Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  She didn’t bother to turn as the door opened, knowing very well that Christian was the only one who would dare enter while she was within without knocking. She was ready for him now, she swore. If he came near her, if he dared to touch her, if he so much as dared utter a word, she knew just what to say to the man, besides, of course, I loathe you. Good Lord! What was wrong with her that she would lose even her ability to speak coherently when in his presence?

  She was startled speechless when it was Quincy who spoke behind her instead.

  “Anythin’ else I can do fer ye, mum?”

  She turned abruptly, her eyes wide with surprise, though she recovered enough to fix the old man with a wrathful glare. If her eyes had been pistols, Quincy would have tumbled lifeless to the oak floor. “Did—you—do—this?” she ground out fiercely, each word sharper and more hostile than the last. She waved a handful of her clothing at him, and the old man nodded warily, backing away a pace.

  “Well! I never gave you permission to unpack my belongings, now did I? And it is because I do not—I repeat, do not!—intend to stay!”

  Cramming the green silk dress Christian had chosen for her earlier and a pair of matching slippers into the largest trunk, she slammed it shut and fastened the tarnished brass clasp.

  “Now, Jessamine,” Christian appealed as he sauntered into the room at last. “There is absolutely no cause for you to be taking your frustrations out upon poor Quince. He did only what I requested he do.” She spun about to face him, ready to do battle.

  Nodding discreetly to Quincy, Christian commanded the old man to leave.

  “Now,” he directed, “unpack your trunks. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “You can’t keep me here!” she shouted madly. “And I won’t stay!”

  “And you loathe me. So I’ve heard.” He laughed then, the mirthful sound infuriating. “Unpack your things, Jessamine,” he said again, still chuckling.

  “I will not!” She turned and slammed the lid down definitively. Her breathing labored and her heart hammering, she stood an instant, weighing her options as she stared blindly at her trunks. Truly, there were no options available to her, for how would she go back? She gritted her teeth in outrage. God curse him, but she certainly didn’t have to share the cad’s bed, now did she? Nay! She didn’t! Seizing the side handle of the smallest trunk, she jerked it into movement. With some effort, she pulled it toward the door.

  Christian leaned against the doorframe, watching her with unconcealed interest, eyeing her as though she were some novel curiosity. Not until she’d moved the trunk into the hall did he speak.

  “Would you care to tell me what you’re doing?”

  “Picking gooseberries, can’t you see!” He chuckled, and she said, “I’m not sharing your filthy bed!”

  Brows raised, Christian glanced at the newly made bed, his gaze returning to her. “Actually,” he countered, grinning, “It is a perfectly clean bed.”

  Jessie had made little progress back into the room since moving the one trunk into the hall, and he thought it might be because she’d managed to trap her skirt beneath the unwieldy baggage. With some difficulty, he resisted the urge to aid her, and the greater urge to laugh.

  Unable to keep himself from it, he chuckled when Jessie finally discovered her skirt pinned and uttered an almost inaudible groan of mortification. He might have asked her if she needed his help, but he rather doubted she would accept it. Besides, he was thoroughly amused watching her struggles at the moment.

  “You might at least tell me where you intend to go,” he said much too jovially.

  She gave him a very unladylike snort, a deadly glare, and turned again to the stubborn trunk upon the bed, shoving it with all her might. She said nothing until she’d passed him by, and was in the nail.

  “’Tis none of your concern where I intend to sleep!”

  Christian’s smile faded and his gut twisted as she halted beside the only other door along the corridor. His tone warning her, he asked, “Surely not with Ben, my love.”

  Her gaze flew to his angry blue eyes. “Oh! You would think such a despicable thing, wouldn’t you? Nay!” she shrieked. “Not with Ben! And not with you, for certain!”

  She had the bloody trunk halfway to the stairs now, and shaking his head, Christian wondered just how she expected to carry the thing below. “You do recall,” he told her presently, “that there are no available rooms beyond this wing... unless, of course, you count the entrance hall.”

