While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(54)

“Mr. Mackenzie,” he corrected in a chiding tone. He spoke softly to lessen the sting, but he wanted to leave no doubt of where things stood between them.

She laughed. “So stern,” she said mockingly. Not to be deterred, she flattened a hand to his chest.

“What are you doing, Miss Fairchurch? I’m old enough to be your father.”

She made a tsking sound. “You’re hardly that old.”

“Close enough.”

She batted her lashes. “Don’t you like me?”

“You’re very young.”

“That’s not an answer.” Suddenly, she stood on her tiptoes and leaned forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

Damnation. He supposed this would not be a good time to let the girl know he preferred her sister. The notion made him smile. That would wound the girl’s vanity, but then a little bit of wounded vanity might be a good thing for her. She was full of far too much confidence.

He cleared his throat to let her down in far firmer terms she would not mistake when a flash of movement caught his attention. He glanced up, his gaze colliding with Poppy’s.

Hellfire. She’d chosen a fine time to stop avoiding him. He followed her gaze, looking down at where her sister stood inappropriately close to him, her hand on his chest, her soft kiss still palpable on his cheek. No doubt, Poppy had observed that little display. He looked back up, appraising her and not missing the flash of fury in her eyes.

Aye, she’d seen that.

He arched an eyebrow, suddenly, foolishly, glad to see her. He’d take this—a furious Poppy over the indifferent one who avoided him like a plague. This he could work with.



A sneaking suspicion led Poppy to the stables.

For all her avoidance of Mackenzie, she was achingly aware of his every movement. She had to be in order to effectively avoid him. She had vowed that his presence would not catch her by surprise and she would not be forced into close quarters with him ever again. She had to remain vigilant.

Of course, then, she knew when he left for a morning ride. She eyed him through an upstairs window as he headed out to the snow-draped stables. She maintained her position by Lord Autenberry’s bed, the window in full view so that she would not miss his return.

She did not see him return. Indeed not. Instead, quite some time later, she watched her sister scurry out along the path to the stables. Her sister without Lady Clara beside her was a rare sight. The two had been inseparable over the last few days. And it was not as though Bryony possessed any affinity for horseflesh. What could be drawing her to the stables?

What indeed?

A slow trickle of dread coursed through her and she rose to her feet, departing Autenberry’s chamber. She scarcely took the time to don her cloak before hastening outside to investigate.

Upon entering the shadowy interior, she followed the murmur of voices to a stall at the far end of the aisle. The door stood open and Poppy identified her sister, young and fresh in her pink dress, standing before Mackenzie.

She was oblivious to Poppy, all her attention focused on the man beside a massive stallion. She tossed back her head with soft, throaty laughter, showing off the lovely arch of her throat. Poppy felt a stab of an unfamiliar emotion. Her sister really was lovely. For all her little-girl ways, she didn’t look like a little girl anymore. No, indeed not. She and Poppy looked of like age. It was deceptive. They could both be twenty years old. With one exception—Bryony was the beautiful one. The one men stared at wherever they went.

Poppy narrowed her gaze, taking in the cozy scene. A scene that only grew cozier as her sister’s hand fluttered to her chest and the décolletage so modestly on display.

Struan murmured something that Poppy could not hear. She glared across the distance, imagining it to be vastly inappropriate. And why wouldn’t it be? He had been inappropriate with her at every turn.

Whatever he said, Bryony found it exceedingly amusing. She laughed again, this time lifting her hand off her bosom and pressing it to Struan’s broad chest in a move that looked practiced and expert. Poppy gawked.

The chit was too bold! Where did she learn such things? In that moment, Poppy recognized Bryony’s every movement and gesture for what it was intended—enticement.

Clearly certain females were born with an abundance of feminine wiles. It must be writ within their composition. Sadly, that trait must have skipped right over Poppy and landed on her baby sister.

Suddenly Bryony sobered, her laughter fading. She leaned closer, brushing her hand in little circles over Mackenzie’s chest in a far too familiar manner. Then, before Poppy had any idea what her sister was about, Bryony stood up on her tiptoes and a pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek.

Poppy saw red. She couldn’t breathe. She thought her head was going to explode. Her sister needed a good thrashing for such forwardness.

And what of you and the intimacy you shared with Mackenzie?

She shoved the voice aside with a mental snarl. It was not the same. For one thing, she was a woman of twenty. Not ten and five.

An uncomfortable sensation—the same she had felt moments ago only more pronounced, more painful—prickled in her chest as she stood watching her sister.

Struan stared at Bryony, the barest smile on his face—a face Poppy suddenly wanted to scratch to ribbons. How dare he toy with her and then move on to her sister?

Oddly, his face wasn’t the only one she wanted to attack. For years she had indulged her sister, feeling guilty because Bryony had no memories of their mother and Poppy was Papa’s favorite. That had left an uneasy guilt within her. She was always trying to compensate by sacrificing whatever she could for Bryony. She had never been jealous or wished her sister ill.