The Rogue Not Taken

Her love made him want her thoroughly, without hesitation.

Even if he could never find a way to love her in return. He knew it was selfish and arrogant and the worst kind of greed, but he’d tasted the honesty in her words, and seen it in her eyes, and felt it in her touch.

And he wanted it for himself.

Forever.

So he’d taken her without hesitation. Without telling her the truth—that if she let him take her, they would marry. He’d been afraid she’d stop him if she’d known, afraid she would demand his love in return for her hand in marriage.

And so he’d resorted to the worst kind of trick.

She’d have to marry him now, as she was well and truly ruined. And, despite the fact that her ruination had been part of their ever-evolving agreement, there was no way on earth he was allowing her to leave him.

Ever.

It occurred to him, as they lay quietly in his bed, drenched in candlelight and shadows, her skin soft against his touch, her breath slowing, pleasure threading through them both, her profession of love still lingering in the heavy air, that he should tell her what was to come next.

He should propose.

She deserved a proposal.

He could manage a proposal—a summer fair in the Mossband town square, a masquerade ball, jewels, and public declarations of his intention.

Except Sophie wouldn’t want anything so extravagant.

She sighed in his arms, cuddling closer to him, and he kissed the top of her head.

He’d take her to the center of the labyrinth again. With a plateful of Agnes’s strawberry tarts and a soft wool blanket. He’d go to Mossband and fetch a basketful of sugar buns from Robbie the baker. King smiled in the darkness. His lady had a sweet tooth. He’d feed it for the rest of his life, with pleasure.

Just as soon as he took her to the labyrinth and told her the truth—that even as his past made it impossible for him to promise her love, he wished to promise her the rest. That he would do his best to make her happy.

As meager an offer it was, she loved him, and she would say yes. She would say yes, and they would eat sweets, and then he would lower her to the blanket and strip her bare and lick the sugar from her lips with only the sky and the sun as witness.

It wasn’t a fair in the Mossband town square, but it had the benefit of being quick. He’d take her over the border and marry her in Scotland. They could be wed by this time tomorrow.

And she’d be his. Forever.

She stiffened in his arms, pulling away from him, moving to the edge of the bed. Where was she going? It was the man who was destined to skulk off in the dead of night, was it not? He had plans for her. They involved more kissing. More touching. More of her telling him she loved him.

And she was leaving him.

He reached for her, catching her hand before she could escape. “Where are you going?”

She reached down for her dressing gown, lifting it up and covering herself. “I . . .”

“You don’t need the gown, Sophie,” he said, letting all his desire into his tone. “I shall keep you warm.”

She dipped her head, embarrassed by the words. He’d take great joy in teaching her not to be ashamed of desire. Someday, she’d come naked to his bed. The thought had him instantly hard again.

“Sophie,” he said, “come back to bed.”

“I cannot,” she said, standing and pulling the gown back on, tying the belt haphazardly. “We mustn’t be caught.”

“We shan’t be caught,” he said, moving across the bed, reaching for her, pulling her back to him as he knelt before her. It didn’t matter if they were caught, anyway. He was going to marry her.

He tucked a strand of glorious brown hair behind her ear, running his thumb over the high arc of one cheek. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Stay,” he whispered, leaning in and stealing a kiss, long and lush, reveling in the way her tongue matched his stroke for stroke until they were both gasping for breath. He pulled her close, worrying the soft skin of her ear with his teeth and tongue. “Stay, love. There’s so much more to explore.”

She sighed at the words, but stepped back nonetheless. “I cannot,” she said, the words catching in her throat as she backed away. “We agreed—one night.”

That was before, of course. Before she’d loved him.

Before he’d made love to her.

She couldn’t imagine he’d let her go now—she couldn’t imagine one night would ever be enough. And yet, she was leaving him. Cold realization threaded through him. “Where are you going?”

She met his gaze. “Away. Away from here.”

Away from him.

“And if I wish you to stay? What then?”

She shook her head. “I can’t. It’s too much.”

There was something in the words, something soft and raw and sad, and he realized that she was leaving him because she wanted to stay. Because she thought he wouldn’t give her what she desired.

And perhaps he wouldn’t, in the long run.

Perhaps he’d never be the man she deserved.

But damned if he wasn’t going to try.

Damned if he didn’t want to spend his whole life trying to make her happy.

He came off the bed then, following her as she made for the adjoining door. “Sophie,” he said. “Wait.”

She shook her head, and he could have sworn there were tears there, in her eyes, as she turned away, making a run for the door. His plans changed. He wasn’t going to propose tomorrow. He was going to propose now. He couldn’t bear her sadness, even for a moment.