  “I shall take my chances, my lord. Surely I would prefer to sleep outside—in the rain,” she added with a cutting smile, “to your delightful company!”

  No matter that he’d braced himself against her anger, her stinging words, expertly flung, cut him to the quick. “Suit yourself, then.”

  He muttered an inaudible curse and then turned his back on her hapless struggles, reentering his room and slamming the door so hard that it shook the walls.

  Later that night, Jessie was forced to admit the truth of the matter: Christian had been right, and he had warned her, so she had not even the solace of blaming him for her misery.

  There had, in fact, been no other rooms available for her use. Only the one wing was complete. Below stairs there was the dining hall and Christian’s study, both of them without doors or even curtains on the wretched windows. Anyone could have peered within.

  The other wing, the one she now occupied, remained only partially constructed, but at least this room was windowless, because the windows were as yet boarded up. Here, at least, no one could spy her—unless, of course, the person somehow managed to climb atop the high brick walls. She shuddered at the thought.

  A strong, sturdy, lockable door separated this one wing from the rest of the house. The only problem, however, was that it locked from the other side, probably to keep out prowlers, judging by the size of the bolt. She’d managed only to drag the one trunk out of his chamber, and it now sat flush against the door, barring it from any who would enter.

  Striving for a comfortable position, she fidgeted upon the pallet she had made from scraps of wood in the hall and a lone blanket she’d borrowed, but try as she might, she couldn’t find relief from the stone-hard bed she had made for herself—much less sleep!

  Staring despondently through the skeletal roof, she spied the half-moon peeping through a muddy night. It seemed to be eyeing her sleepily. She sighed at her fancy and shivered. The night air was much too cool for comfort. Heaven help her, she wanted desperately to close her eyes and forget where she lay, but she could not. Oh, that man, he was insufferable!

  Crickets trilled softly. An owl hooted in the distance. Jessie listened intently to those peaceful night sounds, the tender music of nature, and despite the chilly November air, she felt at last the inexorable lure of sleep. Exhausted by the trials of the day, she closed her eyes, but even as she did so, an ominous roar sounded in the near distance. Her eyes flew wide to see the skies suddenly burst with light.

  “Oh, dear God... don’t let it rain! Not now! Not tonight! please, please…” But He was not to hear her; a mere instant later, she felt the first tender droplets, carried all the way to her pallet by the rising wind. Staring incredulously at her hand, at the glistening moonlit raindrops, she felt suddenly like weeping.

  She lay there for the longest time, wishing the rain away, telling herself that it was but a dream and mat she would awaken snug and dry and safe in her cousin’s home. “Oh, God,” she sobbed. “’Tis a bloody nightmare!”

  Once the rain had thoroughly soaked her blanket, she moved onto the crude unfinished wood floor, into the far corner, but that spot was no better than the first, and she moved back to her pallet to lie there, resigned to her misery. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she remembered her pledge to Christian, that she would prefer the cold, bitter rain to his company. God was surely punishing her now for her cruel words.

  And curse Christian, for he’d merely smirked at her before turning his back and leaving her in th
e corridor to fend with her trunks alone. By God, she would not go crawling to him now, even if it rained all blessed night, even if she sickened from it, even if she died of exposure. But she would not die! she told herself firmly. She would not!

  She would live to regret this.

  Chapter 25

  In his chamber, Christian lay within his bed, listening to the rain pelt the roof. In his hand he held a near-empty flagon of whiskey. Bringing it to his lips, he gulped the last of it. Against his will, he found himself wondering just where Jessie had encamped for the night. He had fully intended to give her his bed, to sleep in the room across the hall, as he’d done the previous night, but her cutting words had angered him, and he’d let her go.

  Damn her! A thousand times, damn her! How was it that she could rile him so easily? Tossing away the flagon, he closed his eyes, groaning. God’s teeth, but she could drive a man to drink!

  Ignoring the prick of his conscience along with the increasing patter of rain, he strove for sleep. By God, he should let her suffer out the night in misery. It would serve her right. Perhaps tomorrow she would agree to take his bed without a bloody battle of wills. He smiled ruefully then, for he had to give her her due; she had mettle enough for an army of patriots.

