A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 16
He ignored her.
She pressed on. “Where are you sleeping?”
A wicked black brow rose. “Why? Are you inviting me into your bed?”
The words stung with their rudeness. Penelope stiffened as though she had received a physical blow. She waited a beat, sure he would apologize.
Silence.
“You’ve changed.”
“Perhaps you should remember that the next time you decide to go on a midnight adventure.”
He was nothing like the Michael she had once known.
She spun on her heel, heading into the blackness, toward the place where Needham Manor stood. She’d gone only a few feet before she turned back to face him. He had not moved.
“I really was happy to see you.” She turned and headed away, back to her home, the cold seeping deep into her bones before she turned back, unable to resist a final barb. Something to hurt him as he’d hurt her. “And Michael?”
She couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew undeniably that he was watching her. Listening.
“You’re on my land.”
She regretted the words the instant she spoke them, the product of frustration and irritation, laced with an edge of teasing that better suited a mean-spirited child than a woman of eight-and-twenty.
Regretted them even more when he shot toward her, a wolf from the night. “Your land?”
The words were dark and menacing. She stepped back instantly. “Y-yes.”
She should never have left the house.
“You and your father think to catch you a husband with my land?”
He knew.
She ignored the pang of sadness that came with the realization that he was there for Falconwell. And not for her.
He kept coming, closer and closer, and Penelope’s breath caught in her throat as she backed away from him, trying to keep pace with his strides. Failing. She shook her head. She should deny the words. Should rush to comfort him. To settle this great beast who stalked her through the snow.
But she didn’t.
She was too angry. “It’s not yours. You lost it. And I’ve already caught myself a husband.” He needn’t know she hadn’t accepted the offer.
He paused. “You are married?”
She shook her head, moving away quickly, taking the chance to put distance between them as she slung her words at him. “No, but we will be . . . in no time. And we shall live quite happily here, on our land.”
What was wrong with her? The words were out, quick and impetuous and they could not be taken back.
He advanced again, this time with complete focus. “Every man in London wants Falconwell, if not for the land, then to hold it over my head.”
If she moved any more quickly, she would topple into the snow, but it was worth the attempt, for she was suddenly very nervous about what would happen if he caught her.
She stumbled, a hidden tree root sending her falling backward with a little screech, and she threw her arms wide, dropping her lantern in an awkward attempt to catch herself.
He beat her to it, his large, strong hands coming around her arms, catching her, lifting her, pressing her back against a large oak tree and, before she could regain her footing and escape, bracing against the wood to cage her in his arms.
The boy she remembered was gone.
The man in his place was not to be trifled with.
He was very close. Too close, leaning in, lowering his voice to a whisper, the breath of his words against the arch of her cheek heightening her nervousness. She did not breathe, too focused on the heat of him, on what he would say next. “They’ll even marry an aging spinster to get it.”
She hated him then. Hated the words, the way he spoke them with such simple cruelty. Tears threatened.
No. No. She would not cry.
Not for this beast of a man who was nothing like the boy she’d once known. The one she’d dreamed would one day return.
Not like this.
She struggled against him once more, irritated now, desperate to be free. He was stronger than her by half and refused to release her, pressing her back to the oak, leaning in until he was close—too close. Fear lanced through her, followed by quick, blessed anger. “Let me go.”
He did not move. In fact, for a long moment, Penelope thought he had not heard her.
“No.”
The refusal was emotionless.
She struggled again, kicking out, one booted foot connecting with his shin, hard enough to spur a very satisfying grunt. “Dammit!” she cried, knowing that ladies didn’t curse, knowing that she would likely spend an eternity in purgatory for the transgression but not knowing how else to communicate with this brutish stranger. “What are you going to do, leave me here in the snow to freeze to death?”
“No.” The word was low and dark at her ear as he held her, easily.
She did not give up. “Kidnap me then? Hold me for ransom for Falconwell?”
“No, though it wouldn’t be a terrible idea.” He was so close, she could smell him, bergamot and cedar, and she paused at the sensation of his breath brushing over the skin of her cheek. “But I’ve got something much worse in mind.”
She stilled. He wouldn’t kill her.
After all, they’d been friends once. Long ago, before he’d become handsome as the devil and twice as cold.
He wouldn’t kill her.
Would he?
“Wh—what is it?”
He stroked the tip of one finger down the long column of her neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Her breath caught in her throat at the touch . . . all wicked warmth and nearly unbearable sensation.
“You have my land, Penelope,” he whispered at her ear, the sound low and liquid and altogether too distracting even as it sent tremors of anxiety spiraling through her, “and I want it back.”
