Seven Nights In A Rogue's Bed

Chapter Two

In the elaborate four-poster bed, Sidonie huddled under the covers. Outside, the gale tore at the castle walls. Its roar made her feel even more defenseless. Fear had hounded her since Roberta had come to her at Barstowe Hall two days ago and begged for help. Fear cramped her stomach and lodged like a boulder in her throat. Fear tasted foul in her mouth.

Second thoughts came too late. Whatever Merrick did to Sidonie couldn’t compare to the consequences if William discovered his wife had shared his enemy’s bed. Roberta’s recklessness had placed them all in jeopardy. Sidonie. Roberta. Roberta’s two children, Nicholas and Thomas. But how could Sidonie maintain her anger? Roberta had been more mother than sister when the two Forsythe girls had lived under their parents’ negligent regime. Then Roberta had exchanged her father’s cold, sarcastic tyranny for her husband’s cruelty. Over eight years of marriage, Roberta had changed from a vivacious, affectionate girl into a nervy shadow. The only time Sidonie glimpsed a trace of Roberta’s former gaiety was if she won at the gaming tables.

When she was on a winning streak, Roberta was blind to all consequences. It wasn’t difficult to picture Jonas Merrick luring her into deeper and deeper play. Until finally he held his enemy’s wife in his power.

For pride’s sake and to avoid damaging scandal, both William and Roberta kept the misery of their union a domestic secret. Jonas Merrick could have no idea of the damage he threatened to the innocent when he accepted Lady Hillbrook’s vowels. Or perhaps he guessed and didn’t care.

So now Sidonie waited in Jonas Merrick’s bed like a sacrificial lamb. She guessed this was Merrick’s room, although the only evidence of his occupancy was a set of heavy silver brushes on the dressing table, and some subtle scent lingering on the linen and in the air. When he’d kissed her downstairs, he’d imprinted himself on her senses in a way she couldn’t define. And didn’t like. His touch had left an invisible mark. That frightened her almost as much as what was to happen in this glittering chamber. When she pictured him crushing her into the mattress with his powerful body, a scream swelled in her constricted throat.

Her surroundings offered no reassurance. Instead, they added to mounting dread, even as they puzzled her. This was the most bizarre room she’d ever seen. Gold proliferated. On the ornate old-fashioned furniture, the sconces along the walls, the glinting metallic thread in curtains and carpets. Everywhere Sidonie saw herself reflected in battalions of mirrors. Instead of paintings, gilt mirrors lined the walls. Cheval mirrors in each corner. A mirror above the dressing table, over the chest of drawers, between the doors of the armoire. Most surprising—and daunting—was the large oval mirror suspended from the tester above her head.

This proof of her mercurial host’s vanity baffled her. His careless dress didn’t indicate overweening conceit. Surely any normal man would shrink from dwelling so obsessively upon his disfigurement.

Reflected high above, she saw a pale girl lying straight and still as a cadaver under the heavy cover, gold of course. Thick brown hair was severely pulled back from her face and one fat plait snaked its way across her chest. A girl lying alone. Mr. Merrick seemed in no hurry to pursue his conquest.

At first, Sidonie had perched on a chair. When she’d started to shiver in the damp muslin, she’d changed into her night rail. As hours passed, marked by the ormolu clock on the cabinet, she’d shifted to the bed. Why draw out the preliminaries? There was no escape from the endgame.

Sourly she wondered whether Merrick would demonstrate more ardor if instead of an inexperienced stranger, her pretty sister awaited. But of course he hadn’t lured Roberta here because he wanted her. He’d concocted this scheme to score points against his cousin, Lord Hillbrook. This was just the latest spiteful gambit between bitter enemies.

Tightening her grip on the covers, Sidonie struggled for fatalistic calm. But courage faltered when she imagined Merrick shoving himself inside her. Would he expect her to undress? Would she have to…touch him? Would he kiss her again? Absurdly, that seemed the greatest threat of all. His kiss left her flummoxed. It had been chaste as a child’s buss upon the lips. Although the fact that Mer-rick was long past childhood robbed the act of genuine innocence.

She’d never been kissed before. Not by a man. Not with desire.

How sad that her first kiss occurred in such sordid circumstances. Sad and insidiously shameful. Because she hadn’t hated his kiss, even though she should. Mer-rick’s kiss had left her intrigued rather than outraged. What would it be like when he took liberties beyond mere kissing?

No, she wouldn’t think about it. She wouldn’t…

Easier said than done when she lay in Merrick’s bed.

Although her host had long ago lost any legal right to use the Merrick name. He should by rights employ his mother’s surname. Jonas Merrick was son to Anthony, the late Viscount Hillbrook, and the Spanish mistress purporting to be his wife. When the viscount’s younger brother successfully challenged the supposed marriage, Jonas was declared bastard. Upon Anthony’s death, his nephew William inherited the Hillbrook title and the feud between Jonas and his cousin, stemming from boyhood, had only become more vicious.