  A bolt of lightning lit the sky, illuminating his window with a bright, ghostly light, and seconds later came an ominous rumbling.

  Lightning.

  What if she’d stupidly ensconced herself within the unfinished wing? Stubborn wench—it was likely exactly where she was, trying to prove a point, no doubt.

  Cursing her beneath his breath, Christian rose from the bed, found his breeches, and tugged them on, buttoning the top button. With angry strides, he reached the door and threw it wide.

  The corridor was dark, but he knew his way well enough by now. Thunder cracked once more, shaking the rafters, and he quickened his step. Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way to the hall, but halfway down, lightning flashed, illuminating the entrance hall for the briefest second. And he froze, catching the silhouette of a man standing next to the temporary door to the unfinished wing. His eyes searched the impenetrable darkness. Another bolt of lightning came quickly on the heels of the first, and the figure was suddenly gone.

  Had he imagined it, then?

  He cursed the whiskey, then cursed himself for drinking it to dull his senses. Searching the shadows with keen eyes, he listened for any sound to alert him of danger. He could hear nothing, yet the hair on the back of his neck continued to prickle. After a long moment, he began a cautious descent down the winding staircase, his gut burning.

  Reaching the hall without incident, he crossed the room and heaved a sigh of relief when he spied Quincy sprawled across the floor in front of the door. Stooping, he checked the old man’s breathing; his chest rose and fell in the gentle rhythm of sleep. Could it have been Quincy he’d spied? He shook his head. More likely, there was no one about and it was simply his overwrought imagination. He loathed to, but he had to wake Quincy in order to open the door. He shook the old man’s shoulders.

  Quincy came awake with a start. “Who? What?” He squinted through the darkness. “M’lord!”

  “Yes, Quince, ’tis me. Move now so I can open the door.”

  “Aye, m’lord, but she’s barred it.”

  “Barred it?”

  “With her trunk, I think.”

  Christian sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. “She’s a damned stubborn wench.”

  “Aye and ’tis rainin’,” Quincy added.

  Christian grunted in answer, irritated beyond measure.

  “She’ll catch the devil of a chill,” Quincy added plaintively. “Thought I’d climb to the rooftop meself and fix it where she wouldn’t catch the rain, but these rickety old bones wouldn’t allow it, m’lord.”

  “I understand, Quince. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine once I get her out of that blasted wing. Now, get yourself back to bed afore you catch the ague yourself.”

  Stiffly Quincy rose from the floor, groaning his discomfort.

  “Oh... and Quince,” Christian called out, “my thanks to you for watching over her.”

  “It was nothin’, m’lord. Slept better out here on the bare floor than I would’ve up there with those two bickering auld fools.”

  Christian chuckled. “That bad, eh?”

  Quincy’s voice now sounded from the stairway, his tone forlorn. “Aye, m’lord, that bad, it is.” His footsteps stopped abruptly. “Are ye certain ye won’t be needin’ me help, m’lord? I did tell ye the door was barred?”

  “You did,” Christian assured him. “G’night, Quince.”

  “Night, m’lord.”

  Jessie’s shoulders trembled from the cold as the rain drummed its icy fingers upon the back of her head and body. Straining, she listened to the faint mumbling beyond the door and felt only a strange sense of relief at hearing Christian’s voice there.

  When the doorknob had jiggled softly only moments before, she’d been wholly terrified. Assuming it was Christian, she’d called out his name, but when he’d not replied, she’d become alarmed. Hearing his voice now, she decided he was not only a knave but he was rude as well!

  The voices finally quieted and he again jiggled the knob. She didn’t bother to rise as the door burst open and her trunk went skidding across the floor. Protecting her face from the rain, she huddled into a protective ball, turning away from the door. His footsteps thundered across the wet wood and halted beside her.

  Towering over her, Christian told her, his words slightly slurred, “You’re quite resourceful, my love, but ‘tis asinine to make yourself ill merely to spite me.”

