While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(53)

“You needn’t concern yourself with me. I’m quite accustomed to taking care of myself and others.”

At last, she stopped in front of her bedchamber door. He reached up a hand and brushed back a lock of hair off her shoulder, his fingers lingering on the tendrils. “Isn’t that tiresome? Always taking care of others? Having no one to care for you?”

She twisted her neck so that his hand fell away from her. “I have someone.” The lie was becoming quite a comfort, and easier to utter with every passing day, a defense that she clung to around him, something to put between them. A barrier of sorts. Not that he seemed to overly care at its presence. For whatever reason, he still pursued her even knowing that. Which was a curious thing. She had never been one to inspire great passion in the opposite gender. Edmond had made that abundantly evident.

His expression hardened at that reminder. “Indeed.”

She had reached her room. She knew she could duck inside and close the door on his face, but still, for some reason, she lingered. “And who cares for you, Mr. Mackenzie?”

Some of the hardness eased out of his face, but his gaze was no less intent as he gazed at her. “No one, Poppy. I’m not so fortunate as my brother.”

“I think that’s not entirely true. You’ve won quite the admiration from the dowager. And your sister.”

“And you?” He inched a step closer, eating up the air between them. “What of you, Poppy? Have you a care for me?”

She swallowed and reached behind her, her hand finding the latch of the bedchamber door and closing around it.

“What? No answer, kitten?”

“You’re my fiancé’s brother. Of course I have a care for you.”

He moved quickly, suddenly, both hands flattening against the door on either side of her head. “Your feelings for me have nothing to do with him,” he growled, his eyes flashing with a dangerous heat that she felt down deep in her bones.

She sucked in a breath and pushed her spine back against the door as far as she could go, the scent of him invading her, filling her senses.

“You’re wrong. That’s all there is . . . all there can ever be between us.” She turned the latch. The door opened behind her. Before he responded, she plunged inside and shut the door on him with a snap.

Breathing raggedly, she collapsed against the door’s supportive length. She waited, praying he did not attempt to follow her into her chamber. Several moments passed and she heard his steps fade away. Her prayer had been answered. So why was there that stab of disappointment in her chest?





Chapter 20




On his fourth day at Autenberry Manor, Struan went for a ride, hoping to release some of the restless energy plaguing him even if the bitter-cold wind happened to freeze his face.

He wanted the chit. Badly. And if he was to take a clue from her continued avoidance of him—or her continued bedside vigil of Autenberry—she didn’t want him back. She wanted his half brother.

Oh, he might possess the ability to arouse her, but that was merely the longing of her body. Desires of the flesh. Her head, her heart, wanted nothing to do with him—and that stung. It made him feel like the lad he was all those years ago standing before his father and facing his rejection. Who knew he could still feel so small and vulnerable?

He rode his mount into the stables, escaping the worst of the cold. The snow had ceased to fall, but the wind whipped bitterly. He waved off a groom who appeared to help him and unsaddled his horse himself, needing something to do with his hands and enjoying being alone with the animal that made no demands of him. Tension ebbed from his shoulders as he rubbed down the stallion, only to return at the sudden arrival of a feminine voice behind him.

“There you are. I’ve looked everywhere for you.”

Bryony. Whereas her sister had avoided him, she had been his constant shadow.

He glanced over his shoulder at her where she stood at the stall’s entrance. “Good morning, Miss Fairchurch.”

She pouted prettily. “Please call me Bryony. Miss Fairchurch is my sister.”

He inclined his head, but didn’t utter her name. Poppy had her hands full with this one. The girl was very young, too pretty for her own good and a flirt.

“Did you go for a ride?” she asked in a singsong voice, reminding him that she was just a little girl, even if her face and body belonged to a woman.

“Yes.” He turned to rub down the horse with a brush.

“How invigorating. I would love to go riding.”

“Do you know how?” The rhythmic strokes of the brush filled the air.

“No, but you could teach me.” She sidled closer.

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. She affected a coquettish smile, her bottom lip thrust out.

Shaking his head, he returned his attention to his brushing. “It’s cold. You should be inside.”

“You’re not,” she returned pertly.

He shrugged. “I’m a man.” He was on the verge of adding that he was also Scottish and accustomed to colder weather than this when she spoke.

“Of that, I’m very aware, Struan.” Her fingers brushed the front of her bodice in a practiced move to draw attention to her bosom. She was brazen. Poppy needed to keep her on a tighter leash.

He shook his head, turning fully to face her and put an end to this. He doubted she would stop her antics until he made his lack of interest clear.