Dearest Rogue

  Faire drew himself up, hushing his dogs. “James Trevillion. How dare you show your face here? Don’t think because twelve years have passed that I won’t have you arrested for what you did to my son.”

  Trevillion lifted his lip. “You might want to wait until you see what I’m about to do to him.”

  “What do you mean?” Lord Faire’s exclamation came at the same time that the door to the manor opened behind Trevillion.

  “Father!”

  Trevillion turned.

  Jeffrey Faire hadn’t aged well in the last dozen years. Though only in his early thirties, he had a paunch and his face was jowled. He stared a moment at Trevillion, startled, before his green eyes narrowed. “You!”

  “Yes, me,” Trevillion said, drawing both his pistols. “If you remember me, then I trust you remember why I am here.”

  “Lay a hand on my son and I’ll arrest you!” Lord Faire shouted behind him.

  Several footmen crowded the doorway behind Jeffrey, and Trevillion could hear men coming from the nearby stables.

  He raised one of his pistols, aiming it straight between Jeffrey’s wide eyes. “Well? Where is she?”

  Jeffrey did a very good impression of a man confused. “Who?”

  The sound of horses’ hooves came from behind him.

  “I’ll see you hanged for this, Trevillion!” Lord Faire roared.

  “Stop!” The voice was Agnes’s.

  Trevillion turned with relief. Thank God. Agnes was pulling a horse to a halt behind him, Toby running beside.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Trevillion saw Jeffrey leap for him.

  Just as a small, furry shape darted past Trevillion and hurtled straight up the steps at Jeffrey Faire.

  Jeffrey swore and kicked at Toby, catching the dog in the belly. Toby yelped shrilly and tumbled backward down the stone stairs.

  “Oh!” Agnes cried. “Oh, Toby, no!”

  She rushed to the little dog lying still at the foot of the stairs to Faire Manor, and knelt by his side.

  For a moment all the men simply stared.

  Then Lord Faire said, sounding bewildered, “Agnes?”

  Trevillion shot a sharp glance at him.

  “Agnes?” Jeffrey said. “You know the little bitch’s name? Who is this girl?”

  “Your daughter,” Trevillion growled.

  Jeffrey’s mouth twisted in distaste. “Father, stop delaying. Have Trevillion arrested and this wench thrown off the estate.”

  “You!” Agnes stood. Her face was wet with tears, but it was also red with rage, her hands fisted by her side. Her dark hair was half undone as she glared her hatred at the man who’d fathered her. “You kicked Toby! You’re an evil, fat, stupid man!”

  Jeffrey’s mouth dropped open. “Why you little—”

  “Go inside.” The clipped order came from Lord Faire.

  Jeffrey turned toward him, outrage plain on his face.

  His father jerked his chin at the manor’s doors. “You heard me. Inside. Or I’ll order the footmen to take you bodily.”

  Jeffrey looked stunned. He turned and went without saying anything more.

  Trevillion holstered his guns and hurried over to where Agnes had knelt again by Toby’s side.

  She lifted her face to his, tears streaming down her small cheeks. “Uncle James, can you help him? Don’t let Toby die!”

  He crouched by the little dog just as Lord Faire knelt on the other side.

  Trevillion spared him a narrow-eyed glance before looking at the dog. Toby was making pathetic whining noises under his breath. Gently Trevillion felt his side.

  The dog rolled his eyes to look at him as Trevillion slid his hand over his bones. “I can’t find anything broken.”

  A chuckle from Lord Faire surprised him. “Likely Toby here is feeling very sorry for himself.”

  “Do you really think so, Grandfather?”

  Trevillion blinked. “You know Lord Faire, Agnes?”

  At that the girl looked torn between guilt and defiance. “Yes. He’s not nearly as bad as he looks.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” Lord Faire said drily. He looked at Trevillion, his expression wary. “I met Agnes two years ago on one of my walks on the moors. I understand that she’s not allowed to go walking by herself, but apparently she… er, has learned how to sneak away.”

