The Infamous Rogue (10 page)

Perhaps she should not have faked a wounded ankle. But in a panicked state of mind, she had thought it a savvy ploy to get the earl’s affection. She had failed to anticipate the drawbacks, however. That the earl would fret, encourage her to rest in seclusion…that a notorious pirate lord would come along and gather her into his strapping arms.
She inwardly cursed the black devil for upsetting her soul.
“Let the good doctor enjoy the party,” she said in a whimsical voice.
The earl had invited the healer to stay for supper. But Sophia didn’t want the doctor to fuss. If the man suspected she was ill, he would order her confined to her chamber. She would lose the opportunity to engage in courtship with the earl. She would stalk the bedroom endlessly…thinking about James.
Sophia stared as the shadows on the green lengthened and reached for the house. She eyed the dark shapes creeping across the rolling lawn and quivered.
Even the pirate lord’s name evoked mighty sentiments…sensual memories. The man’s handprints were still seared on her flesh. His sultry breath still teased her cheeks and aroused her nerves.
“It’s only a headache,” she said in a shaky voice. “The cool night air is so refreshing; it chases away the discomfort.”
“Your headache might be the result of your ankle injury. Perhaps you should come inside and sit down?”
“Thank you for your concern, my lord. But a light breeze will do me good, I’m sure.”
The earl frowned. “Our walk was too long this morning. You must forgive me, Miss Dawson. It was thoughtless of me to take you so far. I just wanted to show you the grounds. But I failed to think the journey might be too exerting for you.”
“I enjoyed our walk today, truly. Please don’t blame yourself for my condition.”
“It’s my fault,” he insisted. “You must allow me to express my sorrow and shame.”
It was not the earl’s fault she was so frazzled…it was Black Hawk’s.
Sophia took in another sharp breath. She wanted to pound the ruthless devil with her fists, cut off his sensuous fingers with her knife. She wanted to choke him, maim him…ravish him with her lips.
She started as the earl slipped his fingers through hers and lifted her hand. “Will you accept my apology, Miss Dawson?”
Sophia stared at the man’s tender fingers, so clean and crisp and well manicured. He stroked her knuckles softly, cooled the fiery blood coursing through her veins with his steady words and unmoving inflection.
He wasn’t James.
Sophia gathered her wayward thoughts. The earl wasn’t James. The earl didn’t stir the longing in her soul. He was everything she needed in a respectable partner: quiet and upright. A man with scruples and good sense and polite manners.
She would be cold sometimes. But she would gladly endure the formal, even indifferent relationship between a wife and a husband if it offered her prestige. She didn’t need passion. She had endured enough hardship under its tight hand, suffered the sneers and crude jokes as Black Hawk’s mistress. She would not put herself in another position to be mocked; the pain was too great.
“There is nothing to forgive, my lord.” She smiled. “I’ll be inside shortly.”
After a short pause, he kissed the back of her hand. “Very well, Miss Dawson.”
Sophia stared after his departing figure. He had kissed her! Not on the lips, true. But the affectionate gesture was a sure sign he was ready to propose. She was so close to her goal. She was so close to making her dream come true.
Sophia imagined being the next Countess Baine. She pictured a faceless gentleman as he doffed his hat in deference, a lady as she curtsied. The impression was vivid, the longing in her heart profound.
She turned away and looked at the sunset again. Soon. Soon she would be free of the ignominy, the fear of censure. Soon she would be free of James.
Something stirred at the back of her neck. She swatted at it, rubbed her skin. But there was nothing there. It must have been the wind, she thought. But once more the pressure rested on her flesh, her bones.
She bristled.
“Where are you, Black Hawk?”
“Right here, sweetheart.”
She glanced over her shoulder. He stepped out of the shadows and pressed his shoulder against the wall, locking his arms together. He had been hiding in the garden. Listening to her exchange with the earl?
Her heart started to pound. He had tucked his fingers under his arms, out of sight. But she still sensed their arousing touch at her thigh.
She quelled a shiver. “I’m not your sweetheart anymore, remember?”
“No, you’re not my sweetheart anymore,” he said softly. “I’ve replaced you in my bed.”
