The Misbehaving Marquess (11 page)

A ROGUE IS NOT TO BE TRUSTED

Lady Helen Silverton can spot a scoundrel at ten paces. Thanks to her lying father and gambling brother, she’s been left with siblings to protect and creditors at her door. There’s only way to stave off disaster—find her brother's fabled winnings, a fortune in buried treasure. But danger stalks her every move.
 
She's not the only one after the gold.
 
And a sun-kissed, silver-tongued rogue is out to steal her heart.

NEITHER IS A LADY

After years of exile, Roane Grantham is eager to begin a new life without the law on his heels. First, he needs gold—his gold, buried one drunken night long ago. But treasure hunters are after what's rightfully his, including a petite, bold-as-brass blonde who is as enticing as she is exasperating. Forming an uneasy alliance, they adventure through deep forests and high peaks of England. But they can’t outrun their past. When Helen slips away with the gold, Roane must fight for the greatest treasure of all—love.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Rogue Returns:

Roane strolled across the darkening clearing toward her, the two bedrolls tucked under his arm.

Helen watched his approach, her heartbeat thick and fast. She should look away, she really should, but found she could not. At some point that evening, perhaps while she’d been preparing the fire, Roane had unbuttoned his shirt. The white fabric gaped open, revealing the banded, rough-hewn muscles of his chest. Powerful. Raw. Golden. The man was magnificent.

Dazzling, really.

And not good for her at all.

Best she turn away, yes, give him her back so she wouldn’t be tempted to look again.

“Where would you like to sleep tonight, Buttercup?” He stopped behind her, leaned close so the heat of his skin shivered up her spine. “Will you sneak into my blankets again?”

She jerked her chin to the side. “Certainly not.” Her voice lacked conviction.
She
lacked conviction. The truth was, she hadn’t minded sleeping beside him last night. His hot, firm body pressed against the length of her. His arm resting just below—

Goodness, these thoughts were not helping.

“Don’t be absurd,” she said harder this time, speaking both to herself and to him. Roane was a rake and a rogue. She knew his type. Had lived with such men her entire life. She should not be so affected.        

“Are you certain?” She could hear the smile in his voice, could imagine the sparkle in his blue eyes. “I could put our blankets together and address that ill temper of yours.”

Helen did not trust herself to answer. She held the knotted string up to a ray of the setting sun. She was making a muddle of the task. Her palms were damp and her mouth parched, as if her body could no longer balance such a simple thing. Moisture. Dryness. Attraction. Reason. Teasing. Truth.

“You didn’t seem to mind sharing my warmth last night, Buttercup.” He stroked his fingers down her long braid and she closed her eyes.

At once, she was exhausted. Wore out and sore from the long ride that day. Fatigued from fighting her attraction to Roane, from deflecting his endless flirtations.

She just wanted to give in. And that was something she would never do.

Helen dragged her eyelids open, pulled her braid from Roane’s fingers and turned to face him. Well, face his chest, anyway, and the deep V of tanned skin exposed by his open shirt. She tilted her head back and looked up over the strong column of his throat, over his sharp jaw and smiling mouth to his watching eyes.

She took a small step back. “Last night was an exceptional evening. We were in a
cave
, if you recall.” A dark, dank, creepy, crawly cave. “And we had only one blanket.”

Roane tossed the two bedrolls onto the flat rock beside them. “I should have
claimed they hadn’t any blankets for sale in Bakewell this morning.”

“An English village out of wool?”

“Anything to keep you close, Buttercup.” He winked.

The man was incorrigible. Helen looked away and once again struggled to unknot the strings of the food bag. “I’ve asked all day, and yet I ask again. Will you
please
stop calling me Buttercup.”

“But you are so sweet.”

“I am not that sweet,” she muttered. “Damn these tangles. I can’t get them—”

Roane slipped
the burlap sac from her hand
and examined the knotted strings. Calloused, patient fingers coaxed the tangles loose. She did not glance up when he placed the food bag on the rock.

“Yes, you are sweet.” He hooked his finger under her chin and nudged her head up. Their eyes met, then he dropped his gaze down to her lips. “Sweet and spicy and tempting as sin.”

It was a simple glance, but it left her hot.

Hot and achy and full of want.

This was ridiculous.
She
was ridiculous. “Tempting as sin? Really?” She arched away from his touch. “How original.”

His lips tilted up. “I’ve wanted to kiss you all day, Buttercup.”

“And why would I let you kiss me?”

“Because I could make you feel wonderful. Exceptionally wonderful. ”

Her face flushed at his silly words. She would put an end to this immediately. She could no longer stand his teasing. The compliments and double entendres. For heaven’s sake, she was beginning to believe them.

Somewhere, in the deep of her soul where longing was stronger than reason, she wanted Roane to be telling the truth.

She wanted to be beautiful, enchanting. Tempting as sin.   

She wanted to be kissable.

And that was even more dangerous than his honeyed words. Her wanting.

One kiss and she would be free from her attraction. Free from him. Surely their embrace would be bumbling and awkward and full of lies.

She took a deep breath and looked up. “Very well, Roane, you’ve convinced me.” She waved her hand toward her lips. “Kiss me.”

“What?” Roane jerked his chin up. His blue eyes were hot on her.

“I said you’ve convinced me. Let us on with it.”

“What?” he said again.

“I’m raising the white flag of defeat. I’m charmed by your roguish ways. I’m awash with desire. Your flirting and pretty words have hit their mark. Kiss me.”

He ran his hand through his hair, leaving the blond curls on end. “What game is this, Helen?”

“What makes you think it is a game?”

His brows lowered over his eyes. “You don’t appear like a woman who needs to be kissed.”

She drew back, stung by his remark.

“Your lips are smashed together,” he continued. “And your shoulders are tense.”

So they were. She let herself relax, softened her neck and shoulders. This was no game, no challenge. She wanted Roane to kiss her.
Needed
him to kiss her.

She took a deep breath and unlaced her desire. Let her wanting show on her face, just this one time. Later, she would tuck it away where it belonged, hidden in the darkness of her dreams.

Now, tonight in this shadowed meadow, she wanted to touch the tempting man before her. To run her hands over the hard span of his shoulders. Over his stubbled jaw and smooth lips. 

She wanted to taste him.

Her lips parted.

“Much better,” he rumbled.

His hand landed on her wrist. Warm fingers wrapped around her delicate bones and tugged her forward. Too far gone for rhythm, her heartbeat crashed against her ribs.

What had she done?

Roane slid his hand up her arm to the back of her neck. “I am not a nice man, Helen. I kiss sweet girls who should know better than to taunt me.”

“I am not a girl, Roane. I know what I want.”

“Good, because I make no promises about my behavior.” His voice was low and sent a tremor skittering across her skin. It was a tone that very well did make promises. Promises of touches, tastes, lingering caresses. And pleasure.

He bent down, a lock of hair sliding over his forhead, but stopped when his mouth was just inches from hers. In the end, it was she who pressed her lips to his. His mouth was softer than she had expected. His lips full and warm.

He wrapped his hands around her waist and drew her toward him. Pulled her against the hard wall of his body.

She was set aflame.

And she was proven wrong. Entirely wrong. Blissfully wrong.

He could kiss like an angel. Like a devil.

And there would be no putting away this wanting now.

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Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

“The Misbehaving Marquess,” © 2012 by Leigh LaValle.

KINDLE EDITION

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