While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(58)

Poppy adopted a placating tone. “Bryony, you know I would never—”

“Clara is waiting for me. I need to go.” She angled her chin at a proud angle. “I’m sure I’ll forgive you later, but right now I don’t want to talk to you.”

That said, the girl flounced out of the room, slamming the door after her.

Poppy stood there, stunned, the sound of the door slamming reverberating in her ears. Never had she seen her sister in such a temper—and for what reason? Because Poppy had admonished her to behave herself with Mackenzie? Her own temper flared. The girl needed a good spanking. And Mackenzie! In her mind, he was equally to blame. If he was not . . . If he had not . . . not . . .

Been so handsome and enticing and intriguing?

She stomped her foot once, annoyed that it did not seem reasonable to blame him for merely existing and being himself.

Turning, she exited her sister’s bedchamber and hastened to her own room. She was fuming and felt like throwing something. It was probably best if she did that in her own chamber.

She marched the half dozen strides that took her to her room. Opening the door, she stepped inside. For a moment, she collapsed against the door. Closing her eyes, she expelled a deep breath, her emotions still raging hot.

Blast Bryony! And blast Mackenzie, too! She would blame him if only because it made her feel better to do so.

After several more breaths, she pushed off the door and stalked toward the small side table on the other side of the room. When she had first spotted the tray of Madeira upon her arrival, she never thought she would have use for it. She had noticed every room in the house boasted a tray of Madeira. The maid, catching her gaze straying to the tray, had explained that the duchess had a penchant for the stuff as it reminded her of her country of birth.

It wasn’t Poppy’s habit to imbibe of spirits, but right now a nip of the stuff sounded just about right. Between keeping up the charade of being affianced to the duke, coping with her sister and fending off Struan Mackenzie, it seemed in order.

Her skirts swished as she made her way across the room and poured herself a measure of the drink. She swished it and stared at it a moment before tossing it back. She sucked in a breath as it went down in a scalding wash.

“Looking for some liquid courage, Miss Fairchurch?”

She whirled with a gasp, her now empty glass thudding to the plush carpet.

Struan Mackenzie stretched out on her bed, hands laced behind his head, bold as you please, watching her with hooded eyes that promised all manner of retribution.

“What are you doing in here?

“I told you there would be a reckoning.”

She glanced to the door. “Anyone could enter my chamber. You cannot be here!”

“The duchess is having an afternoon nap. Everyone else is off holly gathering. However—” He swung his legs around, dropped his booted feet to the floor. She backed away as he rounded the bed, but he didn’t approach her. He strode a direct, unhurried line for the door. Glancing back at her, he turned the lock on her bedchamber door. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll lock the door so no one can walk in on us.”

Panic swelled up inside her. “That doesn’t make me feel better. Not at all.”

That corner of his mouth kicked up as he advanced on her. She continued to back away, making certain that she moved in the opposite direction of that looming bed. She stopped when she reached the wall, her hands pressing, palms flat against the cool plaster.

He stopped, keeping a good space between them. It did little to comfort her. She still didn’t trust him. Especially not alone with her in here.

“You won’t quit,” she stated flatly.

“It’s not in my makeup.”

“I’ll scream,” she warned.

He chuckled. “No, you won’t.”

She felt her nostrils flare on a breath. “Why are you so intent on pursuing me?”

He paused, giving her words careful consideration. “I don’t rightly know. There’s something about you, Miss Fairchurch. Something between us. I can’t ignore it. Neither can you, if you’d be honest with yourself.” He took one step closer and brought his hand to her throat. His thumb gently swiped over her pulse. “But honesty, I realize, is elusive for you.”

Her pulse jumped from his touch. Or was it his words? She knew he was referring to her betrothal to the duke and the fact that he didn’t believe it to be true. He wouldn’t drop the matter.

“I mean it,” she threatened.

He leaned in, still holding her throat, his mouth a hairsbreadth over her own. “Do it. Scream, then.”

She opened her mouth, debating letting a scream fly free. It’d be nice just to surprise him. To prove him wrong about her. Of course, there were other ways to do that.

Perhaps it was the Madeira swirling hotly through her blood, addling her thoughts, lending her courage.

She closed that last bit of space separating them. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed her body against him and mashed her mouth into his. Perhaps if she shocked him, it would wipe that arrogant smugness from his face.

She succeeded in shocking him. He didn’t move for a long stretch of moments, and then he did.

His arms went around her. She squeaked as he lifted her off the floor. Her feet dangled in the air. It added to the floating sensation his lips already stirred inside her.