At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

The light from the lantern revealed the ginger whiskers covering his cheeks, the sly grin as he scanned her body, the trickle of blood dripping from one corner of his mouth.

Had he tripped and fallen in the bracken? Had he been attacked by highway robbers and beaten for his purse? If one believed Ada’s improbable tales, perhaps he had feasted on the blood of a woodland creature. While Lydia knew with some certainty it was not the latter, his shifty eyes proved menacing.

“Well, what have we here? Perhaps the night won’t be a damnable waste after all.” His hushed tone conveyed an accent born in the upper echelons of society although there was something crude and distasteful about his manner. “The bastard chased you off, too, did he? Gilligan said there’d be fillies tonight, but I didn’t expect to have to race through the woods to find one.”

I advise you to remain indoors tomorrow evening.

Mr Gilligan’s words of warning whipped through Lydia’s mind. Heavens, she had forgotten all about the steward’s unscrupulous plans to host a card game. Lord Greystone was right about the guest list. This man looked every bit the disreputable rogue.

Lydia considered her options.

He appeared reluctant to move from his hiding place. She could run, run back through the woods, hope to lose him in the mist. But first, she had to move to the edge of the circle without alerting him of her intention.

“I suppose you came for the card game.” Would her eloquent tone deter him from whatever dastardly notion had taken hold of his mind?

“There seems to be many games afoot tonight though I’ve yet to be dealt a blasted hand.” He watched her, his silver-blue eyes alight as if stripping off her clothes and taking pleasure in what he found there.

She listened out for more footsteps—for a sign they were not alone—but heard nothing.

“So you’re running from Lord Greystone?” she said, her mouth so dry she had to force her lips apart to speak.

“Greystone’s a devil.” The man sneered. “And so is that odd fellow he’s got with him.”

One glimpse of Mr Drake’s large frame was enough to frighten any man out of his wits.

Lydia tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. “Cuckfield is that way,” she said, pointing to the left. “You can find food and lodgings at the coaching inn.”

“Bugger that. I’ll not leave my damn horse. That blasted foreigner might roast it on a spit and eat it for supper.” Feeling somewhat braver, he pushed away from his stone shelter. He stopped and scanned the area, cocked his head and listened. Clearly satisfied that Greystone had given up his pursuit, the man stole furtively towards her.

“Sh-should you not be on your way? Before Lord Greystone finds you.”

“I’ll be damned if I’ll go home with nothing to show for my efforts.” He moistened his lips as he came to a halt a foot away. “A fellow must ease his frustration. What do you say we make use of that flat stone behind, eh?”

Knowing there was nothing for it but to fight her way out of this troubling situation, Lydia pushed the man in the chest. “Stay back, sir, else I shall … I shall scream.”

Scream? What good would that do in the woods?

“I can make you scream,” the cad said. Wearing a villainous grin, he forced her back against the stone. “Or you can be a willing participant. I have no preference either way.”

Oh, how she wished she had a hat pin, perhaps two, one for each cheek.

“Then it seems I have but one option open to me.” Without warning, Lydia mustered all her strength and punched the rogue hard in the stomach.

“What the—” The man clutched his abdomen and gasped for breath. “You damn bitch.” Lydia skirted past him and made to leave. She’d taken four paces when she felt his vice-like grip settle on her wrist. “Come back here. There’s only one place for a whore, and that’s on her back.”

There was a mad tussle. She scratched his face, threw her arms about like a wildcat. He shoved her to the ground, dropped to his knees and pushed her skirts up to her thighs.

“Get off me.” Lydia kicked him but he covered her body, squashing her into the damp grass. “You drunken oaf.”

“Keep still.” Holding her down firmly with one hand, he fiddled with the fall of his breeches. The repugnant stench of stale tobacco, sweat and ale filled her nostrils as she tried to gather a breath. “You’ll enjoy every minute. I can promise you that.”

“And you’ll be lucky to leave with your ballocks intact. I can promise you that.” The familiar voice sh

rouded Lydia like a warm blanket.

Greystone!

The heavy weight lying on top of her was suddenly catapulted into the air.