Anna Campbell: Seven Nights In A Rogue's Bed

Just as the man himself was striking.

Nervously wondering what game he played, she watched him cut a couple of slices of hard yellow cheese and place them on some crackers. For such a large man, he had surprisingly elegant hands. In the uncertain light, the ruby ring flashed sullenly like a warning. She’d expected to feel hostility and fear. And she did. But other emotions pulsing between them were less defined. Curiosity, certainly. Wary rapprochement. Something electric and unfamiliar.

The prickly interest was more disturbing than terror or dislike. She was aware of Merrick with an animal intensity she’d never felt before.

He extended the plate toward her. Without thinking, she lifted a cracker and nibbled at it as he wandered away to lean against the carved post at the base of the bed. A ghost of a smile played around his mouth. Her eyes traced the sharply defined cut of his upper lip, the full sweep of his lower one. The disturbing mixture of fear and fascination he aroused left her restless, unsettled.

“I thought you’d be—” she began, then wondered if it was wise to mention his plans to ruin her.

“I can imagine.” He offered the plate again.

She took another two crackers. “Why are you here?”

“In this bedroom? Fie, Miss Forsythe, you’re too coy.”

She blushed with mortification. “No.”

He returned the plate to the tray and poured two glasses of claret. “You mean at Castle Craven?”

“Yes.” She accepted the wine and took a sip. Then another. Pleasant warmth eased alarm to a murmur. The hand gripping the sheet relaxed from white-knuckled tension. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient to seduce Roberta at Ferney?”

A few years ago, Merrick had purchased Ferney, the estate adjoining Barstowe Hall’s dilapidated splendor. He’d then spent a fortune creating a residence fit for a viscount. Goodness, fit for a prince. Sidonie had never ventured beyond the gates, but what she’d seen of the exterior made Chatsworth look like a shanty. The neighbors were always gossiping about the house’s magnificence. Although wisely never within William’s hearing. Sidonie had applauded the unknown Jonas Merrick’s audacity. He made it impossible for her brother-in-law to escape the knowledge that in all ways except inheritance, he was a rank failure compared to his cousin.

Merrick’s faint smile lingered as he loaded more crackers and offered them to her. “Even the most dilatory of husbands would retrieve an erring wife when he merely needs to cross his estate boundary.”

She accepted the plate and propped it on upraised knees. The action meant releasing the covers. Merrick didn’t seem to notice how they sagged over her bosom. “You could be right.” She polished off another couple of crackers. “And naturally you enjoy the gothic drama of this setting.”

“It never crossed my mind.”

She sent him a skeptical glance and took more wine. The glass was half empty. How had that happened? “Are you trying to get me intoxicated?”

“No.” He raised his wine in a silent toast.

“It won’t work, you know.”

“What won’t work?”

“Trying to soften me up with liquor.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. I’d hate to think you so green as to fall for that old trick.” He took her now empty glass, returning it to the table along with his. “Have you finished with that plate?”

“Yes, thank you.” She passed him the empty plate, which he placed on the tray. She’d expected to be cold and proud when he came to take her virginity. Instead she felt confused and surprisingly in charity toward Mr. Merrick. Not that she wanted him to do…that. But it was difficult to summon the outraged self-righteousness that had sustained her so far.

Perhaps the alcohol had done its work after all. That and his self-effacing kindness in making sure she ate something. Poor foolish Sidonie Forsythe. Forfeiting her chastity in return for a few scraps of good farm cheddar.

No, this weakness was dangerous. If she succumbed without demur, she’d never live with herself. “Stop toying with me,” she demanded with sudden harshness.

With excess force, she flung away the bedcovers and lay flat, staring fixedly up at the mirror. A man who liked to watch himself with a woman deserved contempt. Heavens, he didn’t even try to hide what an unregenerate voluptuary he was.

Although it was difficult to maintain a disapproving silence when the blackguard intent on her deflowering burst into laughter. “Good Lord, Miss Forsythe, you desperately need advice on your wardrobe.”

“It’s only my…my nightdress.” She refused to look at him.

Uneasiness crammed in her throat when he prowled closer. “There’s room for six in there.”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “Did you expect me to wear nothing at all? The night’s too cold, apart from anything else.”

Mr. Merrick subjected her to a thorough and searing inspection. She just knew he pictured her naked and it was her fault for mentioning the possibility. All her life, people had warned that her impulsive tongue would get her into trouble. She was most definitely in trouble. Not just because Mr. Merrick’s manner had within an instant transformed from nonchalance to interest. That fleeting accounting of her body extended mere seconds, yet every inch of her skin burned. Her belly clenched with a painful mixture of shame and reluctant excitement. She met his eyes, then heartily wished she hadn’t. The predatory glint was unmistakable.

“There’s room for maneuver between nakedness and that tent you’re wearing.” His gaze sharpened. “Did you think I’d quail at all that flannel?”

“I took what defensive measures I could,” she muttered, staring upward again. Although truthfully it hadn’t occurred to her to pack anything other than her usual nightwear.

“You underestimate the stimulating power of imagination,” he said drily. “I’m intrigued to discover the treasures beneath that billowing fabric.”

In wordless horror, Sidonie turned her head to stare at him. His shell of carelessness disintegrated and she read raw hunger in his saturnine face. The air vibrated with blazing sexual awareness. In the bristling silence, the sound of rain sheeting against the windows was a jarring intrusion.

“Take it off,” he said softly.

Dear Lord …

The time had come. Of course it had. She’d arrived on Merrick’s doorstep inviting him to tup her. He was hardly likely to turn her away in favor of an early night with an improving book. Reluctantly, her heart thundering panic, she sat. With shaking hands, she fumbled for the nightgown’s hem. Briefly her vision drowned in white flannel, then she was free. With a defiant gesture, she tossed the garment to the floor. She refused to meet Merrick’s gaze just as she refused to betray her humiliation by covering herself with her hands.

Now the true wickedness of this mirror-filled room struck hard as a hammer on brass. Like endless echoes of that clanging blow, everywhere she looked, she saw her naked body. Over and over again. Pale skin. Jutting breasts. Bare legs.

Reflected a hundred times, Merrick loomed above her, tall, dominating, uncompromisingly male. In candlelight, his loose shirt glowed with supernatural whiteness. He hadn’t shifted since she’d removed her nightdress, but the tension in his long body indicated any plea for mercy would go unheeded. His stance conveyed hunting readiness.

The silence stretched until she wanted to scream.

She twisted at the waist to face him. His expression was vivid with what, even in her innocence, she recognized as arousal. In his angular face, his eyes blazed hot silver. He was no longer the languid, sardonically amused man who’d fed her a makeshift supper. This man was captive to appetite.