  “Agnes.” Trevillion looked sternly at his niece. “You know what happened to your mother and why your granfer has told you you’re not to go beyond our land on your own.”

  “Yes, Uncle James.” She hung her head.

  Toby made a sudden, miraculous recovery and got to his feet to lick his mistress’s face.

  “There, you see,” Lord Faire said, “as right as rain is our Toby.”

  Trevillion cleared his throat. “Agnes, please take Toby to your horse and wait there for me.”

  His niece lifted her chin. “Only if you promise not to fight with Grandfather.”

  Trevillion narrowed his eyes at her, but nodded.

  Both he and Lord Faire watched her walk with Toby to the mare.

  “She has her grandmother’s spirit,” Lord Faire said softly.

  Trevillion looked at him, brows raised.

  “My late wife.” Lord Faire coughed. “She had green eyes as well. I hope you’ll not punish her for meeting with me on the moors. I knew at once who she must be the first time I saw her—those eyes, as I say. I couldn’t help asking her to meet me again.”

  “Your son raped my sister—Agnes’s mother,” Trevillion said bluntly.

  The older man’s nostrils flared and for a moment Trevillion thought he’d have to perjure himself to his niece.

  Then Faire sighed. “Jeffrey has always been… a disappointment to me. He does not have the sense of honor he should for one of his rank.”

  Trevillion thinned his lips but said nothing.

  Lord Faire sighed again. “I never approved of what he did to your sister, Trevillion. I was quite appalled, in fact, when I found out the truth.”

  “And yet you ordered me arrested.”

  Lord Faire glanced up, his eyes shrewd. “You did thrash my son, Trevillion. No matter what he’d done, he was my son.”

  “And Dolly is my sister,” Trevillion said, his voice level.

  “She is,” Lord Faire said. “Which makes Agnes of both our blood.” He glanced over to where the little girl was bent over, petting Toby. “I shan’t have you arrested, if only for her.”

  Trevillion watched him warily. He’d spent over a decade exiled from his home. Redemption never came as easily as this.

  But Faire shook his head. “Look here, Trevillion. I’ve all but lost Jeffrey already. He only returned home to collect a few items of sentimental value. He’s recently married and bought a plantation in the West Indies with his wife’s dowry. He intends to sail there at the end of the week. I doubt he’ll ever set foot in England again. The West Indies are half a world away. Should he have a family there I may never see them. But he has a daughter here still.”

  Trevillion stiffened. “Your son has no right to Agnes. He’s never even acknowledged her as his.”

  Faire bowed his head. “He has no right and I have no right. I know that. There’s no reason at all you and your father should let me see her, but I’m asking anyway.”

  “Why?”

  Faire looked up at that. “She’s my blood… and I love her.”

  PHOEBE LISTENED TO the noises that old houses make that night as she lay in bed. The wind blew outside, rattling the shutters on her window. Somewhere a clock chimed the hour, and the walls and floorboards creaked rhythmically, almost as if someone were walking down the corridor outside her room.

  She clenched her hands on top of the coverlet and then consciously relaxed her fingers and smoothed the covers. Trevillion had still not returned, though Agnes had, with Toby limping behind. She’d seemed cheerful and reported that her uncle James was talking to Lord Faire in a friendly manner.

  Phoebe privately tho
ught that it was only Mr. Trevillion’s relief at her safety that kept him from punishing the girl for running off. As it was, they’d had a quiet dinner and gone to bed early, exhausted by the day’s events.

  Except she couldn’t sleep. Mr. Trevillion said that there was no need to worry. That even aside from Agnes’s report, had James been arrested or… or had any other horrible thing happened, the news would’ve traveled almost at once to them.

  But Phoebe couldn’t help thinking of the very worst. Maybe Lord Faire and Trevillion had started arguing again—or maybe Lord Faire had simply waited for Agnes to be gone to arrest her uncle. For all Phoebe knew, Trevillion was even now languishing in a dank prison or fighting for his life with—

  The door to her room opened, which meant, she supposed, that the noises in the hallway really had been footsteps.

