While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(50)

She had made a mistake in coming here—in ever perpetrating this charade. She needed to go home at once, and put all of this—him—behind her. Easier said than done. Unfortunately, for the time being, she was trapped.

She lifted her chin in resolve. There would be no more stumbling into his arms. No more kissing. No more anything. She didn’t have to be so weak-willed again.

No more future trysts. He saw too much.

She had to make certain that he did not see all . . . everything. Her. The man had not lifted himself from poverty to such heights without a keen gift of scrutiny. She would be cautious and have a care around the man.

Struan Mackenzie dropped into step beside her. The large shadow of him fell over her just as it began to snow in earnest.

Trapped with a wolf breathing down her neck, ready to devour her if she made one misstep. Maybe her life was a fairy tale, after all.





Chapter 18




The next few days for Struan passed in a blur of frustration.

Poppy avoided him. He never caught her alone. After their carriage ride, he supposed it was inevitable that she would wish to avoid him. She had yet to realize. She would be his.

Even if she would never be his because she belonged to his brother.

He shoved the unwelcome reminder aside. He didn’t want to keep her. He didn’t want forever. He simply wanted her. One time and he would rid her from his system. One time and both of them could move on.

Only they would need to be alone for that to happen.

If she wasn’t surrounded by a gaggle of women, then she was sitting by the duke’s bedside—and that, too, she never did alone. There was always a maid in the corner or the dowager or Lord Strickland with his knowing, watchful gaze.

It was a damnable situation.

She might be avoiding him, but the dowager and Lady Enid were not. They were interested in knowing him. Naturally, Lady Clara was more interested in spending time with Bryony. He saw the girls rushing about the grounds, playing with the hounds, walking the snow-draped gardens and building puny-looking snowmen that collapsed by the following morning.

Enid showed him around the manor, from the grounds to the vast house. She took him down the portrait gallery, pointing out their ancestors. That was a strange experience. One predecessor in particular, his great-grandfather, bore a striking resemblance to him. Their eyes were the same. Same green. Deeply set. Enid remarked on it.

“See. You belong here. Your roots are here.” She smiled mildly at him.

He nodded once in acknowledgment. Not agreement. His roots were in poverty. In Glasgow. In bastardy. He was the son of a prostitute, a woman bought and abused daily. There was no shaking that past.

“I’m glad you came,” Enid said, moving along the gallery. “I didn’t think you would.”

He strolled beside her, hands clasped behind his back. “No?”

“Marcus . . . your arrival to Town, your existence, has been difficult for him.”

Struan laughed harshly. “My existence has been difficult for him? Somehow I doubt it was any more difficult than growing up unacknowledged by our father.”

“Marcus loved our father. He thought him everything good and noble. That’s how Papa presented himself. Learning about you, learning your beloved parent was another person entirely . . . it’s disillusioning to say the least. Marcus was worried you wanted to hurt us.”

Struan stopped to face her. “What about you?”

“At first I worried that you were out for revenge, too.” She studied him thoughtfully. “Then I learned more about you.” She shook her head. “I waited, but you never attempted to see us. That didn’t sound like someone who wanted to hurt us.” She laughed lightly. “I was actually bothered because you didn’t want to meet us. I—I . . .” She stammered in a way that seemed uncharacteristic for her. “I wanted to meet you.”

They stared at each other for a long assessing moment. “And now that you have?”

She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I have another brother. I want you in my life. Whatever happens with Marcus, I want you in my life.”

He shifted his weight on his feet, feeling unaccountably abashed. “Yes. I would like that.”

She smiled again, her lips curving widely, taking her from plain to strikingly pretty. “Splendid. Now. Would you like to join me in the kitchen? Cook makes the best gingersnaps. Your life is truly not complete until you’ve tasted a least a score of them.”

He smiled slightly and motioned ahead. “Then by all means, lead the way.”



Struan owned several properties. The aristocracy was renowned for living beyond their means and that had a way of catching up with one. Generations of living like royalty without paying for it eventually came to an end for all.

Eventually, someone had to be paid, and Struan was often that someone. He was the man scooping up properties that weren’t entailed to ancient noble titles—property that had to be sold off to honor outstanding debts.

That said, even as many fine, resplendent homes as he had acquired, restored and sold again over the years, Autenberry Manor was the finest he had ever seen. He tried not to let the old feelings of inadequacy creep over him as he sat at the centuries-old dining table. A dining table that had fed his ancestors. Men and women of his bloodline sat at this very table and feasted.