Her pulse quickened. The balmy heat that had blanketed her just a moment ago vanished, replaced by a vicious need to bite his damnable finger. She dismissed the unwelcome spurt of jealousy, choked it quiet.
“What do you want, Black Hawk?”
“I told you not to call me that in public.”
Sophia quickly looked inside the house. The curtains served as a shield, guarding them from the other guests. But the glass was parted, allowing the merriment to seep outside.
She lowered her voice and hissed, “Then keep your distance.”
He approached her instead.
She turned away from him, nerves thrumming. The sun was gone. A soft chorus of chirping crickets filled the dark stillness.
She shuddered as the pulsing heat from his torso nestled behind her. She inadvertently licked her lips.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Have you overexerted yourself today?”
He
had
been listening to her conversation with her earl. He was tossing the man’s words back at her in mocking reverberation.
Sophia bit her bottom lip with a savage pinch. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t touch her. She could feel him breathing, though. He stirred her hair. And then his breath caressed her ear.
“You’re not fine.”
Slowly he fingered her ear in a feathery stroke, brushing aside the stray curls, making her shiver.
“What will you do when you’re hungry, Sophia?” He skimmed the rim of her earlobe with the tip of his tongue. “What will you do when you’re married and your bones throb in the dead of night? Who will you turn to?”
Not you.
She fisted her palms as the ache welled deep inside her.
“I don’t need passion,” she repeated the mantra. She was in a daze, a trance. There was a deep echo in her ears, her heart beat wildly. “I don’t need you.”
“No, you don’t need me…you have everything you need in the earl.”
She gasped. “Yes.”
Touch me!
No! She didn’t want the beast to touch her. She didn’t want the black devil to soil her with his wicked hands.
“How will you live, sweetheart?”
He moved his lips to the back of her neck. He didn’t touch her with his mouth, but he touched her with his sultry breath.
Sophia swallowed a groan, tamped the feral impulse into the pit of her soul. She was shaking. It was a faint quiver, but it sapped her energy and made her feel weak.
“What will you do when you want to dance in the moonlight—or swim in the nude?”
She shuddered at the erotic memory. She closed her eyes and willed away the enchanting dream.
He moved to her other ear, tortured her with more whispered words. “What will you do when you lose your temper? Do you think the earl will play a game of chess with you?” He grazed her hair with his nose. “Do you think you will ever win another argument once you’re married? He will be your husband then. He will always be right in all matters.”
He was chipping at her resolve, the blackguard! She remembered Quincy’s words again:
James hates to be in society. I think it comforts him to make the rest of us miserable.
Was that what the rogue was doing? He sensed the earl was about to propose, he sensed she was about to be happy, so he wanted to make her miserable?
Sophia gathered her strength. She opened her eyes and confronted the scoundrel. “I will gladly submit to my future husband…but not to you,” she said tartly. “Never again to you.”
The man’s lips firmed.
“Supper is served,” the butler announced from inside the house.
Sophia abandoned the brigand in the shadows and entered the drawing room. The glowing candlelight warmed her already flushed features.
Imogen stepped beside her and offered support. “Are you all right, Miss Dawson?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Let me escort you to the dining hall.”
Sophia simpered at the young woman. “Thank you, Miss Rayne.”
“Imogen, please,” she whispered back with a genial grin.
The earl took his sister by the hand. He smiled at Sophia from across the room. She returned the affectionate gesture before the whole party filed out of the room.
Sophia still burned with desire for the formidable brigand’s sensuous lips. But the passion inside her would wither and die with time. And once she was married, she’d bar the black devil from her house—and soul. She would never suffer the pangs of longing again.

James was slow to cut the roasted duck, for it was like carving his own flesh. The surreptitious scrutiny from the other guests hampered his movements—and stoked the fire in his belly.
He thought about dropping the gold fork and grabbing the meat with his fingers, chewing the cooked fowl like the barbarian that he was…like the barbarian they all believed him to be. But he refrained from the whim. He wouldn’t disgrace his sister in a moment of thoughtless passion. And he wouldn’t give
them
the satisfaction of being right about him.
