Seven Nights In A Rogue's Bed. Anna Campbell

he devoted to her. Still, she didn’t trust him an inch.

      What she’d give for a nice straight chair, the more uncomfortable, the better. If she hadn’t known Merrick would mock her mercilessly, she’d fetch an oak chair from the hall. Her back ached from the rigid posture she maintained against the temptation to sprawl. She suspected if she started lolling against the cushions, she’d end up lolling against Merrick. She knew her starchy attitude amused him. But last time she’d lowered her guard, she’d succumbed to his wiles with terrifying swiftness.

      After their ride, he’d brought her to this sultan’s bower of rich silks and velvets. Outside rain pounded against the mullioned windows but inside Castle Craven, everything was warmth and sybaritic comfort. Stained glass lent the light a sensuous dimness. Heated braziers scented the air with subtle perfume. This seraglio seemed incongruous inside the grim medieval fortress. Until Sidonie remembered idiosyncratic décor was the rule here. Think of the mirror-lined room upstairs.

      Foreboding made her shiver. No, she didn’t want to think of the bedroom. It reminded her of what Merrick meant to do to her there.

      She straightened her back another degree, even as Merrick’s eyelids sank lower. He looked half asleep but he remained alert to everything around him, including her increasingly frail resistance. Good heavens, he didn’t have to watch her to confirm her vulnerability. Hadn’t she just let him kiss her into a stupor?

      He hadn’t mentioned the kisses. Nor had she. But every time she met his glinting silver eyes, she remembered the shocking intimacy of his tongue in her mouth.

      “You needn’t keep pushing food at me,” she said, even as she lifted the patty from the gilded porcelain plate. Everything delighted the senses. For a girl who had lived upon her brother-in-law’s sufferance for years, and a not-too-prosperous brother-in-law at that, the luxury was overpowering.

      “But it’s marvelously entertaining.” He smiled in a manner that made her want to upend her untouched glass of champagne over his tousled head. “You’re so deliciously afraid that each morsel lures you a step nearer to ruin.”

      “It takes more than a few scraps to suborn me,” she said stoutly. Before he could deride her unconvincing defiance, she bit into the concoction. “I see why you tolerate Mrs. Bevan’s eccentric manners. What a pity she’s forgotten cutlery.”

      Merrick sipped his golden wine. The pleasure on his face reminded her of his expression after kissing her. Devil take him, everything reminded her of his kisses. “What a pity,” he said with spurious regret. “Eating with one’s fingers is so…primitive.”

      She blushed. He turned the most innocent words into an invitation to wickedness.

      “Speaking of eccentric manners,” he said lightly, raising his glass to Sidonie in a brief toast, “you’re not in a pew listening to the Sunday sermon.”

      “I’m perfectly comfortable, thank you,” she lied.

      He sank his strong white teeth into a patty. “At least take the jacket off.”

      She primmed her lips and wished his taste didn’t linger even after the delicacies. Curse him, she’d remember kissing him until her dying day. “As a prelude to taking everything else off?”

      Amusement brightened his eyes. “Should the urge strike, don’t mind me.”

      In truth, she was overly warm. Her heavy riding jacket prickled over the muslin gown. It might be nonsensical to hide her body when he’d already seen every inch, but after those soul-awakening kisses, she desperately needed defenses. To cool the heat of the air and his gaze, she swallowed some champagne. He rose to fill a plate from the sideboard and top up his wine.

      “I’ve had enough,” she said quickly, but Merrick ignored her and filled her glass.

      “Try this.” He fell to his knees before her and between thumb and forefinger lifted a small square of nuts and pastry shiny with syrup.

      The couch was so low, when he kneeled in front of her they were eye to eye. She retreated against the sofa. “Move away.”

      “So nervous, tesoro.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “And me on my best behavior. If I promise not to kiss you, will you stop worrying?”

      “I—”

      He smiled and pressed the pastry between her lips. She struggled to articulate a protest, then shut her eyes on a low moan of approval. “Goodness, what is that?”

      “Something I discovered in Greece. I insisted Mrs. Bevan learn how to make it.” Gently he tipped Sidonie’s glass against her lips until she drank.

      She opened her eyes. He leaned near, too near.

      “Something that good must be sinful.”

      “Sidonie, Sidonie, such a little puritan.”

      Shakily she took another pastry between her fingers. Eating from his hand made her feel like his lapdog.

      “You were in Greece?” She nibbled at the pastry. The spicy sweetness no longer astonished, but it was just as delicious.

      “You think polite conversation will keep me in line?”

      To her regret, learning about him was more tempting than any bonbon. “One lives in hope.”

      Slowly he drew away. “My motto.”

      She inhaled, filling lungs starved of air. Her relief evaporated when he lifted one of her feet across his bent knees. “What are you doing?”

      His hold turned ruthless before she could jerk free. “Making you comfortable, cara.” A few flicks of skillful fingers and he’d removed her scuffed half-boot.

      “That’s not a good idea,” she said, even as he slid the second boot away and set it down on the carpet beside its mate.

      From his kneeling position, he regarded her darned cotton stockings with unmistakable disapproval. Stupid to mind, but shame at this evidence of poverty rose like bile. With shaking hands she tugged her skirts down to cover her feet. “I suppose you’re used to painted harlots flaunting themselves in silk and lace.”

      His lips twitched. “Painted harlots? Your imagination runs amok.” He inched her skirts up past her ankles.

      Lurching forward, she slammed her hand down upon his. She realized her mistake when the heat of his palm radiated over her shin. “Mr. Merrick! You have no right to undress me.”

      “Only your stockings, cara. ”

      “Permitting the removal of my undergarments exceeds our bargain.” She wriggled free and struggled to stand. The squashy sofa proved appallingly difficult to escape. When finally she rose as clumsily as a drunken bear, it did her no good. Merrick caught her hand and tugged sharply. With an undignified bounce, she collapsed back onto the cushions.

      “Do you play the lawyer again, dolcissima?” he asked over her gasp.

      “Pretty Italian blandishments don’t disguise ugly intentions.” She hated how priggish she sounded.

      She expected more mockery but he merely leaned back on his heels and caught her foot again. He stroked her leg up to the knee and back. “Not ugly, surely.”

      The heat of his touch penetrated her threadbare stockings and made her toes curl. She’d never considered her feet and ankles particularly sensitive until Merrick launched his gentle exploration. Her skin burned. Her heart raced with a dizzying mixture of fear and excitement. Her hand lifted to unbutton her jacket before she recalled that he’d misinterpret any removal of clothing.

      He might be on his knees on the floor, but his assessing gaze held no hint of the supplicant. Instead he challenged her to throw caution to the winds and discover what he knew and what she didn’t. “Take it off.”

      “You move too fast, Mr. Merrick.”

      His fingers