Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed (Sons of Sin 1)

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.

Dread coiled in her belly. Dread and unwilling curiosity. When she looked at Merrick, unfamiliar heat eddied through her. Since agreeing to take Roberta’s place, she’d told herself her travails would be vile. Vile travails would leave her self-respect, if not her virginity, intact. Those glittering eyes hinted that self-respect would be the first casualty of this desperate bargain. She swallowed to moisten a parched mouth and her hands tangled in the sheets beneath her. She was so taut, she feared she’d snap in two if he touched her.

A muscle jerked in his cheek and his fists clenched at his sides as his leisurely investigation paused at her breasts. Seconds spun into scorching fire. To her humiliation, her nipples tightened. An aggravatingly knowing expression narrowed his eyes and a smug smile curved his lips. He knew he didn’t repulse her, much as she wished he did.

His lingering attention descended to the triangle of feathery brown hair between her legs. It was as if he touched her there. Molten heat flooded her belly, made her gasp with surprise. She squeezed her thighs together and her hand whipped down to shield her sex. “Stop it,” she whispered, the demand thick with tears she refused to shed.

He seemed not to hear. Instead, he stepped nearer and slid his hand behind her neck. She started, then sat unmoving. Through encroaching warmth, she felt the roughness of faint calluses on his fingers. After a charged hesitation, he ran his hand lightly down her neck to the pulse racing in her throat. Every nerve leaped and the molten sensation widened, deepened, left her unbearably agitated. Her instinct was to pull away, drag up the covers, cower.

Pride kept her still.

That searching hand dipped lower, stroked the upper slopes of her breasts. Then glanced across one beaded nipple. Unwelcome pleasure sizzled through her. In the silence, her unsteady breath was audible. Even the storm seemed to pause in anticipation. Her gaze flew to his face, where she found desire, but also something that looked like wonder. Her heart skipped a beat, then crashed painfully against her ribs.

“You’re beautiful,” he said hoarsely. Delicately he circled her nipple then cupped her breast in one large hand.

It was too much. She couldn’t endure these lying overtures, however sweet. They lent a gloss of false tenderness to what was at its basest level a squalid business arrangement. She jerked away and slid down the bed. At last she summoned courage to look into the mirror above. She lay rigid, her body pallid against the sheets. Her face was drawn with fear and determination. Hectic color marked her cheekbones.

“Do it.” She hardly recognized the strident voice. “For God’s sake, don’t torture me. Just… do it.”

For a long time, the man reflected in the mirror didn’t move. Then with a smooth swiftness that made her wanton heart kick into a gallop, he seized the heavy brocade cover.

“Your pardon, Miss Forsythe.” He didn’t sound at all like the shaken, sincere man who told her she was beautiful. With a contemptuous gesture, he tossed the covers over her nakedness. Shock held her speechless as he turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. “I find tonight my taste doesn’t run to martyrs.”

Chapter Three

In the cavernous hall, Sidonie Forsythe stood tall and straight in a pool of pale sunshine. She wore her heavy cloak and she clutched her valise at her side.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jonas strode across the flagstones and stopped a few paces short of her. Thank God he was an early riser or he’d be too late. He’d been flicking through the prospectus for a canal scheme when Mrs. Bevan lumbered into the library to announce the young lady requested use of his carriage.

At his furious question, Miss Forsythe whipped around. She stared dismayed into his face and he knew they both revisited those blazing moments in his bed. The memory thundered through him like the blast of a thousand cannons. Her lovely eyes darkened with what he could only interpret as humiliation before anger rescued her. “Don’t you ever dress like a Christian?”

Again, she surprised him. He liked that. He liked it almost as much as he’d liked seeing her unclothed body last night. And he’d liked that very much indeed.

He released a derisive grunt of laughter. “This is my house. If I want to run around in my shirtsleeves, I will. If I tour the estate stark naked, I daresay it’s my privilege.”

Delicate color tinged her cheeks at the mention of nakedness. This morning she looked brighter. She must have managed some sleep after he’d stormed from her room.

He wished to Hades he had.

“It’s nothing to me what you wear.” Calm determination masked any disquiet. He’d lay money that composure was as false as the canal scheme’s projected profits. “We’ll never see each other again after all.”

“I wouldn’t place too much store in that particular prediction,” he said drily. “It’s a devilish shabby trick to sneak away without a by-your-leave.”

“We have nothing to say to one another.”

“You think not?” He turned to Mrs. Bevan. “Tell Hobbs the carriage isn’t required.”

“Mr. Merrick—” Miss Forsythe began in a repressive voice.

He’d be damned if he was squabbling with her out here while his housekeeper stood around with flapping ears. “Perhaps you’d rather continue this discussion in the library.”

“I’d rather leave your house and pretend these lamentable hours never occurred.”

“So vehement for daybreak.” He weighted his tone with completely spurious boredom. “It’s a trifle fatiguing.”

“Only for a man of your advanced years,” she snapped back.