“Mr. Dibbs.” Rosamond summoned the butler. “Please tell Cook to delay the next course. Captain Hawkins is still eating.”
The haughty bitch was still miffed with him, it seemed. He had ruined her stupid game the other night by guessing her shallow thoughts too quickly. So petty and immature, she had fixed her eyes on the peacock ornament: the most sparkling decoration in the drawing room. It was too easy to suppose she would pick the brightest treasure in the space.
“There’s no reason to delay the next course on my account,” said James. “I’m finished.”
Rosamond pursed her pampered lips as a footman collected the dishes. He had insulted her by leaving most of the meal untouched, for she had designed the menu. He had unintentionally insulted the cook, too. But James wasn’t about to give the arrogant chit the satisfaction of calling him a slow-witted barbarian.
“I saw the loveliest great spotted woodpecker in the woods today,” said Imogen. “It had a brilliant red crown and vibrant underside.”
James glanced at the woman seated to his left. He sensed her discomfort, her distaste for confrontation. She wasn’t one to let an awkward moment stretch or a silent void go unfulfilled, he supposed. She wasn’t like the other wolves at the table.
As the assembled company commented on the bird sighting, James glanced at Sophia. She was seated across the table from him, prim and proper in a rich agglomeration of silk and linen. The quiet, lily white frock was a stark contrast to her deep, earthy brown tresses. And the lavish diamonds at her breasts winked in the candlelight, blinding the guests. But then that was the stone choker’s purpose, wasn’t it? To blind the guests and keep them from seeing who she really was?
The earl was hoodwinked for sure. One look at the simpering mooncalf confirmed the man was smitten with Sophia; he considered her a great treasure. But poison seeped from the viper’s lips and cruelty flourished in her cold heart.
Sophia ignored him with commendable resolve. She sensed him watching her, he could tell. A pulse throbbed at her throat. But she resisted the temptation to meet his gaze. Instead, she smiled and engaged in light table conversation with the doctor seated beside her.
Dessert was making its way around the table. Sophia was served after the earl and she dipped into the bowl of sugared plums.
James watched as she lifted the glazed fruit to her lips with a spoon. A smidgen of frosting rested near the corner of her mouth, and she patted her lips with a napkin. He imagined the sweet icing dripping from her lips and pooling between her breasts. He imagined slipping his tongue into her bodice and licking the sugary syrup off her tender flesh.
He stiffened at the erotic image. He heard the woman’s wanton sighs of pleasure in his head. Blood and muscle and bone ached under the pressure of the lusty dream, and he gnashed his teeth to do away with the haunting reflection. He had come to the country house party to seduce Sophia, not to be seduced by her. He needed to bolster his seduction if he wanted to get the witch into his bed and foil her courtship with the earl.
“Dr. Crombie, I understand you champion a new form of treatment to cure all types of illness,” said the earl.
The distinguished physician was senior in years, his soft brown hair speckled with gray. He was a rotund man with a brusque manner. But he enjoyed the pleasures of country dining and feminine companionship, for he had consumed two of everything and eyed all the ladies with interest.
“Yes,” said the healer, “it’s called mesmerism.”
“Mesmerism?” Rosamond quirked a brow. “What is that?”
The doctor wiped his lips with the napkin. “Mesmerists believe the mind, if properly focused, can cure any ailment.”
“No surgery or medicine?” said Lady Lucas.
“None a’tall,” returned the doctor.
The company appeared both skeptical and intrigued by the claim. James half listened to the unfolding conversation, too engrossed with Sophia’s subtle movements as she savored the sugared plums with almost licentious delight.
“Doesn’t the treatment involve magnetic irons, too?” said the earl.
“Under the teachings of its founder, Dr. Franz Mesmer,” said the physician. “Mesmer had his patients place their feet in a pool of water while holding magnets. However, the practice has evolved to exclude all external forces. Today we focus solely on the mind.”
“And how does one focus solely on the mind?” said Sophia in a soft and measured voice. The tip of her tongue darted between her lips. She licked the icing from the corner of her mouth, making James’s head throb.
“The patient is placed in a trance,” said the doctor. “The presiding physician then offers instruction and therapy to cure the individual.”
“My goodness!” from Lady Lucas.