  “Phoebe,” Trevillion whispered, and relief rushed through her.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, sitting up. “What happened? Did—?”

  “Hush,” he hissed, drawing nearer. “You’ll wake the house and I hardly think you’ll be pleased if I’m found in your room.”

  She wanted to retort that it wouldn’t bother her all that much at the moment, but he was at her side now and she felt his mouth on hers, warm and demanding.

  She reached up, winding her arms around his neck. His face was chilled from the night.

  “What happened?” she whispered. “I was so very worried.”

  “There was no need to be,” he said, and she heard a rustling as if he was doffing his coat. “Jeffrey Faire is leaving for the West Indies and I suspect we’ll not hear from him again.”

  “I’m glad.” She heard a shoe drop to the floor and raised her eyebrows.

  “Old Lord Faire wants to acknowledge Agnes as his granddaughter, however.”

  “What?”

  “It seems,” he said ruefully, “that Agnes forgot to mention that she met Lord Faire on the moors over two years ago—and has been seeing him once or twice a month ever since.”

  “Oh, dear. Does your father know?”

  “I don’t think so.” She felt the bed depress as he sat down on the edge. She moved over to give him more room. “But I’ll let Agnes herself explain to Father in the morning.”

  She winced, thinking of Mr. Trevillion’s pride. “He may not take it well.”

  “He may be quite angry at her at first,” Trevillion agreed, “but she put herself in this position and I think she’s old enough to face my father with what she’s done behind his back. Besides, I doubt he’ll stay mad for long.”

  “And do you think your father will let her see Lord Faire?”

  “I don’t know. He’s never much liked Lord Faire.”

  Phoebe frowned. “Do you think Lord Faire means Agnes harm in any way?”

  “No. Quite the opposite. He appears to simply want to know his son’s get.”

  “His granddaughter,” Phoebe said.

  “Yes, his granddaughter.” Trevillion sighed and lifted the coverlet, sliding in beside her. The bed suddenly became much smaller. “Funny after all this time that he asks.”

  She reached out and felt his arm, braced on the bed beside her. He was still wearing his shirt. “Perhaps he hasn’t known how to approach your father until now.”

  “Perhaps, but I think Faire realized today that he might lose Agnes if I stopped her seeing him—and he doesn’t want that.” His voice hardened. “None of this would have happened had I been doing my duty toward Dolly that day. I was such a fool.”

  “You were young,” she said.

  “Twenty-two. Old enough. Older than you,” he pointed out, an edge to his voice.

  She found his hand and squeezed it, hoping she might give him some comfort.

  “I was bored,” he said softly, his voice wrecked. “Dolly was looking at a sweetshop. I left her there for just a moment to go look at a new book on horse husbandry that the bookseller had got in especial. When I got back she wasn’t there. It took me nearly two hours to find her—in back of the churchyard.”

  She stroked his arm, warm and intimate, trying to think what to say for such an old hurt. “And so you ran from the law to become the law. Didn’t you worry about that risk?”

  She felt his movement as he shrugged. “I had no choice after I’d beaten Jeffrey and seen him on a ship away from Cornwall. I had to leave that night and horses are one of the few things I know. The dragoons are a mounted regiment. It seemed a good fit.”

  “You must have been lonely, though. Homesick.” To be exiled from one’s home.

  “I used to write long letters, though my father hardly answered,” he said quietly. She wondered if he’d put out the candle, if he was staring in the dark. “Dolly can’t read or write so there was nothing from her. It wasn’t until Agnes learned that I started getting regular letters from home.”

  She sat up, her hand still on his arm. “What did they say?”

  “All sorts of things. She wrote nearly every week.” His voice had warmed. “They weren’t very well spelled at first, but she’d tell me about the horses and her mother and my father. Funny, he was much more doting in those letters than I ever remembered.”

  “A grandfather has a right to dote on a grandchild,” she reminded him. Stroked up his arm, over his broad shoulder, until her fingers found the top of his shirt. She began unlacing it. He’d already removed his cravat. “You know she’s shy around you.”