  Jessie remained silent, but the simple truth made her eyes sting. He knelt beside her, turning her gently toward him, and she closed her eyes. Against her will, tears spilled shamelessly onto her cold cheeks, scalding hot in comparison to the frigid rain that was now striking her full in the face.

  Closing his eyes only for the briefest moment, Christian ignored the stirring of his heart. She seemed so very fragile lying there before him, her pale green eyes now open and bright with her tears. Moonlight spilled through the rafters, illuminating the sopping midnight strands of her hair. Damn, but she was soaked to the bone.

  He felt entrapped by her gaze, unable to look away. Nor could he find his voice to speak just then. It was her eyes, he acknowledged. They seemed a beacon in the dim light of the room, drawing his gaze even as a moth was lured to the flame. The light of it was irresistible, and he felt suspiciously ablaze this moment. It was not at all an unpleasant sensation, nor was it unfamiliar to him, and he determined that this night might not end so unpleasantly, after all. Droplets of rain glistened upon her flesh, and he had the sudden urge to kiss every last one of them away. He was not about to argue with her, nor would he remain here and make himself ill simply because she lacked the bloody sense to come out of the rain.

  Without a word, he swept his hands down to lift her into his arms. She didn’t protest, nor did he bother to explain his intentions. He carried her silently from the room, somehow managing to draw the door closed behind them before sliding the bolt loudly into place.

  Cradling her chilled body close to his thundering heart, he bore her through the entrance hall, his breathing labored as he swept her up the stairs to his chamber—though not from the burden of her weight, for she was light as the breath of spring... and her scent more intoxicating than any liquor.

  He set her upon her feet on the floor before his bed, uncertain whether to stay or go. Curse her, for even now, after all that had transpired between them, he found himself wanting to play the noble for her.

  However... he was anything but an honorable soul, and they both knew that fact well enough, so there was no reason for him to pretend any longer. He was what he was... and she was no longer a virgin besides.

  The damage was done.

  Lighting a candle to better see her, he placed it upon the nightstand. She was shivering. The
pristine white gown she wore dripped with rain, bonded with her flesh, revealing dark nipples to his greedy eyes. “You’re sopping wet,” he whispered.

  Jessie nodded, and her tears began anew.

  Christian moved a finger to sweep her tears gently away, and Jessie couldn’t find the words to protest as his hand reached for the tiny bow at her throat, then slipped down to the next one, and the next. She felt suffocated by uncertainty. She didn’t loathe him, but how to keep herself from loving him?

  Or was it far, far too late for that?

  Boldly he slipped her gown from her shoulder, and all she could do was gape at him stupidly, her heart pounding madly. Christian wore no shirt at all, and the light curling hair upon his chest streaked lightly downward to vanish within his breeches. Her gaze slid up to meet his penetrating blue eyes once more. And neither of them moved.

  Neither of them so much as blinked.

  “You’ve been drinking,” she said, as a flash of white light lit the room and flickered over his swarthy flesh. Her breath caught at the beauty of him, and a burst of anticipation snaked down her spine, shocking her.

  “Aye,” he murmured thickly, “what of it?”

  Thunder struck somewhere near, resounding throughout the room.

  Her voice catching, she whispered, “If you were a gentleman... you would leave... this moment..”

  Christian’s hand reached out to grasp her bare arm, in order to draw her toward him, and Jessie felt dazed by that mind-jarring contact. She whimpered, and her lips parted unconsciously for his kiss.

  “I think we both know very well that I’m no gentleman,” he said low. His hand then slid to her shoulder and he drew her slowly to him, groaning as the shock of her wet gown touched his bare chest.

  Jessie’s heart slammed against her breast. Christian seemed to revel in the feel of her, pressing her immediately closer and clasping her more firmly against him. His hand slipped down to boldly cup her bottom, urging her closer, kneading her flesh feverishly, making her tremble with longing. She felt utterly helpless, dizzy with desire, breathless with anticipation.