The earl leaned forward. “Have you had success with the procedure, Dr. Crombie?”
“Great success, my lord.”
“Can you cure a headache, for instance?”
“Certainly, my lord. I can treat both minor and serious afflictions.”
Rosamond glanced at her brother. “Do you have a headache, Max?”
“Not I, no…But I was thinking about Miss Dawson.”
The harridan dropped her fork and turned to her charge in alarm. “Are you ill, my dear?”
“I’m fine, really.” Sophia quickly squelched the fuss. “I had a little headache earlier in the evening. I feel much better now.”
“You don’t look well, Miss Dawson,” said Anastasia. “You look sickly.”
Sophia soured under the implication. James almost snorted with laughter. She wasn’t suffering from a headache or an injured ankle. She was suffering from unfulfilled lust. The woman had a hard heart; she had dismissed him earlier in the evening. However, she had not dismissed the stirring feelings inside her. Not entirely. He sensed her arousal. And with steady encouragement, he intended to get her to admit those feelings aloud.
“Well, if Miss Dawson is agreeable, I will gladly perform the mesmerism,” said the healer.
Sophia looked cornered. It seemed every guest at the table considered it a good idea that she undergo the treatment to cure her “headache.” If she resisted, she might be classified as unreasonable or even reckless for putting her well-being at risk. And perish the thought she should be considered as anything other than perfectly agreeable.
A few minutes later they were all cloistered inside the drawing room. The ladies gathered around Sophia, who was seated in a chair opposite the physician. The earl stood behind the doctor, looking on. Meanwhile, James remained in the shadows beside the window.
The healer removed a luminous bauble from his coat pocket. “I want you to look at the timepiece, Miss Dawson.”
Sophia sighed. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed at the watch as instructed.
James shifted his eyes to the timepiece, too, thinking about the fob watch Sophia had gifted him seven years ago.
“Concentrate,” said the doctor. “Look into the watch…fall deeply into the watch.”
James glared at the radiant timepiece in the firelight. He remembered the ticking sound coming from the watch Sophia had given him on the island. He remembered returning to the empty plantation house, the small box sitting on the windowsill. He remembered admiring the fine timepiece, the polished glass face, the sleek hands…and then reading the elegant inscription on the back of the watch:
May you rot in everlasting hell
.
“Close your eyes,” said the doctor.
James closed his eyes.
“Take a deep breath.”
James breathed in a slow and heavy breath.
“Concentrate on the pain.”
He gripped the cold gold between his fingers, knuckles white, blood pounding in his ears. He let out a robust cry before he smashed the watch against the wall.
“Think deeply about the pain. Let it fill your mind, your soul.”
He glared at the damaged timepiece on the ground, imagined grinding it into the floorboards. But he crouched beside it instead and started to pick up the pieces.
“Now I want you to stop thinking about the pain. Think about a pleasant memory instead.”
James watched the woman from afar. So lovely. More lovely than any of the delicate blooms in the garden. She was kneeling, her bare toes buried in the moist soil. She cared for the garden, for him with such passion. And it welled inside him, the profound and stirring sentiment…
I love you, Sophia.
“I want you to feel at peace…now open your eyes.”
James opened his eyes, bewildered.
“How do you feel?” said the doctor.
“Wonderful,” said Sophia. “My headache is gone.”
James thought the bones in his breast about to snap. Blood throbbed in his head under the crushing pressure of the haunting memory. He pressed his fingers to the desperate pounding at his temples, crushing the pulsing nerves into submission.
The pain was alive and deep and burning in his belly. The old wound bled without mercy, filling him, drowning him.
A crescendo of applause.
“Bravo, Dr. Crombie!” cheered Rosamond. “That was magnificent.”
“Yes, well done,” praised the earl.
The doctor beamed. “It was my pleasure to be of service.”
James swallowed the bitter bile that was churning in his belly, rising in his throat. What service? The blasted healer had ripped him apart. He was in greater agony now than he had been on the night of the earl’s ball—on the night he had reunited with Sophia.
James glared at the coterie swarming around the “cured” Miss Dawson, and he vowed the witch would not get the better of him—ever again.
