While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(6)

His broad shoulders filled out his greatcoat and he seemed to dominate the space inside the coach. Her gaze dropped to his massive hands folded over his knees. Those hands looked capable of crushing rocks. Despite his gentleman fa?ade, he looked as though he belonged working on the docks. There was a roughness to him, an edge that belied his fine garments.

With a sudden start, she realized he was studying her, as well. “You’re staring,” he remarked.

“As are you.”

“I’m simply trying to understand your presence here. What is your involvement with Autenberry?”

She pulled back. “My involvement?”

He brought his face closer so that even in the airless and shadowy confines of the hack she could see the brackets lining his mouth. They might be smile lines or dimples, except she doubted he was given often to mirth.

She opened her mouth but before she could respond, he demanded, “Are you his paramour?”

“His what?” Heat slapped her face.

“Paramour. It means lover, a mistress—”

“I know what it means,” she snapped. She spoke three languages. She knew the definition of the word paramour. Her gaze flew to the duke in mortification, as though he might overhear his brother’s outrageous line of questioning.

“You seem very invested in his welfare. You did risk your neck for him, after all.”

“It’s called caring for another human being,” she cried hotly, shaking her head. “People take risks for those they care for.”

“Risks?” he sneered. “You care enough about him to risk getting yourself killed. Because that’s what would have happened had I not been there.” He stared at her through narrowed eyes.

She swallowed, considering his accusation. He was correct. She could have died today. She should regret that. She had not only herself to think of. There was her sister. She couldn’t leave Bryony alone in this world.

Moistening her lips, she tried again. “I care.”

“Clearly,” he interrupted, his gaze sharp as cut glass.

“That does not mean that I . . . that he and I . . .”

“Are shagging?” he finished.

Heat exploded anew in her face. Was she trapped in a nightmare? “You’re vile.”

“In my experience, love is a requirement for diving in front of carriages to save another person. Or at least believing oneself in love.” He waved one hand, conveying the amount of skepticism he felt for that particular level of emotion. “Not that I’ve ever been in love, real or otherwise.”

“Otherwise?” she echoed, marveling that his cynicism rivaled his vileness.

“Indeed. Infatuation is oft mistaken for love.” He shrugged. “In whatever form, it drives people to act—” he cocked his head, thinking “—idiotic.”

“Idiotic?” she squeaked. “Love is idiotic?”

“I didn’t say that. I said love makes people act like idiots. Evidently you love him.”

She inhaled a bracing breath and smoothed a shaking hand down her starched pinafore. She didn’t know what was more insulting. That he believed her to be the duke’s mistress or an idiot? “You’re a confounding man.”

“I’ve been called worse.” He adjusted his long legs and one of his thighs pressed against her skirts. She jerked away as though stung.

“I can well imagine.”

Indeed, it was as though he were sucking all the air inside the coach into himself, stealing it from her so that her lungs felt drawn and tight. The man unsettled her. His presence, his very words, made her pulse pound uncomfortably fast in her veins.

It was a wholly uneasy feeling. Dizzying. Faintly nauseating actually. Nothing at all like the easy warmth she experienced when in the Duke of Autenberry’s company. But then not every man evoked easy warmth. Nor should she expect as much. That should be reserved for the extraordinary few.

At the thought of such a man, her gaze drifted to the duke. Marcus. His lashes rested like dark bruises on his pale cheeks. He was the only thing that mattered right now. Not his insufferable brother.





Chapter 3




Struan hoped he wasn’t dead.

Murder would be bad enough, but killing one’s own brother? Struan had committed many sins . . . done many unpardonable things in his life, but fratricide, as of yet, was not one of them.

Granted, Struan loathed the bastard on the seat across from him, but he didn’t want his death on his head. Not that he had pushed him directly into the carriage’s path. Nor had he even been the first to strike a blow, but it didn’t matter. He’d engaged most readily once Autenberry struck him.

His mother would not be smiling down on him for this particular infraction. She had wanted Struan to find happiness. Peace. To avoid conflict. That had been her dying request . . . in so many words.

I ken I dinna give ye all I should ’ave. I thought yer da was a decent man. I was wrong. Ye deserved more. A better ma and da. A better life. Ye go and claim it now, son. Ye deserve it. Be ’appy.

The female beside him looked at him like he was some manner of vermin—certainly not anyone deserving of anything good. Clearly, she thought the sun rose and set in his half brother. She wouldn’t be the first to labor under that misapprehension. Just about everyone around Town thought that Autenberry was as fine and pleasing as cherry cordial.