Page 11 of Duke of Treason (Rogues from War 3)

He was the enemy, for pity’s sake! Her sole option was to keep a cool head if she wished this pulled through once and for all.

In the dark of night, though, there could be no denying the feminine need he unleashed, or the fantasies he enticed. Or how naïve she had been at eighteen, to think a few kisses would have been enough. They had been mere crumbs for a body that lived in an e

motional desert. Then and now.

As sunrise seeped through the drapes, she forced herself to get up and take her breakfast. She decided to go for a walk in the outer bailey as the weather looked warm.

On her way down, she passed by the solar, its door ajar, murmurs inside the room. Slowing, she approached the slit on the door and sharpened her ears.

“… does not mind the meeting in his house, Your Grace.” That man, Miller, if she remembered well, was saying.

“That is good news.” The unnerving Duke’s deep rumble answered. “Let us settle it for tomorrow morning. Tell the others.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” A pause. “Is that all?”

“Yes, Miller.” Another pause. “And be careful. This is too serious and we cannot afford any mistake.”

Annabel left in quick, silent steps. She would have to be at this Burns’ house tomorrow. Her contact missed talking with her yesterday, but that would have to wait until she handled this more pressing matter.

Miller came to where she stood when she just stepped in the garden.

“My lady.” He bowed. “His Grace requires your presence in the solar.”

Lightning shot through her body. Apprehension and giddiness tangled in her. “Thank you, Mr. Miller.” She could only be in for an interrogation, she cogitated walking there.

Her rose day dress checked, her simple chignon in place, she braced herself for what was to come. And sailed through the solar door as if her heart did not beat a battle drum.

The sight of him made said heart beat a whole war drum. Standing by the window, half turned. His tall figure clad in his usual black, trousers lining his powerful thighs and long legs, shirt hinting at his broad shoulders. Hands in his pockets, which strained the fabric over his muscular chest, sleek dark-brown hair tied in a leather string, he brooded at the sun.

Torrid heat surfaced all over her skin. The sole thought that came to her was she would give anything to unlace the impeccable black cravat and uncover the skin he so liberally exposed yesterday. And yesterday brought the inconvenient string of memories of clove tang and male scent, strong arms around her and bristling mouth on her skin.

“Your Grace.” She curtsied, lowering her lashes to hide her response to him.

No use. He turned to her, his murky gaze took her in from chignon to walking boots and had her moistening her lips, parched of a sudden. He did not miss that either, the murky shade going greener.

“Annabel.” That he did not bother with her title did not concern her, but her name in his deep tones did, for the savouring of it. “Close the door and have a seat.” Command so natural for him. Did no one tell him that the war ended and he got no more regiment to address?

She chose a seat, and he sat behind his massive desk. “You can start your story from the beginning. I am listening.”

Right to the point, are we?

“I am sure I do not know what you mean.” As a buying time ruse, she did not think it too smart.

His gaze trained on her, distrustful and unwavering, from up his long nose. “Your yesterday’s stunt tells a tale of long training.”

“Oh, that.” The intensity of his scrutiny held the power to bare her to him, which called for retreat tactics. She stood, straight spine, high chin. “I am afraid I have nothing to say about it.” She looked down on him at once. “If this is all, Your Grace.” She hoped her brisk pacing to the door discouraged him.

What a delusion! His large prowl took him away from his desk as her hand found the door-knob.

He neared the door. “I heard of a man roaming the vicinity of the graveyard.” She pulled the door opened. He banged the door back shut, his hand resting on it over her head.

“So?” She evaded anew. Cold shiver ran though her at his mention of the fact.

“Were you going to meet him?” He stood so close to her, she could see the soft lines on his thin, sensuous lips. For a crazy second there, she wondered what he would do if she ran her finger over those lips. “No.” She must tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

“Is he your paramour?” Those pierced her merciless.

The idea embarrassed her. She had ever only associated the word ‘lover’ with him. “No.” But she lowered her lashes, unable to face him.

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