he would have her in his grip. He had to take back control and seduce the woman. Then she would admit she belonged with him. Then he would have his revenge.
James entered the castle, thoughts tangled. He wandered through the passageways without a destination in mind.
“No! No! No!”
James paused and listened to the rant before the parlor door burst opened—and Squirt stomped from the room.
“I hate you!” she cried, and pounded the wool runner.
James watched his niece skirt away in a huff. She stopped and looked at her feet, as if wondering why she wasn’t making any noise. When she realized the runner muffled her footfalls, she crossed over to the wood floorboards and stamped her feet in a show of pique.
He lifted a brow. Slowly he approached the room and looked inside the vast space.
The whimpers captured his attention. There was a silhouette seated on a bench beside the window.
Mirabelle.
His heart cramped.
She glanced at him, eyes glassy with tears. “I’m a terrible mother.”
He sighed. “No, you’re not.”
“I am.” She sniffed. “I don’t know what to do with Alice…and she hates me.”
James rubbed his brow again; his head was crowded with predicaments. “Alice doesn’t hate you.”
“Yes, she does. She hates me. And I don’t know what to do about it.”
He loathed to see the woman in tears. She looked so much like Mother when she cried, her spirits crushed.
You must help me, James. You must help me now that Papa is gone. I need you, James. I can’t take care of you and William by myself. You will help Mama, won’t you, James?
James strangled the redundant voice in his head. “Stop crying, Belle.”
She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”
“You should rest.”
He stroked his hair in a ragged manner, strapped for words, before he ambled across the room, the splayed light from the stained glass windows skimming his polished boots.
He knelt beside her. She looked so vulnerable. He wasn’t accustomed to seeing her in such a manner. But ever since her brush with death two months ago, she seemed more delicate to him, mortal.
He cupped her hand. “You’re a good mother, Belle.”
And she was. She just didn’t have all the maternal skills necessary to rear a willful child like Alice. She had lived without a mother’s influence. Who was she supposed to emulate? Who was supposed to offer her advice?
He sighed. “Alice is just…”
“A brat?”
He chuckled. “I was going to say headstrong.”
Mirabelle wiped her nose with her sleeve. He smiled at the unladylike gesture.
“I don’t kn
ow why the girl is like that,” she moaned. “I wasn’t so troublesome at her age.”
James glanced at the floor as he remembered the time Mirabelle had stuffed baby Quincy into a basket before she’d pushed him into the river for the faeries to take away.
“Alice must take after the duke,” he said dryly. “Don’t fret, Belle. It will get easier to rear the girl with time.”
“You’re lying.” She offered him a crooked smile. “But thanks for lying.”
He lifted off his haunches…and kissed her brow.
“What was that for?” she said, bewildered.
He shrugged. “You looked like you needed it.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortable. Before he made an even bigger ass of himself, he turned on his heels and quit the room.
Sophia had really twisted his thoughts, unsettled his composure. But he would deal with her and her bewitching charm later. First, he had to attend to a familial affair.
James listened for the patter of little footfalls. The distant drumming resounded throughout the cavernous corridors, and he followed the echoes, rounding a corner.
Quincy was standing in the passageway, leaning against the stone wall in a lazy manner. He was smiling and staring after Squirt’s small figure, as she dragged a blanket of toys and clothes across the floor.
James eyed the doll’s hand peeking through the blanket. “What is she doing?”
“She’s running away to Egypt,” said Quincy.
He frowned. “Why Egypt?”
“Because that’s where all the mummies are and she wants to get a new one.”
James rolled his eyes and started after the girl. “Squirt!”
Alice bristled. Slowly she turned around, mouth agape. He had never raised his voice with her. He suspected she wasn’t accustomed to being ordered about.
He hunkered and looked straight into her large blue eyes. “I think you owe Mama an apology.”
She looked aghast.
“I want you to go back to the parlor with Uncle Quincy and tell Mama you’re sorry about what you said.”
She still glared at him like he was daft.
“Now.”
She closed her mouth, confused. But she obeyed. She dropped the blanket and quietly strutted back down the corridor, where Quincy, chuckling, was waiting for her.
James shook his head as he lifted off his haunches. He sighed, almost witless with fatigue from all the drama he’d endured over past few days.
He stilled.
A shiver tickled the base of his spine. It shimmied up his back and caressed his ribs, his heart.
She stepped out of the dark passage, regarding him thoughtfully, arms folded under her breasts.
“I thought you disliked children?” she asked with suspicion.
“I do.”
She eyed him with even greater suspicion. “But you love the brat?”
He scowled. “Of course I do. She’s family.”
“So there is more room in that black heart of yours.”
Sophia’s smoky glare set his blood thumping, his innards smoldering. She delved deep into his features, searching for truth. What had provoked her to make that inquiry?
“Where did you learn to do that?” she wondered next.
He frowned. “Do what?”
“Rear brats.”
He shrugged. “I’ve raised three children.” He said dryly, “Four if you include Will.”
“Hmm.” She approached him, making his muscles pulse. “And you don’t want to be a father?”
“No,” he returned succinctly.
“Or a husband?”
He bristled. “No.”
She looked at him closely, hotly…
She humphed.
He remained rooted to the spot as she brushed past him and vanished through another causeway, leaving him bewildered, wondering what sort of game she was playing. But whatever the woman’s scheme, it was doomed to fail, for he intended to be the victor in their battle of wills.
