The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(24)



If looks could kill, he’d be a smote pile of ash at the foot of her rumpled bed. “I wouldn’t stick it in your belly.”

As he’d suspected. He waggled his eyebrows. “That hardly inspires the level of confidence that merits returning a weapon to your possession,” he said, removing the knife from between his clamped teeth. Robert waved it and the woman followed those deliberately casual movements with her furious gaze. “But at least be honest, princess. For all your indignation, I gave you leave to rebuff my kiss.” He tucked the knife between his teeth once more so he might pull up his other boot. “I don’t make a habit of drinking or forcing my attention on uninterested women,” Robert said around the blade. He winged an eyebrow up. “Nor did I imagine your moans and the warmth betwixt your beautiful thighs.”

Color flamed her cheeks, a reaction at odds with the experienced women who lived in this den of sin. “By God, when you hand over my bloody knife I will bury it in your heart, you son of a bastard.”

Now, that vitriolic diatribe was what one would expect of an experienced woman living in a den of sin.

He had been going to return the weapon to her care. Now he’d be a bloody fool to trust any weapon to this one’s hands. At last managing to yank his boot up, Robert leapt to a stand. Removing the knife from between his teeth, he strode to the door.

The spitfire’s gasp echoed around the room. “What are you doing?” she called as his fingers collided with the door handle.

Robert paused, and tossed a glance over his shoulder. “This is what one calls leaving, madam.” He opened the door just as her quiet cry went up.

“Sir, my knife!”

He closed the door between them with a soft, decisive click. He’d wait a moment until the woman was calmed and then he’d leave the blade to her care. Robert reached for the handle.

A soft thump hit the paneled door and he’d wager the rumpled clothes he now wore that the little shrew had tossed her boot at the door.

Another thump followed.

He sheathed the blade in his boot. Mayhap, he’d return the weapon at a later date. Which would require again seeing the prickly miss. Robert grinned. Yes, perhaps he’d wait after all.

The distant rumble of male voices sounded from around the hall and Robert started in the opposite direction. He quickened his stride, making for a staircase. No doubt, title of marquess be damned, the whispered-about owner would take umbrage with a patron infiltrating his private quarters. The harshly guttural voices became increasingly clear and Robert ducked down the servant’s stairway. He paused, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit space. And he’d even less doubt that the ruthless king of the gaming world would remove the entrails of any man who’d dared touch his mistress.

Something dark and niggling, something that felt very much like jealousy slithered around inside. He scoffed. Why should the idea of the hellion, who’d threatened to split him open, with Black grate? And yet—it did. As the heir to a dukedom, he’d grown accustomed to all manner of ladies clamoring for a place in his bed: the unhappily wed ones, the recent widows, the not-so-recent widows. For all those women, however, there had never been a spirited woman such as Helena, so uncowed by status or title—and she belonged to Black.

He walked down the hard wood stairs, careful with his footfalls. After a lifetime of fawning and preening, the realness of her response, that total disregard of status or birthright was . . . refreshing. Since he’d been in the cradle, all anyone had ever seen was a future duke. He’d worn his rank the way a person did a head of hair or birthmark upon his skin. A small grin hovered on his lips.

And he’d wager all his unentailed property that if the woman learned he possessed one of the oldest titles in the kingdom, her reactions and actions would have remained the same.

Robert reached the bottom of the stairwell. For her breathtaking fury and claims of indifference, her body had burned hot with the proof of her desire. His body stirred in remembrance of their encounter: the swollen tips of her pert breasts, the heat radiating from her hot center. Yes, she might have wanted to gut him, but she’d also wanted him . . . even as she’d denied it to herself.

He stepped out into the corridor and froze.

From down the length of the hall, a great big hulking bear of a man stopped and Robert swallowed a black curse at his carelessness. With an incredible ease for someone of the man’s bulky frame, the scarred figure set the bucket of water in his hands down on the floor and rushed forward. “Wot ye be doin ’ere?” he barked.

Feigning nonchalance, Robert tugged on his lapels. “I seem to be lost.” The lie slipped out with effortless ease. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to the exit.”

The pit-faced, nearly bald brute stared boldly at him with blatant suspicion. Then, he grunted. “Ye’ll follow me, guvnor,” he grunted. “Black don’t loike fancy toffs runnin’ about ’is ’alls.”

Robert fell into step beside the man, who continued to cast sideways glances in his direction as they walked down a long hall. The sconces lit with candles cast eerie shadows about the crimson-red painted walls.

“’Ere ye go, Yer Lordship,” the man mumbled and nodded toward a door. He jerked open the thick oak panel and blinding light from the well-lit chandeliers of the main floor of the hell spilled through the opening. The rightfully suspicious man crossed his arms, and stood in wait as Robert stepped back out onto the empty gaming floor.

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