While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(46)

Undeniably, she did not trust herself with him. Not after last night. There was too much tension between them, too much temptation wrapped up in him. He was a magnet for which she could not resist.

“You do have family that cares about you or you wouldn’t be on the way to Autenberry Manor. The dowager duchess, Clara, Enid . . . she’s your half sister,” she reminded him.

“I scarcely know them.”

“As of now,” she acknowledged. “But they clearly have no wish to remain strangers.”

He chuckled, still managing not to smile as he studied her contemplatively. “You are full of sunshine. I wager you’ve never met a soul that didn’t like you. You’re a rare thing, kitten. Not everyone is like you.” He exhaled. “I’m on the way to Autenberry Manor because my half brother is in a coma. When the duke wakes, that invitation shall be revoked and I’ll be cast out and heading back to Town.” He shrugged. “Or Scotland. A stranger yet again to the Autenberry clan.”

She shook her head. “Lord Strickland thinks when His Grace awakes you two could put everything behind you and become at the very least friendly—”

“Does he now?” Amusement laced his voice. “I’m the bastard son. The dirty evidence of the late duke’s indiscretion. Autenberry admired his father greatly and I’m evidence that his lauded father was far less than the great man he believed him to be. Trust me, my brother didn’t want me around before his coma. He won’t want me around after.”

She lifted her chin, thinking of the duke coming into Barclay’s every week. His ready smile and kind words didn’t match the man that Struan was describing. “I think you’re wrong.”

“Oh, that’s right.” His lips curled in a sneer. Something sparked in his dark moss eyes that made gooseflesh break out across her skin. Her stomach quivered and her breath caught. He leaned forward, draping his wrists on his knees so that his big hands with their long, tapering fingers dangled loose on the air. She tried not to stare hard at those hands, those fingers. Tried not to remember how they felt on her. “He’s your perfect prince of a man,” he bit out, his brogue hard and clipped.

“I didn’t say that. No one is perfect.” Autenberry just happened to be close. At least the notion of him that she had created in her head was close to perfection.

“Oh, you’ll admit that? I’m shocked. Your fiancé isn’t perfection?”

She flushed, not about to malign a man in a coma . . . especially one to whom she was supposedly affianced. “That’s not what I said either. You’re twisting my words. Autenberry is quite nearly perfect.”

“Quite nearly? So he’s imperfect?”

“Stop it!” she snapped.

“Is it his kissing technique?” He angled his head. “Is that where he falls short?”

She flushed hot. “I didn’t say he falls short and his kissing is . . . is perfectly fine.”

“Fine?” Mockery again. “Well, that’s a ringing endorsement.”

“He’s splendid! Brilliant!” She tossed her hands in the air, astonished that she was even having this conversation. Why was it that around this man all sense of propriety failed her? “A glorious kisser!”

“That a fact?”

“Yes.” She should stop now, but she kept going, the words flying out like barbed arrows. “Who do you think taught me to kiss? The duke is more than adequate.” She didn’t know where these lies were coming from. Mackenzie did something to her. Made her not even recognize herself.

“Oh?” The word was uttered with such stillness. Almost too quiet. It should have warned her. “And what else did that brother of mine teach you?” he growled, reaching across the seat to seize her waist with both hands.

Before she could get out a word, he plopped her on his lap, her skirts a froth of fabric around them.

She squeaked, her hands coming up to balance herself on his shoulders.

“I have an idea.” His brogue, deep as the forest of his eyes, dragged across her skin, a physical caress. “Why don’t you just show me?”





Chapter 17




His mouth slanted over hers. Liquid heat rushed through her as his hand curled around her jaw. His other hand slid inside her cloak, the broad palm spanning her back.

Air escaped her nose in rapid little pants. The sound was embarrassing. It gave away just how affected she was, just how devastated she found his mouth on hers . . . his hand on her . . . his voice—

“No running away this time, kitten. No interruptions,” he growled against her lips. “We’ve plenty of time in this carriage for you to show me everything my damn brother taught you.”

His growly words should offend her. Outrage should have her pushing him away, but the way his mouth worked over hers, hot and punishing, hungry, as though she were the last meal he would ever eat, had her hands doing other things.

Instead of pushing him away, her fingers relaxed and crept up his shoulders to curl around his neck and tangle in the too-long strands of his hair. The dark gold strands felt like silk, the ends soft as feathers brushing her palms. Did Vikings have hair this soft?

She ran her fingers deeper into his hair, her nails scraping his scalp, and he gave a low sound of pleasure. “Keep touching me,” he breathed into her mouth, his air filling all the little hollows inside her.