A Most Devilish Rogue by Ashlyn Macnamara

Author:Ashlyn Macnamara
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THEY NEARLY made it home between squalls. The first one lashed in great gusts of wind and rain against the grimy windows of the Sandgate public house while they warmed themselves with a hearty stew and mugs of ale. After an hour, the storm exhausted its fury and made for parts farther east, but halfway to Shoreford, the clouds lowered once more, and the threat of a dousing increased with every hurried step.

Beside George, Isabelle’s breath came in labored puffs as they jogged up the road. “I must rest.”

He cast a wary glance at the sky. Just ahead, a low wall lined the wayside to mark the boundary of Shoreford. The leafy boughs of thick-stemmed oaks overhung the road, perhaps shelter enough if the weather contained itself to a light drizzle. He took her arm and guided her to the crumbling sandstone. With a relieved sigh, she settled herself on the ledge. Arms about her knees, she rested her head on them, her face turned away. A sudden breeze stirred, and wisps of blond hair escaped their pins.

George caught himself, his hand extended in the air. The long line of her neck beckoned. His fingers itched to touch the smooth, white skin, to brush away the wayward curls and clear a path for his lips.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, as much to distract himself as to hear the reply. His voice was shockingly hoarse—and over her neck, hang it all. When was the last time a woman’s nape had driven him to such a state his breeches no longer fit properly?

She turned her face toward him. Her cheeks were flushed pink. He might have mistaken their color for a sign of arousal, but for her eyes. They glimmered in the low light with unshed tears.

“Jack, of course.” Her tone mirrored her expression—bleak, defeated, desperate.

Blast it, why should she pull at his heartstrings like this? He’d give everything he had to coax a smile, to hear her laugh again. All he needed was to restore her son to her.

Her son. The little blighter who managed to worm his way into the affections of even a man like George. A man for whom children were nothing but a necessary evil because he needed an heir. Eventually.

Or so his father had taught him through word and deed.

He gave in to his urge to touch her. The tips of his fingers brushed an earlobe as he fitted his palm about the curve of her neck. The vertebrae beneath his palm went rigid, and he waited for her protest. He maintained a steady pressure—not the flutter of a caress, but a solid grip.

“We’ll find him.”

After a moment, the tension beneath his fingers eased, and she leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder, her head resting against the side of his neck. Her breath feathered warmth against his skin.

Had he ever done this? Had he ever sat with a woman in silence and given no more than simple comfort? Before last night, he couldn’t recall

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