Sidonie shivered. William’s reaction when he learned his bastard cousin had tumbled his wife—surely this scheme’s object was that William would find out—was unthinkable. Remembering that Roberta’s very life depended on what happened in this bed bolstered Sidonie’s purpose. Until the heavy door opened and Mer-rick prowled into the candlelit room.

A deeply feminine fear, thick and heavy as tar, coalesced in Sidonie’s stomach as she surged up against the headboard. Merrick appeared impossibly large lounging against the door, arms folded across his lean chest. Candlelight flickered over his ruined face, lending him a devilish mien.

Wearing nothing more than shirt and breeches, he should be freezing. He must have a superhuman resistance to cold. Even with the fire blazing in the grate, Sidonie was grateful to have the covers to keep her warm. And to conceal her from his gaze. Which was daft. He’d do considerably more than look at her before the night was out.

He regarded her with the same searching curiosity she’d noticed downstairs. She had no idea what went on behind those deep-set eyes. He tilted his chin toward the tray on the dressing table. “You didn’t eat much.”

“No.” Nerves killed appetite. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, when she’d choked down a piece of toast and some tea. She swallowed to moisten a dry mouth and forced a calmness she didn’t feel into her voice. “You were kind to send it up.”

He shrugged as if it was nothing. During recent years Sidonie had seen little evidence of kindness and she knew to value it. He’d sent up hot water, too. After travelling all day, she’d felt tired and worn. Ridiculous how a wash restored her spirit.

“Don’t interpret my remark as a complaint, but this is a nonsensical thing for you to do.” He studied her as if he meant to winkle out her deepest secrets. One of those secrets gave her more power over him than he’d ever guess. Foreboding flooded her, knotted a belly already tight with fear. The knowledge she possessed was dangerous and she knew to her bones that Merrick made a bad enemy.

She pushed upright, clutching the gold covers to her chest. “By nonsensical thing, you mean sleeping with you?” she asked acidly.

A wry smile rewarded her sharpness. He had a nice mouth, expressive, generous enough to hint at sensual expertise way beyond her ken. “What happens when you marry? How will you set your lack of maidenhead right with your husband?”

Her jaw firmed and she spoke with absolute certainty. “I’ll never marry.” She braced for protest. Most people found it inconceivable that a woman would choose spinsterhood.

“I see.” His expression remained neutral. “I imagine Roberta’s experience has put you off the idea. In the interests of justice, I must point out that William is a poor example of my sex.”

She raised her chin. “Most of the men I’ve met have been poor examples. Selfishness, arrogance, and bullying appear inalienable elements of the masculine character.”

“Tut. I blush for my gender,” he said lightly.

“You’re hardly an exception,” she said bitterly.

“Sadly true, dear lady.” He straightened and strolled across to the tray. “Now what have we here?”

She frowned after him in confusion. His manner expressed no urgency. She’d been sure he’d insist upon having his wicked way the instant he arrived. That couldn’t be chagrin she felt at his lack of dispatch. But there was something lowering in rendering one’s virtue to an unrepentant rake, only to find him reluctant to do his worst.

Merrick wasn’t living up to lurid expectations. Roberta had described a fiendish seducer, a man of surpassing hideousness. When she first saw his face, Sidonie had been appalled, mostly because such scarring could only result from excruciating injury. Now, even after their short acquaintance, she saw past the scarring to the man beneath. That man was no monster. His features intrigued more than mere handsomeness. His was an interesting face, full of vitality and intelligence. Striking.

Just as the man himself was striking.

Nervously wondering what game he played, she watched him cut a couple of slices of hard yellow cheese and place them on some crackers. For such a large man, he had surprisingly elegant hands. In the uncertain light, the ruby ring flashed sullenly like a warning. She’d expected to feel hostility and fear. And she did. But other emotions pulsing between them were less defined. Curiosity, certainly. Wary rapprochement. Something electric and unfamiliar.

The prickly interest was more disturbing than terror or dislike. She was aware of Merrick with an animal intensity she’d never felt before.

He extended the plate toward her. Without thinking, she lifted a cracker and nibbled at it as he wandered away to lean against the carved post at the base of the bed. A ghost of a smile played around his mouth. Her eyes traced the sharply defined cut of his upper lip, the full sweep of his lower one. The disturbing mixture of fear and fascination he aroused left her restless, unsettled.

“I thought you’d be—” she began, then wondered if it was wise to mention his plans to ruin her.

“I can imagine.” He offered the plate again.

She took another two crackers. “Why are you here?”

“In this bedroom? Fie, Miss Forsythe, you’re too coy.”

She blushed with mortification. “No.”

He returned the plate to the tray and poured two glasses of claret. “You mean at Castle Craven?”

“Yes.” She accepted the wine and took a sip. Then another. Pleasant warmth eased alarm to a murmur. The hand gripping the sheet relaxed from white-knuckled tension. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient to seduce Roberta at Ferney?”