Chapter 20
“Achoo!”
Sophia rubbed her nose and sniffed. She snuggled under the coverlets to keep warm, for the room was drafty. It was a spacious bedchamber with tall ceilings. The furniture was fine. There was a dash of red pigment in the rosewood luster that matched the pink papered walls and apple crimson fabric. She cringed at the garish colors. She preferred the contrast of burnt sienna woods and milky white textiles. But the space was well manicured…if cold.
The low-burning flames in the hearth flickered as a soft zephyr moved through the room. Sophia searched over her shoulder for the source of the breeze. She eyed the black devil. He had entered the chamber and closed the door. He was watching her closely, hotly.
She shivered.
The man’s dark trousers hugged his burly legs; the thick muscles thrummed with energy and strength. He was wearing a simple white shirt, tucked. The cravat was missing, the collar loose and low and exposing the center of his strapping chest.
She munched on her bottom lip as she met his sexy blue eyes again, shadowed by black brows and thick, sooty lashes. The smoldering glow quickly warmed her.
“What are you doing here?” She glanced at the dagger on the small table beside the bed, comforted.
“You won’t need it,” he said sagely.
Slowly he rounded the bed, each laggardly step sensual. She wanted to bury her head under the coverlets. She was vulnerable. He sensed it. Something dark and playful kindled in his eyes…making her hunger.
“I’ve brought you some soup,” he said in a deep timbre. The sound rattled her bones.
She glanced at the steaming bowl nestled between his large palms. As he moved, he stirred the air. The lamplight frolicked across his sturdy fingers. The bowl seemed so small in his wide hands.
“Did you make the soup?” she wondered.
“No.” He pushed the dagger aside and set the dish on the table. “I took it from the kitchen. How are you feeling?”
She sniffed. “I’m fine.”
She had inherited the matron’s chill. However, she was hardier than Lady Lucas. She had no fever or muscle aches…well, parts of her ached.
James headed for the fire. He slowly hunkered, the strapping muscles at his thighs and calves supporting his bulky weight as he stoked the flames with the iron poker.
He had a tight arse, she thought. She imagined her fingers circling the firm flesh as she pushed him deep inside her quim.
Sophia shuddered.
She tossed the blankets. She was suddenly sweltering. The woolly sheets gathered at her waist, rucked. She used her elbows to drag herself into a sitting position before she reached for the bowl of soup.
She sniffed the fare, but her nose was congested, so she couldn’t identify the flavor.
“It’s hare,” he said as he lifted off his haunches.
He set the poker aside. There was a soft plunk as the tool rested against the stone hearth. He looked at her, eyes smoldering. He had his hair in a queue, so every angle of his masculine features were there for her to regard and absorb and dream about.
Sophia quelled the tremors that tormented her spine. She thought about more unsavory things. That he was inside her room…alone…at night.
She scratched that tempting image from her mind and contemplated a more disturbing thought: What if someone stumbled upon him in her room…late at night…alone…the household asleep.
Sophia sighed.
“You’re wearing clothes.”
“Of course I am,” she snapped, dazed.
“You never used to wear clothes to bed.”
She frowned and looked at her trim white night rail. “I do now.”
James moved across the room. She followed his measured steps as he approached a chair and settled into the seat, folding his arms over the wide breadth of his chest. He was watching her closely. Waiting for her to…eat the soup?
She glanced at the broth. Was it poisoned?
“It’s not poison
ed,” he said with a touch of dark wit.
She made a wry face that he had read her mind so easily before she set aside the spoon and lifted the bowl to her mouth.
She smacked her lips. “It’s good.”
“I’ll tell Cook.”
He was staring at her. It was hard to ignore such commanding eyes. What was he really doing here? He had cared for her in the past during bouts with illness. Once he had even boiled her a delicious stew. But the tenderness he was showing her now was suspect, and she eyed him warily as she sipped the potage.
He tapped the chess box on the table beside him. “Would you like to play a game?”
She choked. “A game?” She wiped the dribble from her lips. “What are we playing for?”
He shrugged. “Do we have to pay a forfeit? Can’t we play for fun?”
She frowned. “No.”
He chuckled. “No, I don’t suppose we can. You and I always have to be at odds about something, don’t we?”
She looked at him askance before she returned to the comforting meal.
“You can’t sleep,” he said with authority.
She glared at him and rebuked, “I can sleep just fine.”
“No, you can’t. You can’t sleep when you’re sick…I remember.”
A quiver kissed her spine. “Is that why you’re here? To…amuse me?”
He lifted a black brow. “Would you like me to ‘amuse’ you?”
She gasped. Not at the outrageous proposal…but at the pulsing want that so swiftly gripped her heart. “I’d like you to leave my room.”
“All right.”
“What? Wait!”
She wanted to bite her tongue as soon as she’d voiced the balmy command. He offered her a small yet wicked smile before he slowly slipped back into the seat.
Sophia set the bowl aside, the porcelain unsteady in her shaky grip. “I mean, you’re right. I can’t sleep. Let’s play a game.”
There was a devilish glimmer in his eyes. “What would you like to play for?”
She scowled. “I thought we didn’t have to pay a forfeit?”
“I was wrong, remember? You and I must always be at odds.”
She huffed. “Fine. We’ll play for…sport. Winner takes all the accolades.”
He snorted. “I was thinking about something a little more interesting.”
The Infamous Rogue Page 23