Chapter 9
“M
esmerism is so fascinating…is your headache truly cured, my dear?”
Sophia eyed the steam rising from the bath in the adjoining room. She longed to slip under the balmy water and let the heat ease her stiff muscles and sore temperament. But Lady Lucas was filled with vivacious energy. Sophia suspected she might not reach the warm pool before it cooled.
“Yes, Lady Lucas.” She sighed. “I’m fine.”
Sophia was wearing a silk wrapper, her hair pinned. She was sitting on the bed as the matron strutted across the room in quick and lively steps. But Sophia wasn’t really fine. She wasn’t suffering from a headache…but a throbbing in her bones that refused to cease. A pity the physician’s performance hadn’t put her in a trance and cured her ailments. Perhaps the hot bath would fare better in that regard—if she ever reached it.
“The earl shows you great affection, my dear.”
Sophia’s heart swelled. “Do you really think so?”
“Oh yes. Do you see how he cares for your needs? He went to fetch the physician as soon as you injured your ankle. And tonight he even urged the doctor to heal your headache.” The woman eyed the bright patterned rug as she paced. “Mark my words, Miss Dawson. The earl is very much in love with you.”
Sophia had thought the same thing. It was a comfort to hear the matron express a similar conclusion. It proved she was not imagining the whole courtship…as the black devil had wanted her to believe.
The dark and striking image of Black Hawk filled Sophia’s head. She remembered him standing on the balcony, strapping arms folded. He had concealed his fingers from her. The fingers that had caused her so much anguish earlier in the day. The fingers that still disturbed her senses and tortured her mind.
She dismissed the man’s mesmerizing features from her thoughts. She reflected on the earl instead.
Sophia sensed the tingling sensation in her fingertips. There was a thickness in the air, making it hard to breathe, and she took in a deep breath to satisfy her greedy lungs. Soon she would be the next Countess Baine. The thought put her in a near tizzy, for she was so close to achieving her dream. She even tasted the air of respectability in the opulent setting surrounding her. The lavish drapery and fine furnishings and bright carpeting reflected the tastes of a proper lady: one she was very much determined to become.
“If only the barbarian wasn’t here,” griped the matron.
Sophia’s heart cramped. What about the barbarian? He was a wicked soul, irredeemable. Had he misbehaved? Had he said something foul to Lady Lucas?
“How dare he force his attention on you, Miss Dawson. And right in front of the earl!”
Sophia was alarmed. Had the earl witnessed her exchange with the captain on the terrace? Had he observed the ruthless brigand whisper into her ear?
“What do you mean?” she said, parched.
“He handled you like an ogre this morning.” The matron sniffed. “It was so distasteful. You must have suffered sorely, my dear.”
Sophia sighed. She had suffered, yes. She suffered still. It was seared in her memory, his adroit fingers working under her skirts, teasing her flesh until she trembled with need. But she would endure the discomfort, the restless energy teeming inside her. She would not risk betraying him as a rogue; the truth might expose her own infamous past.
“But I suppose we must be cordial with the captain,” said the matron. “The earl’s befriended the barbarian.”
An oddity, that. But Sophia supposed the earl was just being hospitable. The captain had saved his sister from a disgraceful fall, after all. It stood to reason the man would be so affable and courteous.
“Let us forget about the barbarian, Miss Dawson.”
A sound idea. She was fagged. The day had boasted both successes and setbacks. She was one step closer to becoming the next countess. However, each step proved more troublesome with Black Hawk at her heels. She wanted to rest in the warm and inviting water and forget about her grueling ordeal for a few blissful minutes.
“The earl will propose to you soon. I can sense it.”
But the matron’s assured words piqued Sophia’s interest once more. She put aside the thought of a bath and relished the humming joy swelling in her bosom. “He will?”
“Oh yes.”
“When?”
“Patience, my dear. The earl is a prudent man.” She muttered, “Perhaps too prudent.”
“How do you mean?”
“Prudence is a virtue…but it can lead to an indecisive nature. The earl might be struggling with the right thing to do: to marry you or not to marry you. We must plan our next move carefully. We must encourage the man to propose. What are our plans for tomorrow?”