  “I don’t understand it,” he said. “She seemed to tell me everything in those letters. She even sent me a scrap of her needlework. I use it as a bookmark.”

  “I’d wager you’re more intimidating in person than you are in a letter,” she said drily. “You should spend some time with her.”

  She urged his arms up to draw off the shirt.

  “What would I say to her?”

  She would’ve rolled her eyes had she been certain he could see them. “Talk to her about horses and Toby and her grandfather. Tell her what her mother was like when she was a little girl and what you remember of your own mother. It isn’t much different than writing a letter, really, and according to Agnes you know how to do that.”

  “Naturally.” He sounded affronted.

  “Well then.”

  “Well then, indeed. I think you’re mocking me, my lady.”

  “Only a very little,” she replied, and bent her head to taste his nipple.

  She felt the ripple of his aborted start at her touch, and his chest expanded with his inhalation. She hoped this was correct. Perhaps ladies didn’t taste their lovers, but she’d wanted to do this since the afternoon.

  His skin was crinkled under her tongue and tasted faintly of salt and not much else. She circled the little nub, painting it with her tongue, and he inhaled again. She’d been so fearful when he was gone, for his safety and, more selfishly, for herself. She didn’t want to lose him. He’d become companion, friend, lover. The most important person in her circumscribed life, and she wasn’t even entirely certain what he felt for her. Affection, she knew, duty—that horrible word—but was there anything else?

  Was she more to him now than simply a duty?

  Because she wanted to be. She wanted, really, now that she thought of it, everything from James Trevillion.

  She wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.

  On that thought she sat up and ran her hands across his chest, feeling the rasp of his hair, the rounded muscles underneath. An urgency was rushing through her veins, a need to know all of him while she could. Her hands trailed downward. She hadn’t had a chance to explore this part of him earlier.

  “What—?” he began, his voice gruff.

  She paused. “I want to touch you. Touch you all over. May I?”

  He stroked her cheek, his hand large but infinitely gentle. “Of course, Phoebe.”

  That gentleness calmed some of her wildness. She smiled and bent to her explorations again. Over his ribs—bump, bump, bump—the hair disappeared, but in the middl
e of his torso there was a thin line, trailing down over his belly. How soft his skin was here!

  “What color is it?” she asked. “Your skin?”

  She circled his navel with her fingertips.

  His belly tightened beneath her touch. “Pale?”

  She shook her head. “No, I mean are you naturally fair? Or is your skin a bit darker even under your clothes?”

  “I suppose darker, given that choice,” he replied, his voice sounding amused. “Though since that part of me never sees the sun, ‘dark’ is relative.”

  She hummed noncommittally and reached the waistband of his breeches.

  His hands tangled with hers, but she stilled them. “I’d like to. May I, please?”

  “Since you ask so politely.” His voice was rough as his hands fell away.

  Her fingers fumbled, seeking the buttons she knew must be there. She could feel him under the material—his hard thighs, the crease on each side, his cock in between. She brushed against it now and again as she moved. At last she found the buttons and quickly undid them.

  “Take it off,” she urged, plucking at the breeches.

  He arched his hips off the bed and took off both breeches and smallclothes.

  She laid her hand on his thigh. There was curling hair here—sparser than that on his chest, but quite thick nonetheless. She moved her hand up, encountering a slanting muscle on top of his hip. She traced it down, hearing his breathing growing rougher, until she encountered his pubic hair. It was springy to the touch and she was tempted to pet it.

  But she was more tempted by what was below.

  He was smooth and hot and fit into her palm. She traced her fingers over him, feeling the swelling of the flesh, the astonishing hardness underneath, the elastic skin. At the top it widened and she could feel a cuff of skin. She traced around it, wonderingly. It was so delicate a thing to have shoved inside her, and yet much more blunt than her own flesh. The tip was wet. She smoothed her fingertip over it, finding the tiny hole.

  She retraced her journey, discovering that he’d grown in the meantime, lying hard against his belly. She inhaled, and smelled his musk, heady in the quiet of the room.

  She stroked him again, unable to stop touching.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked. “To be this way, I mean?”