She pressed on. “Where are you sleeping?”
A wicked black brow rose. “Why? Are you inviting me into your bed?”
The words stung with their rudeness. Penelope stiffened as though she had received a physical blow. She waited a beat, sure he would apologize.
Silence.
“You’ve changed.”
“Perhaps you should remember that the next time you decide to go on a midnight adventure.”
He was nothing like the Michael she had once known.
She spun on her heel, heading into the blackness, toward the place where Needham Manor stood. She’d gone only a few feet before she turned back to face him. He had not moved.
“I really was happy to see you.” She turned and headed away, back to her home, the cold seeping deep into her bones before she turned back, unable to resist a final barb. Something to hurt him as he’d hurt her. “And Michael?”
She couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew undeniably that he was watching her. Listening.
“You’re on my land.”
She regretted the words the instant she spoke them, the product of frustration and irritation, laced with an edge of teasing that better suited a mean-spirited child than a woman of eight-and-twenty.
Regretted them even more when he shot toward her, a wolf from the night. “Your land?”
The words were dark and menacing. She stepped back instantly. “Y-yes.”
She should never have left the house.
“You and your father think to catch you a husband with my land?”
He knew.
She ignored the pang of sadness that came with the realization that he was there for Falconwell. And not for her.
He kept coming, closer and closer, and Penelope’s breath caught in her throat as she backed away from him, trying to keep pace with his strides. Failing. She shook her head. She should deny the words. Should rush to comfort him. To settle this great beast who stalked her through the snow.
But she didn’t.
She was too angry. “It’s not yours. You lost it. And I’ve already caught myself a husband.” He needn’t know she hadn’t accepted the offer.
He paused. “You are married?”
She shook her head, moving away quickly, taking the chance to put distance between them as she slung her words at him. “No, but we will be . . . in no time. And we shall live quite happily here, on our land.”
What was wrong with her? The words were out, quick and impetuous and they could not be taken back.
He advanced again, this time with complete focus. “Every man in London wants Falconwell, if not for the land, then to hold it over my head.”
If she moved any more quickly, she would topple into the snow, but it was worth the attempt, for she was suddenly very nervous about what would happen if he caught her.
She stumbled, a hidden tree root sending her falling backward with a little screech, and she threw her arms wide, dropping her lantern in an awkward attempt to catch herself.
He beat her to it, his large, strong hands coming around her arms, catching her, lifting her, pressing her back against a large oak tree and, before she could regain her footing and escape, bracing against the wood to cage her in his arms.
The boy she remembered was gone.
The man in his place was not to be trifled with.
He was very close. Too close, leaning in, lowering his voice to a whisper, the breath of his words against the arch of her cheek heightening her nervousness. She did not breathe, too focused on the heat of him, on what he would say next. “They’ll even marry an aging spinster to get it.”
She hated him then. Hated the words, the way he spoke them with such simple cruelty. Tears threatened.
No. No. She would not cry.
Not for this beast of a man who was nothing like the boy she’d once known. The one she’d dreamed would one day return.
Not like this.
She struggled against him once more, irritated now, desperate to be free. He was stronger than her by half and refused to release her, pressing her back to the oak, leaning in until he was close—too close. Fear lanced through her, followed by quick, blessed anger. “Let me go.”
He did not move. In fact, for a long moment, Penelope thought he had not heard her.
“No.”
The refusal was emotionless.
She struggled again, kicking out, one booted foot connecting with his shin, hard enough to spur a very satisfying grunt. “Dammit!” she cried, knowing that ladies didn’t curse, knowing that she would likely spend an eternity in purgatory for the transgression but not knowing how else to communicate with this brutish stranger. “What are you going to do, leave me here in the snow to freeze to death?”
“No.” The word was low and dark at her ear as he held her, easily.
She did not give up. “Kidnap me then? Hold me for ransom for Falconwell?”
“No, though it wouldn’t be a terrible idea.” He was so close, she could smell him, bergamot and cedar, and she paused at the sensation of his breath brushing over the skin of her cheek. “But I’ve got something much worse in mind.”
She stilled. He wouldn’t kill her.
After all, they’d been friends once. Long ago, before he’d become handsome as the devil and twice as cold.
He wouldn’t kill her.
Would he?
“Wh—what is it?”
He stroked the tip of one finger down the long column of her neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Her breath caught in her throat at the touch . . . all wicked warmth and nearly unbearable sensation.
“You have my land, Penelope,” he whispered at her ear, the sound low and liquid and altogether too distracting even as it sent tremors of anxiety spiraling through her, “and I want it back.”
