The Taming of the Rogue. Amanda McCabe

yet it seemed to leave shimmering sparks in its wake across her skin. She reared back, startled, but he didn’t leave her. His palm cupped her cheek, holding her as if she was made of the most fragile porcelain, and she swayed towards him.

      Slowly, enticingly, his hand slid down her throat to the ribbon trim of her neckline. He toyed with it lightly between his fingers, his dark gaze following his touch. He didn’t even brush the bare, soft swell of her breast above the unfashionably modest bodice, yet she trembled as if he did. She felt unbearably tense and brittle, as if she would snap if he did not touch her.

      ‘Why do you always wear grey?’ he asked, twining the bit of ribbon between his fingers.

      ‘I—I like grey,’ she whispered. ‘‘Tis easy to keep clean.’ And easy to fade into the background. It was a suitable colour for a woman who spent her time hovering behind the scenes.

      ‘In my star kingdom you would wear white satin and blue velvet, sewn with pearls and embroidered with shining silver thread.’

      He stroked one long strand of her hair that had escaped its pins and trailed over her shoulder, tracing the curve of the curl. She felt the heat of his touch against her skin.

      ‘And you would have ribbons and strands of jewels in your hair.’

      Anna laughed unsteadily. ‘That would not be very practical as I went about my tasks. I would be always tripping over the satins and pearls and getting them dirty.’

      ‘Ah, but in that kingdom you would have no such tasks. You would be queen of all you surveyed, seated on your golden throne as everyone hurried to serve your every whim.’

      ‘Gold and silver and pearls?’ she said, mesmerised by his touch, his words. ‘La, but I do like the sound of this kingdom of yours.’

      He twisted his fingers into her hair and drew her close, so close she could feel his warm breath whisper over her skin. He cradled the back of her head on his palm, holding her to him.

      ‘You deserve all of that, Anna,’ he said. All hint of his usual teasing manner was gone, and there was only dark seriousness in his words and in the way he watched her. ‘That should be your life, not—this. Not Southwark.’

      Anna felt a sharp prickle behind her eyes and was afraid she would cry. She could not do that—not here, not with him! She already felt too open and vulnerable. She tried to turn away but he held on to her, his hand in her hair. His touch didn’t hurt, but he wouldn’t let her go.

      ‘You know naught of my life,’ she said.

      ‘I’m a poet, Anna,’ he answered. ‘It is my lot in life to see everything—even that which I would rather not. And I see your sadness.’

      ‘I am not sad!’ Not if she could help it. Emotions, like sadness and anger and love, only brought trouble. She preferred serenity now.

      ‘You are, fair Anna.’ He pulled her even closer, until his forehead rested lightly against hers. She closed her eyes, but he was still there—very close. ‘I see that because it calls out to the sadness in me. We both see too much, feel too much. We just don’t want to admit it.’

      Nay, she did not! She didn’t want to hear this, know this. She tried to twist away, but Rob suddenly bent his head and kissed the soft, sensitive spot just below her ear. She felt him touch her there with the tip of his tongue.

      She gasped at the rush of hot, sizzling sensation. Her hands clutched at the front of his doublet, crushing the fine velvet as she tried to hold on and keep from falling. Her eyes closed and her head fell back as she gave in to the whirling tidepool of her desire. His mouth, open and hot, slid slowly along her neck to bite lightly at the curve of her shoulder.

      ‘Robert!’ she cried, and his arms closed around her waist to lift her onto his lap as his lips met hers, rough and urgent.

      Anna had never felt so weak and strange. Something deep and instinctive, primal, rose up deep inside her, blotting out the world around her so that she knew only him and this moment with him. Only his kiss.

      She felt the press of his tongue against her lips and she opened for him. He tasted of wine and mint, of something dark and deep that she craved far too much. She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck, as if she could hold him to her if he tried to leave, and felt the rough silk of his wavy dark hair on her skin.

      She heard him moan deep inside his throat as her tongue met his, and the sound made her want him even more—madly so. He was so alive, the most wondrously alive person she had ever known, and she craved the heat and pulse of him. For that one instant he made her feel alive, too—free of her calm, cool, still existence.

      He made her feel too much—he frightened her, her feelings frightened her. She was drowning in him.

      She tensed, and Rob seemed to sense her sudden flash of fear. He tore his lips from hers, and the clouds suddenly skittered away from the moon. Its silvery light streamed down onto his face, casting it into angular shadows. For a second he was starkly exposed to her, and she saw the horror in his eyes, as if he realised just what he was doing. Whom he was kissing.

      Anna felt as if a freezing winter wind washed over her, her passion turned to cold, bitter ashes around her. What was she doing? How could Rob say he saw her, knew her, when in that moment she didn’t even know herself?

      She pushed him away, and as his arms slid from her body she forced herself up from his lap. Without him holding her she felt shaky and cold, but she knew she had to get away from him.

      If only she could run away from herself, as well.

      As she dashed towards the house she heard him call her name, yet she couldn’t stop. She just kept running—past the dining room where her father and his friends still roared with laughter, and up the narrow stairs to her bedchamber. She slammed and bolted the door behind her, as if that could keep out what had happened.

      She stumbled past the curtained bed, already turned back for the night by their maid, and went to the window. It was open to let in the night’s breeze, and she could see that garden below, full of shadows and secrets.

      Rob wasn’t there any longer. The stone bench was empty. Had he also fled from what had exploded between them?

      Somehow she couldn’t imagine Rob Alden fleeing from anything. She didn’t know anyone who ran into danger as he did.

      Anna shut the window and sank slowly to the floor, her skirts pooling around her. She pressed her hands to her eyes, blotting out the night. Soon it would be dawn, and a new day’s tasks would be before her. Soon she could lose herself in the busy noise of her life, and this would all be as a dream. A foolish dream.

      It had to be.

       Chapter Five

      ‘And this fair place, this Eden, is as nothing compared to your—your …’

      Rob stared down at the words on the page, and an intense, fiery wave of anger washed over him. They weren’t right—the right words simply wouldn’t come that morning. They were imprisoned behind an impenetrable wall, locked away. There were no tender love words to be conjured that day. Not by him.

      There was only that anger, burning away everything else. Anger and something he had never known before, something he despised—guilt. The conscience he’d thought he didn’t have, couldn’t afford, pricked at him like sharpened poniards.

      ‘Z’wounds,’ he cursed, and threw down his pen. Ink splashed over the papers scattered across his table, blotting out the words he had just written. Work was the last thing he could think of today.

      Anna Barrett filled his thoughts—and created that anger.

      Rob sat back in his chair and flexed his hand, the ink-stained fingers stiff from trying to write tenderness and love where there was none. He thought of how that hand had touched Anna last night, how he hadn’t been able to stop himself from giving in to the luscious temptation of her rose-scented