Page 34 of Duke of Treason (Rogues from War 3)

Meeting her blow by skilful blow, he pressed uphill, but gained no ground. Back to her Posta Longa, the basic posture-left arm behind her head, back leg stretched, front leg flexed, right arm brandishing the sword-her gracefulness showed in every single movement. This was one more delight he must definitely repeat. Along with other… amusements.

But his wayward thoughts made him make mistakes, of which she was taking advantage. He lost the little ground he had gained, and they stood further down the slope, away from the horses.

Annabel was proud of herself for taking the Duke on with not so much effort. She trained mostly with men, so she got used to their more forceful swordplay. Fencing had been one of her favourites at her training.

Romulus found purchase in the high grass and tried to round her to get the higher ground. She kept it, even if her skirts did not make it any easier for her. Since she always practised in skirts, she found ways to use them to her advantage. Like now, she used them to attempt to disarm him by waving them at him. Not successful though he came to know his breeches gave him no better chances.

He neared her, their swords clashed and locked in a cross, dark brown hair floating on the sides of his square jaw. Eyes up, she found murky beacons trained on her, fierce, unmoving. His superior strength played in his favour here and she struggled to keep her ground. Their lengths touched on several points and she registered those taut muscles against her. Their eyes meshed, those murky ones piercing her unwavering. She held his sword like that, leading him to believe she would weaken. When he moved for the kill, she used his speed against him and disengaged from the other sword.

Both breathed jaggedly with the exertion as their swords collided again. She swivelled her sword to a blow that might disarm him, but he was ready and they locked anew.

Glaring her full in the eyes. “You are an excellent swordswoman.” He rasped very near her.

“Thank you.” She answered without disguising her pride.

“But this ends here.” He completed and flung his sword as it fell far down the slope.

Taken by surprise, she did not move for several seconds, their stances combative. She could not fence an opponent without a sword after all. So, she tossed her sword in the same direction as his with an annoyed jerk.

“We do not want anyone hurt, do we?” He gave in a blasé manner, looking at her from up his elegant Latin nose.

Their stares meshed and electrical currents connected them as time stanched, its stillness reflecting in the silence of the prairie. Only their breaths laboured in the open air.

In swift movements, his hand covered her nape and pulled her to him in a blunt kiss that took her by storm. He opened her lips with his and their tongues duel like their swords had minutes ago. She moaned in her throat with his ruthless advance, holding his shoulders to keep steady on her trembling knees. She inhaled the masculine scent that worked as a potent elixir in her bloodstream.

The other muscled arm banded her waist and tumbled her over the soft grass that bended to receive them. Flies buzzed around increasing the buzzing in her ears with the rush of blood. They lay head down the slope, reminding her of the day they fell on the tilted mattress.

“Your stunts turn me on like bush-fire.” He rasped as his impatient hands filled with her skirts and pulled them up her legs.

His words transformed her insides in lava and she was happy to have her legs free finally to cradle him. At that moment, nothing mattered, solely the hunger in her, the need that consumed her like blasts from an oven. The inclined position made blood flow to her brain and gave a heady sensation over the whole of her.

His rock-hard erection touched her centre throwing her in a frenzy of want.

Romulus searched her core, through the slit on her drawers, to find her hot, wet and ready. His fever for her soared to explosion point to realize she wanted him as urgently as he her.

It did not matter that they were in the middle of nowhere, under the open skies, like peasants in a mid-summer festival. He did not care, his wits scattered where he could not find them. Completely out of control, the enigmatic, tight, cynic Duke disappeared to give way to this man made of raw feelings and carnal demands.

He played with her engorged button, wishing to bleeding hell that her breasts were bare for him. So, he rested his head on her angled bosom, enjoying the softness over the fabric of her riding habit.

“Now, Romulus!” She commanded, and he had no chance to disobey her.

He freed himself and plunged in her hot wetness in one firm thrust and groaned when her arms and legs held him like vices. He drove deep, clashing their hips, hearing her moan for more. The inclination pressed him further in her, burying him so totally he lost the notion of where he finished and she started.

He plunged ever deeper, the grass swishing with their movements, their ragged breaths mingling with the misty air. She twisted under him, creating a friction between their bodies that must only be called torture. They became two beings made of mindless desire seeking as he plunged in her repeatedly. And he felt her clasp him with her spasms while she screamed unrestrained to the wind.

Helped by gravity, that propelled him even further, every muscle in his body tensed. His face contorted when he could hold it no longer. He spilled in her with such force, he thought he would implode, head thrown back, wild grunts grating from his throat. He fell on her wondering if he would ever breath evenly again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

She could not live like this, Annabel thought a week later. Pleasured to distraction by a Duke that showed every sign of being a traitor. A spectacularly failed mission her superiors did not even hear about yet. And her life hanging suspended amidst this whirlwind. She must disentangle from it. Or she would go insane.

Question was: How? More than that. Did she really want to resume her life? Did she really want to go to her colourless comings and goings of social appointments, endless assignments that would never get her to a prominent position in the government? Simply because there were no women in public service. This she did was unprecedented and most assuredly short lived.

At her own image on the mirror in the Duke’s dressing room, she had to face the most twistingly impossible question. Did she want to leave him? Cut ties, do the excruciating right thing, forget him?

Rubbing her face with her hands, she found the answers complex and daunting.

All she uncovered here were clues that did not confirm or deny anything. The Duke himself did not talk about it. And she must to be fair. She did not talk about her assignments either. This took her to a dead end. She had no conclusive proof. She gave nothing away of her presence here.

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