The Infamous Rogue (7 page)

“Ah, the trademark of a proper lady: mindless chatter.”
She bristled.
“I have to keep my commitments,” he said in an indifferent manner. “Otherwise my behavior would reflect poorly upon my sister.”
Sophia snapped her brows together. “How
did
she marry a duke?”
The man’s features darkened. “A devious quirk of fate. Our father should have whipped her as a child. She would have had more sense as a woman, then.”
Sophia ignored the grousing remark. The man adored his sister. She wondered instead, “You don’t approve of her marrying?”
“I approve of her marrying…I don’t approve of her husband.”
The muscles in her belly tightened. She quickly scrambled away from the shoreline and started to slip on her stockings.
“Is something the matter, Sophia?”
“Nothing a’tall,” she said brusquely. “I think it’s time I return to the picnic.”
She wobbled, pulling on the silk legging.
He lifted to his feet, eyed her closely. “Do you need help?”
“Not from you.”
“I’ve upset you.”
She wrestled with the other stocking. “The devil you have.”
“I’ll take you back to the picnic.”
“No!”
“You might get lost.”
“I won’t get lost,” she insisted.
“I wouldn’t be a proper gentleman if I let you wander the woods by yourself.”
She dropped the stocking and glared at him. A surge of heat ballooned in her breast, making her heart throb. The ruthless devil! He stood there with cold propriety, espoused the manner of a proper gentleman…a man who approved of marriage.
She struggled to quell the burning shame in her belly. Was that why he had rejected her seven years ago? She had always suspected that he didn’t approve of her. She was the daughter of a pirate and a whore. She was good enough to be his mistress, but not good enough to be his wife.
She fisted her palms, her hands shaking. One silk legging hugged her leg and she took a mismatched step forward. “A proper gentleman wouldn’t be
in
the woods with a woman, unchaperoned.”
“Is that what the earl would do? Summon a chaperone? I’m not the earl.”
No, he was not the earl. The earl didn’t shake her senses and burn her blood and rattle her thoughts. The earl wasn’t a senseless brute. The earl didn’t
lie!
Sophia snatched the other stocking again.
An echo of voices circled the air.
She paused. “It’s the earl!” She recognized the man’s sprightly laughter, followed by the natter of females. She looked at the pirate captain with alarm. “Hide!”
“Why?”
“We can’t be alone together.” She brandished the loose stocking. “I’m half dressed!”
“Then I suggest
you
hide.”
She balked. “I thought you were a gentleman?”
“You just disabused me of that notion, remember?”
There was no time to quarrel; the voices approached.
Sophia cursed inwardly and cut James a dark glance before she picked up her shoes and moved deeper into the woods, squatting behind a bush.
“I can still see you,” he said with a measure of snide humor.
Sophia gnashed her teeth and crouched even lower.
“Don’t you feel ridiculous, sweetheart?”
She shushed him.
The voices more noisy, she also heard the sound of footsteps and swooshing skirts.
“Captain Hawkins!”
Sophia quietly struggled with the last stocking. She loathed the black devil for putting her in such a humiliating position. If only he would drown…no, she wished him shipwrecked, marooned on an island—inhabited by cannibals.
“Good day, Lord Baine,” said James. “I apologize for being so late.”
“Not a’tall, Captain. Let me see you settled.”
“Thank you, but a footman already took my bags.”
“Well then…You remember Lady Lucas?”
“How could I forget?” James bowed. “My lady.”
“Captain Hawkins,” the matron returned stiffly.
“And these are…”
The earl introduced the other chaperones as Sophia slipped on her shoes. But in such a cramped position with branches poking her body and leaves brushing her face, she wasn’t minding her surroundings and—
A twig snapped.
The earl looked into the woods. “What was that?”
Sophia swallowed a groan and removed her foot from the cursed stick.
“A skittish creature, I suspect,” said James. “The woods are full of mischievous nymphs.”
The earl chuckled. “Fancy a game of archery, Captain?”

James eyed the target.
In the summer heat, the red center pulsed. He focused on the bright spot until it slowly morphed into a beating heart.
He released the arrow.
It struck dead middle.
“Good shot, Captain.”
James lowered the bow, the earl’s praise hollow. He never missed a mark. “Thank you, my lord.”