A few years ago, Merrick had purchased Ferney, the estate adjoining Barstowe Hall’s dilapidated splendor. He’d then spent a fortune creating a residence fit for a viscount. Goodness, fit for a prince. Sidonie had never ventured beyond the gates, but what she’d seen of the exterior made Chatsworth look like a shanty. The neighbors were always gossiping about the house’s magnificence. Although wisely never within William’s hearing. Sidonie had applauded the unknown Jonas Merrick’s audacity. He made it impossible for her brother-in-law to escape the knowledge that in all ways except inheritance, he was a rank failure compared to his cousin.

Merrick’s faint smile lingered as he loaded more crackers and offered them to her. “Even the most dilatory of husbands would retrieve an erring wife when he merely needs to cross his estate boundary.”

She accepted the plate and propped it on upraised knees. The action meant releasing the covers. Merrick didn’t seem to notice how they sagged over her bosom. “You could be right.” She polished off another couple of crackers. “And naturally you enjoy the gothic drama of this setting.”

“It never crossed my mind.”

She sent him a skeptical glance and took more wine. The glass was half empty. How had that happened? “Are you trying to get me intoxicated?”

“No.” He raised his wine in a silent toast.

“It won’t work, you know.”

“What won’t work?”

“Trying to soften me up with liquor.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. I’d hate to think you so green as to fall for that old trick.” He took her now empty glass, returning it to the table along with his. “Have you finished with that plate?”

“Yes, thank you.” She passed him the empty plate, which he placed on the tray. She’d expected to be cold and proud when he came to take her virginity. Instead she felt confused and surprisingly in charity toward Mr. Merrick. Not that she wanted him to do…that. But it was difficult to summon the outraged self-righteousness that had sustained her so far.

Perhaps the alcohol had done its work after all. That and his self-effacing kindness in making sure she ate something. Poor foolish Sidonie Forsythe. Forfeiting her chastity in return for a few scraps of good farm cheddar.

No, this weakness was dangerous. If she succumbed without demur, she’d never live with herself. “Stop toying with me,” she demanded with sudden harshness.

With excess force, she flung away the bedcovers and lay flat, staring fixedly up at the mirror. A man who liked to watch himself with a woman deserved contempt. Heavens, he didn’t even try to hide what an unregenerate voluptuary he was.

Although it was difficult to maintain a disapproving silence when the blackguard intent on her deflowering burst into laughter. “Good Lord, Miss Forsythe, you desperately need advice on your wardrobe.”

“It’s only my…my nightdress.” She refused to look at him.

Uneasiness crammed in her throat when he prowled closer. “There’s room for six in there.”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “Did you expect me to wear nothing at all? The night’s too cold, apart from anything else.”

Mr. Merrick subjected her to a thorough and searing inspection. She just knew he pictured her naked and it was her fault for mentioning the possibility. All her life, people had warned that her impulsive tongue would get her into trouble. She was most definitely in trouble. Not just because Mr. Merrick’s manner had within an instant transformed from nonchalance to interest. That fleeting accounting of her body extended mere seconds, yet every inch of her skin burned. Her belly clenched with a painful mixture of shame and reluctant excitement. She met his eyes, then heartily wished she hadn’t. The predatory glint was unmistakable.

“There’s room for maneuver between nakedness and that tent you’re wearing.” His gaze sharpened. “Did you think I’d quail at all that flannel?”

“I took what defensive measures I could,” she muttered, staring upward again. Although truthfully it hadn’t occurred to her to pack anything other than her usual nightwear.

“You underestimate the stimulating power of imagination,” he said drily. “I’m intrigued to discover the treasures beneath that billowing fabric.”

In wordless horror, Sidonie turned her head to stare at him. His shell of carelessness disintegrated and she read raw hunger in his saturnine face. The air vibrated with blazing sexual awareness. In the bristling silence, the sound of rain sheeting against the windows was a jarring intrusion.

“Take it off,” he said softly.

Dear Lord …

The time had come. Of course it had. She’d arrived on Merrick’s doorstep inviting him to tup her. He was hardly likely to turn her away in favor of an early night with an improving book. Reluctantly, her heart thundering panic, she sat. With shaking hands, she fumbled for the nightgown’s hem. Briefly her vision drowned in white flannel, then she was free. With a defiant gesture, she tossed the garment to the floor. She refused to meet Merrick’s gaze just as she refused to betray her humiliation by covering herself with her hands.

Now the true wickedness of this mirror-filled room struck hard as a hammer on brass. Like endless echoes of that clanging blow, everywhere she looked, she saw her naked body. Over and over again. Pale skin. Jutting breasts. Bare legs.

Reflected a hundred times, Merrick loomed above her, tall, dominating, uncompromisingly male. In candlelight, his loose shirt glowed with supernatural whiteness. He hadn’t shifted since she’d removed her nightdress, but the tension in his long body indicated any plea for mercy would go unheeded. His stance conveyed hunting readiness.

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.”