At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

Lydia sat up and scrambled backwards.

The lantern light caught the side of Greystone’s face, casting eerie shadows over the hard planes. His eyes were no longer imbued with the vibrant summer green that stole her breath. Now they were dark, dangerous, like the inner depths of a forbidden forest. The open collar of his white shirt billowed in the wind, revealing the pulsing veins in his neck.

Never had she seen a more breathtaking sight.

“Was one fist in the face not enough?” Greystone spat, rounding on the rascal.

“They’re right about you. You’re a damn heathen.” The cad’s words dripped with arrogance.

“I’m the heathen? You’re the one who lacks moral principles. And I intend to teach you a lesson you will never forget.”

“Is this any way to treat one’s brother?” Despite being taller than Lord Greystone, the rogue held his hands up as if warding off a tiger.

Did he say brother?

“You’re no brother of mine. What part of get the hell off my land do you not understand?” Greystone cast her a sidelong glance. Anger radiated from every fibre of his being. Lord, the devil had nothing on him when he was in a mind for murder.

“Our father might disagree.”

“Our father is dead.” Greystone narrowed his gaze. “And I know damn well you’re here for more than a card game. If I discover you’ve taken anything from the house, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I don’t need your worthless trinkets,” the rascal said haughtily.

“No?”

“No!” He pressed his back against the sacrificial stone and gripped the rock as if balancing on the edge of a hundred-foot ravine. “Besides, someone had to keep watch on the place while you were idling abroad.”

Greystone snarled. “What I do with my time is of no concern of yours. Perhaps you need a lesson in manners and etiquette. Perhaps I should call you out for disrespecting my home.”

Lydia noted Greystone’s murderous expression. He appeared desperate for an excuse to hurt his brother.

“You’d put a ball in my back?” the rogue said incredulously. “What about family loyalty?”

“How many times must I tell you?” Greystone clenched his jaw. “You’re not my brother. And so much for family loyalty. Your coward of a brother, Stephen, fled the manor without a backwards glance and is probably halfway to London by now.” Greystone shrugged his shoulders. “But perhaps you’re right. Why dirty my hands when my friend is just as eager to make you pay?”

“No!” The man’s head shot left and right, his frantic gaze peering through the gloom. “Keep that little fellow away from me, do you hear?”

Little fellow? Mr Drake was a burly brute.

“Shall I call Dariell?” A sly grin formed on Greystone’s lips.

Who on earth was Dariell?

Lydia stared into the darkness, too, but saw no one.

“No!” The rascal held up his hands. “Wait. Just let me pass, and I’ll be on my way.”

Greystone rubbed his collarbone, drawing Lydia’s attention to the bronzed skin beneath his open shirt. Her interest piqued, she imagined his sweat-drenched chest glistening under the heat of the midday sun. The hairs on her nape prickled to attention, and she grew somewhat light-headed.

Heavens, this silly obsession she’d developed proved too distracting by far.

“Even if I could forgive you for the disrespect shown to me. Do you expect me to let you walk out of here after the way you treated a lady?” Greystone’s shoulders relaxed. He cracked his neck and beckoned the rascal forward. “I intend to fight for her honour. Now, Edwin, you’re welcome to throw the first punch, but it’s likely you’ll leave here with a few broken bones.”

Greystone’s words sounded savage—brutal. Yet they lit a fire in Lydia’s heart that warmed her to her core. No one had ever fought for her. No one had ever come to her aid. For the first time since her father’s death, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

“You don’t fight fair.”

“Fair? What is fair about the way you behaved? Had I not arrived when I did, you would have—” He stopped abruptly and gritted his teeth. “I’m going to hit you regardless, so you may as well throw the first punch.”