As the earl nocked an arrow to the bowstring, James waited. A short distance away was a twisted oak with sagging branches—and a gaggle of females cooling in the shade. So stiff and formal and grotesque, the party seemed to guard their land, their house, their blood like stone gargoyles. They glared at James with warning, threatening him to keep clear of their closed circle of friendship.
The very thought that he wanted any part of their cold and foul cabal was repulsive, and he breathed deep through his nose to keep his fingers from crushing the bow in his hand.
James dismissed their snooty glances, maintained a taut posture, and fixed his eyes firmly on the ringed target.
The earl aimed. There was a soft whistle of air before the arrow struck the target one section below James’s win. It earned the earl only eight points instead of ten…yet a crescendo of applause from the ladies on the picnic blanket rumbled.
“Bravo, Lord Baine!” they cheered.
Maximilian appeared sheepish under the pulsing ovation. He offered his hand in respect. “I concede defeat, Captain Hawkins. Well played.”
James grasped his hand. “You are a worthy opponent, my lord.”
There was a small equipment table positioned nearby. Maximilian returned the bow to the table before he confronted the captain again. “Shall we join the ladies for some refreshment?”
James’s mood blackened even more. He would sooner the earl shoot him with an arrow through the chest. He smiled stiffly instead.
“Perhaps the captain would be so gracious as to play a game with me?” said Sophia.
Slowly James looked over his shoulder, the stiffness in his muscles weakening as he spotted his fellow pariah.
Sophia pegged him with her stormy eyes. It was the first thing he had noticed about her upon her return, that livid expression. He had yet to determine what had set her off in the woods, but he supposed it didn’t really matter when so much about her set him off in return. The woman’s gait, for instance. She was approaching in a prim manner. She never used to walk like there was a carrot pinched between her buttocks. She used to strut with a sensual grace that reflected her passionate spirit.
So much of the old Sophia was buried under layers of ghastly stoicism and confining apparel and reserved mannerisms. And a deep-rooted darkness stirred in his breast, waiting for each right moment to come along so he could strip away one putrid, suffocating layer.
Sophia used a parasol as a walking stick. She handed the frilly accessory, speckled with mud, to a peeved-looking chit before she moved toward him with a smile that belied the fury in her eyes.
She then turned her smile toward the unsuspecting lord, and he, poor sap, looked so smitten, James almost sympathized with the dullard.
“How did you enjoy your walk, Miss Dawson?” said the earl.
“The grounds are lovely, my lord.”
“I’m so glad you approve of them.”
“How could I not? You have an impressive variety of flora. I even stumbled upon a rare cluster of
Hiera-cium lachenalii
.”
As she crouched behind the bushes? James reflected on the image with caustic humor. However, it begged the question: How long would she hide behind the metaphorical bushes before she grew weary of the restrictions imposed upon her, cast them off…and came back to him?
There was a mark of approval in the young lord’s eyes. “Yellow Hawkweed? I didn’t know you were an amateur botanist, Miss Dawson.”
“I have a penchant for gardening.”
That much was true. James remembered the wild and bright blooms that had covered the grounds surrounding their plantation house. He remembered the many fragrances that had soaked the air, the rich night blossoms that had teased the breeze with their divine scent. The breeze that had moved through the dark rooms and passageways, that had made the house alive in the evening…when he was alone with her.
“I think it a worthy attribute for a woman to be educated in botany,” she said. “It means she can tend to the gardens of her husband’s home.”
The earl beamed. “I heartily agree with you, Miss Dawson…and the hawkweeds?”
“Oh, I plucked them and stomped on them.” She cut James a biting glance. “You don’t need the pests disturbing your pristine grounds.”
James stroked the fine wood bow in his hands, a small, wry smile touching his lips.
“Are you not too tired for a game of archery, Miss Dawson?” wondered Maximilian.
“After a refreshing stroll? Not a’tall, my lord.”
The earl’s mooning was growing tiresome. James was having trouble keeping his breakfast in his belly. Sophia was a hardy woman. She might feign maidenly airs, but any man with half a wit could see the brilliant color in her cheeks and the luster in her eyes and the strength in her stance.
“Well, you have a fierce opponent, Miss Dawson,” said the earl.
