While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(27)

A voice spoke into the thick silence. “You really think so?”

With a gasp, she spun around, her gaze flying to the doorway, half expecting to see Lord Strickland there again, even though something deep and primal struck her at the core as that voice rippled over the air.

The doorway was empty. She twisted in her chair, searching the room, her gaze landing on a person sitting in a shadowed corner, his big frame dwarfing a wingback chair, booted feet stretched out into the fall of light.

Her gaze traveled up those boots and legs. Big hands clasped the chair arms as the body leaned forward, bringing a face out of the shadows.

“You,” she croaked, and just like that her stomach dropped to her too-big shoes. Of all the faces she wanted to see, Struan Mackenzie’s was the last, and yet there he sat, looking at her with equal displeasure and sending her heart into palpitations.

“In the flesh,” he returned, his gravelly voice sending a rush of goose bumps over her flesh. Suddenly, she was acutely, achingly aware of how alone they were. It was just the three of them. Her lips twisted wryly.

Considering one of them was in a coma, it was more accurately the two of them.





Chapter 10




“Miss Fairchurch,” Struan greeted stiffly. In fact, all of him was as rigid as a board sitting in the chair, watching her from his corner. The only movement was the tapping of his fingers against his thigh.

From the moment she had entered and taken position at Autenberry’s bedside, tension thrummed through him, vibrating along every nerve. He felt his lip curl as he observed her decidedly one-sided exchange with his half brother. It was sweet and endearing and he despised it. He despised her.

No, that wasn’t true.

He felt something other than dislike for her. That much he couldn’t deny. There was an irrefutable stirring in his cock as his gaze fixed on the fine arch of her throat, the soft wisps of light brown hair that grazed the soft skin at the back of her neck. Unbelievable. His bouncing fingers increased their ticking, picking up speed. It was a definite first. Never had a woman’s nape managed to arouse him.

He shouldn’t have felt anything at the display. Truthfully, he had no stake in either one of them. Not his brother. Certainly not her. And yet the sight of her bent so dotingly over Autenberry, chafing his hands as though she could will life back into him, stabbed him with annoyance.

He wanted to cross the room and pull her from her position at his brother’s bedside. He wanted to run his hand down that throat, force her around and press his open mouth to the back of her neck and sink his teeth there in a primitive display of dominance.

He sucked in a sharp breath and tried to shake off the unwanted image, willing his hardening cock to slumber.

To say that his train of thinking would scandalize her would be an understatement. Even as Autenberry’s paramour, she couldn’t be accustomed to proclivities such as his. He was no gentle lover. Born of the streets, his tastes ran to rougher bed sport than was common among blushing, milk-skinned females.

He chose his partners carefully, and with reason. No tender misses for him. Experienced women he didn’t have to seduce or ply with gentle words. That was usually his preference.

Usually.

“You should have alerted me to your presence.” Her soft voice was full of accusation.

Aye, he should have, but he’d held silent, watching. He did not bring himself to speak, hoping to learn something of her that she would not willingly reveal.

“And miss any potential bedside declarations?” he mocked, finally reclaiming his voice.

Her features tightened.

“Don’t fash yourself, lass,” he assured. “You didn’t say anything inflammatory. More’s the pity. In fact, I was quite bored sitting here.” The lie tripped easily off his tongue. He preferred boredom to watching her moon over Autenberry. If he had to endure any more of that he might put a fist into a wall. He scowled, telling himself what she did and said—with Autenberry or any man—shouldn’t affect him.

“What were you expecting?” she demanded.

“Oh, I don’t know, kitten. A titillating profession of love. Some naughty reminisces of sweeter times?”

Her shoulders squared. “You’re perverse.”

Again, he felt his lips threaten to break out in a smile. She had no idea what he was, but he imagined the truth would horrify her.

“I’ve been called worse things than that, kitten.” Although usually not by the fairer sex. Even before he’d amassed his wealth, females had always favored him. His mother called it the one blessing Providence had seen fit to bestow on him. Yer face has been touched by angels, lad. Don’t let such a thing go to waste.

“Don’t call me that.” She hissed the last word as though it were something dirty.

“What?” he asked, all innocence, enjoying the flash of fire in her cheeks and imagining what other activities might produce that same fire in her.

“You know . . . kitten!”

He pushed to his feet and strode toward her, his pace unhurried. “Oh, you don’t like that? That’s what you remind me of. Soft and small with big eyes and tiny sharp teeth and claws. Just like a kitten.”

“It’s much too intimate, sir,” she reprimanded, those tiny teeth and claws at work as she glared at him.

He stopped a few feet from her. She remained sitting, her hand pushing against the chair back but not moving as she looked up at him. “And what does your duke call you?” He nodded to the bed. “Miss Fairchurch?” He could not stop the sneer from curling his lips. He knew his half brother’s proclivities. They were all the gossip. He did not maintain platonic relationships. He doubted his brother called her Miss Fairchurch as he plowed between her thighs.