She didn’t respond aloud, but James watched her lush lips move in rapid stokes, and he read the silent words:
So does he.
“Do take care, Miss Dawson.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The earl motioned for a servant to clear the two targets of arrows before he moved off.
The last of the seemingly heavy manacles restricting James was lifted as soon as Lord Baine strolled away. The man joined the rest of the
haute monde
on the picnic blanket, leaving James unfettered from tedious social norms. The critical company still eyed him and Sophia with sharp regard. However, the party was far enough away to hear nothing of their exchange, and James took in a deep and refreshing breath to be apart from them…to be alone with Sophia.
She picked up a leather glove from the equipment table.
“What are you doing, Sophia?”
She didn’t bother to look at him. She responded curtly, “I’m about to trounce you.”
A heat smoldered in his belly. It was always a thrill to compete with her. In years past if he had won a contest the prize had been her submission in bed…and if he had lost a contest the forfeit had been no less pleasurable, for he had enjoyed submitting to her desires.
But there was no such award at stake now. There was only a test: a test of wills. Who would crumble first under the unnatural pressure imposed by the
ton?
“No, I mean the glove,” he said.
She looked at the leather. “What about it?”
“You’re about to put it on the wrong hand.”
She pinched her dark brows. “I have to shoot with my dominant hand.”
“Yes, I know. But what will the earl think to learn you are left-handed?”
She balked. She had clearly failed to consider the matter when she had challenged him to the game—but he had not. It was an ideal opportunity for him to show her that acting like one of
them
was a fruitless effort; she would always fall short. To win, she would have to be herself.
He pressed on to underline: “What do you think the earl will do if he discovers you have a blemish, sweetheart? Do you think he will still ask you to be his bride?”
She fastened the leather glove to her right hand. “Go to hell, Black Hawk.”
He smiled and gathered a projectile from the equipment table before he aimed for the target.
The arrow pierced the red mark.
“That’s ten points for me.”
Sophia glanced at him with venom before she nocked the arrow to the bowstring. The arrow quiv ered in her weaker right hand. She pinched one eye closed as she aimed.
The arrow cut through the air—and landed in the grass thirty paces off the mark.
She flushed.
James grinned inwardly.
Chapter 6
T
he ladies’ drawing room boasted fine wood furnishings upholstered in rose fabric and marked with a faint harlequin pattern. Every well-crafted piece was curved and flowing: the bowed legs, the balled feet. Curved and flowing and feminine. Even the pastel colors in the room reflected tenderness. Together with the floral wall print and pink glass oil lamps, the space made Sophia’s head ache.
“Well, I’m glad supper is over,” said Rosamond.
The ladies had gathered in the drawing room for tea and pastries. Sophia was seated in a round-back chair in front of an inlay table. The table illustrated a couple courting: a gentleman pushing his sweetheart in a tree swing. Sophia pictured James pushing her in a tree swing and almost snorted at the absurd image.
“I very nearly lost my appetite,” griped Anastasia.
Sophia smothered her fanciful thoughts. She glanced across the room to spot Lady Lucas seated with the other matrons, sewing beside the firelight. The woman’s presence offered Sophia comfort. She had more confidence in her social abilities with her chaperone in the room. And Sophia was going to need all her skills, her poise to endure the uncomfortable conversation.
Rosamond served the tea. “Did you see his table manners?”
“Has he ever held a fork before tonight?”
As Rosamond and Anastasia complained about the captain’s dining habits, Imogen and Sophia quietly sipped their tea in dainty cups with painted pink roses.
Sophia wasn’t entirely sure what the two other women found so disagreeable about the pirate’s eating habits. But she wasn’t an authority on the matter of etiquette, either. If the man had made an error with his fork, the blunder was subtle, for Sophia hadn’t noticed it.
“And his meaty hands!” said Anastasia. “The fork looked like a child’s toy between his thick fingers.”
Was that the man’s mistake, having big hands? Sophia quickly glanced at her own fingers. Were her hands well proportioned to the rest of her body? She didn’t want to have gauche fingers.
But then she remembered James’s meaty palms, so strong and robust. Thick fingers had never hampered his swift movements.
She closed her eyes at the sharp memory that welled in her mind: James stroking her nipple to painful arousal. He might not be handy with a fork…
“The man is a barbarian!” said Rosamond.
Sophia opened her eyes and blinked a few times, her cheeks warm. The man
was
a barbarian. She had to remember that. She had to keep repeating the slanderous remark over and over again in her head until she stopped having wistful thoughts about the black devil.
Rosamond feasted on a raspberry tart with coconut sprinkles. “He doesn’t even have the good manners to let a woman win at archery.”
“Well, it was hard to let Miss Dawson win when she missed the target so often,” said Anastasia.
Sophia swallowed a groan.
“That’s beside the point,” countered Rosamond. “If Miss Dawson missed, he should have missed, too. It’s just common courtesy.”
Sophia flushed. She didn’t need the man to play with a handicap because she was a woman. She was a qualified markswoman—but only if she used her left hand.
She should not have challenged the brigand to a game of archery. But he had stirred her temper into a foul snit with his mocking remark about marriage. He had wanted her to suffer, the blackguard. He had wanted her to know he approved of marriage—but not with her. She wasn’t good enough to be his wife.
Sophia set the teacup aside, her fingers shaking. If he had not riled her so with his brutal remark, she would not have confronted him in such a dander. She would not have asked him to humor her with a game of archery—and she would not have humiliated herself in front of the earl and the rest of the party.
“I hear his brothers are far more civilized,” said Rosamond.
Anastasia sniffed. “I don’t believe it. They all share the same blood.”
“I met one of his brothers at the ball.” Rosamond patted her lips with a white napkin. “He wasn’t a beast like the captain.”
“I’m astonished.” Anastasia made a grimace. “I don’t see why the captain insists on being in society.”
“My dear, everyone
wants
to be in society,” said Rosamond. “But the barbarian does not belong in it.”
Sophia’s heart cramped. The blood in her veins thumped with restless energy, as she pondered the dreadful thought: Did the
ton
believe
she
didn’t belong in society, either?
“True, Mondie,” returned Anastasia. “He does
not
belong in good society. Does he think we don’t notice his wild hair?”
“Or how he casts his brow in a frown?”
“Or how he stomps his feet like a jungle boy?”
Sophia’s heart started to pound.
I can still see who you are, Sophia. You cannot hide behind layers of satin and fool me.
The pirate captain wasn’t fooled by her ladylike manners. Did the
ton
also see past her refined speech and rich wardrobe to the wild creature she used to be? Did they secretly whisper about her, as they whispered about James?
“Give us a kiss, Sophia!”
One drunkard grabbed his cock in a crude gesture and sucked on his bottom lip, making a loud smacking sound. “Kiss me, Sophia. I’m tastier.”
“No, kiss me! I’ve got a prick you can ride all night.”
Sophia dropped the basket, blistering heat coursing through her veins. She was about to draw her knife and cut off the foul men’s cods, when the three hecklers quickly composed their mocking brows and sneering lips.
A young woman approached the rabble. She was pale, with curly locks, a fashionable flaxen blonde. She looked ridiculous in the tropical heat with her layers of linen, a bonnet and parasol to match. Sophia could see the sweat glistening across her wide brow and slim, aquiline nose. However, she maintained the regalia with a chaperone to boot…and she commanded respect
.
The governor’s wife strolled past the vagrants.
“Good day, Mrs. Smith,” the men murmured in unison and doffed their scruffy caps
.
Mrs. Smith ignored the tramps. She walked past them with formal grace…offering Sophia a brief look of scorn as she went.
Sophia fisted her palms, staring after the prim and proper woman. Her heart thundered in her ears, her mind swelled with dark thoughts as shame billowed inside her breast. She struggled to tamp the roiling grief—the rage!—blustering in her head.
Mrs. Smith condemned her as a whore and treated her accordingly. The islanders’ snickers and sneers had become commonplace, for Sophia was considered a trollop: no one of consequence, no one deserving respect.
The hecklers started up again, their jeers growing louder in her head. Sophia grabbed the basket and hurried through the lively street.
Sophia’s heart smarted at the long-ago memory. The laughter still resounded in her head, the islanders’ vulgar remarks still pierced her ears and jabbed her skull, the looks of scorn still filled her breast with shame. Would she have to endure the humiliation again? Would she have to endure the jeers and whispers and looks from the