The Infamous Rogue Part 34

James stood quietly in the garden, blood pulsing through his head, his heart. He gathered a shaky breath and closed his eyes, tamping the wild cravings stirring in his breast.

She had him. She had him by the mind, the heart, the b.l.o.o.d.y cods. And she twisted his innards with such a vicious grip, he winced.

James opened his eyes and let out the breath he was keeping. He looked through the garden for her, but Sophia was gone.

He headed back for the castle, his steps measured, his thoughts sluggish.

He was supposed to have her, the witch. He was supposed to make her see she belonged with him.

"Blimey!"

He stopped and rubbed his brow. Memories flooded into his head. She had always belonged with him, ever since the first time he had set eyes on her.

James was greeted by the barrel of a pistol. But it wasn't the cold steel aimed at his nose that disarmed him, rather the pair of exotic brown eyes, trimmed with long, dark lashes, that peered at him suspiciously over the flintlock, mesmerizing him. The jungle mist reflected in the glossy pools of her eyes. She absorbed the gray and swirling light- drawing him into her, as well.

"Who is it, Sophia?" cried Dawson.

She recoiled the weapon and rested it over her shoulder, her lengthy, thick tresses like smooth cocoa, spilling over her generous bust in soft waves. "Black Hawk, I presume? My father's told me all about you." She stepped aside and welcomed him with a seductive smile. "Come in. Are you hungry?"

James closed his eyes again at the recollection. The hot and pulsing warmth that had seeped through his bones after he had first met Sophia welled inside him again. Their affair had lasted a year. But that year had fil ed him with such sweet life.

He gasped for breath, blood stirred. He resumed his slow march for the keep, struggling with the past, so warm at times...and so cold at others.

He had to make her remember the past. He had to make her remember how good it used to be, then he would have her in his grip. He had to take back control and seduce the woman. Then she would admit she belonged with him. Then he would have his revenge.

James entered the castle, thoughts tangled. He wandered through the pa.s.sageways without a destination in mind.

"No! No! No!"

James paused and listened to the rant before the parlor door burst opened-and Squirt stomped from the room.

"I hate you!" she cried, and pounded the wool runner.

James watched his niece skirt away in a huff. She stopped and looked at her feet, as if wondering why she wasn't making any noise. When she realized the runner m.u.f.fled her footfalls, she crossed over to the wood floorboards and stamped her feet in a show of pique.

He lifted a brow. Slowly he approached the room and looked inside the vast s.p.a.ce.

The whimpers captured his attention. There was a silhouette seated on a bench beside the window.

Mirabelle.

His heart cramped.

She glanced at him, eyes gla.s.sy with tears. "I'm a terrible mother."

He sighed. "No, you're not."

"I am." She sniffed. "I don't know what to do with Alice...and she hates me."

James rubbed his brow again; his head was crowded with predicaments. "Alice doesn't hate you."

"Yes, she does. She hates me. And I don't know what to do about it."

He loathed to see the woman in tears. She looked so much like Mother when she cried, her spirits crushed.

You must help me, James. You must help me now that Papa is gone. I need you, James.

I can't take care of you and William by myself. You wil help Mama, won't you, James?

James strangled the redundant voice in his head. "Stop crying, Belle."

She wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired."

"You should rest."

He stroked his hair in a ragged manner, strapped for words, before he ambled across the room, the splayed light from the stained gla.s.s windows skimming his polished boots.

He knelt beside her. She looked so vulnerable. He wasn't accustomed to seeing her in such a manner. But ever since her brush with death two months ago, she seemed more delicate to him, mortal.

He cupped her hand. "You're a good mother, Belle."

And she was. She just didn't have all the maternal skills necessary to rear a wil ful child like Alice. She had lived without a mother's influence. Who was she supposed to emulate?

Who was supposed to offer her advice?

He sighed. "Alice is just..."

"A brat?"

He chuckled. "I was going to say headstrong."

Mirabelle wiped her nose with her sleeve. He smiled at the unladylike gesture.

"I don't know why the girl is like that," she moaned. "I wasn't so troublesome at her age."

James glanced at the floor as he remembered the time Mirabelle had stuffed baby Quincy into a basket before she'd pushed him into the river for the faeries to take away.

"Alice must take after the duke," he said dryly. "Don't fret, Belle. It will get easier to rear the girl with time."

"You're lying." She offered him a crooked smile. "But thanks for lying."

He lifted off his haunches...and kissed her brow.

"What was that for?" she said, bewildered.

He shrugged. "You looked like you needed it."

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortable. Before he made an even bigger a.s.s of himself, he turned on his heels and quit the room.

Sophia had really twisted his thoughts, unsettled his composure. But he would deal with her and her bewitching charm later. First, he had to attend to a familial affair.

James listened for the patter of little footfalls. The distant drumming resounded throughout the cavernous corridors, and he followed the echoes, rounding a corner.

Quincy was standing in the pa.s.sageway, leaning against the stone wall in a lazy manner.

He was smiling and staring after Squirt's small figure, as she dragged a blanket of toys and clothes across the floor.

James eyed the doll's hand peeking through the blanket. "What is she doing?"

"She's running away to Egypt," said Quincy.

He frowned. "Why Egypt?"

"Because that's where all the mummies are and she wants to get a new one."

James rolled his eyes and started after the girl. "Squirt!"

Alice bristled. Slowly she turned around, mouth agape. He had never raised his voice with her. He suspected she wasn't accustomed to being ordered about.

He hunkered and looked straight into her large blue eyes. "I think you owe Mama an apology."

She looked aghast.

"I want you to go back to the parlor with Uncle Quincy and tell Mama you're sorry about what you said."

She still glared at him like he was daft.

"Now."

She closed her mouth, confused. But she obeyed. She dropped the blanket and quietly strutted back down the corridor, where Quincy, chuckling, was waiting for her.

James shook his head as he lifted off his haunches. He sighed, almost witless with fatigue from al the drama he'd endured over past few days.

He stilled.

A shiver tickled the base of his spine. It shimmied up his back and caressed his ribs, his heart.

She stepped out of the dark pa.s.sage, regarding him thoughtfully, arms folded under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"I thought you disliked children?" she asked with suspicion.

"I do."

She eyed him with even greater suspicion. "But you love the brat?"

He scowled. "Of course I do. She's family."

"So there is more room in that black heart of yours."

Sophia's smoky glare set his blood thumping, his innards smoldering. She delved deep into his features, searching for truth. What had provoked her to make that inquiry?

"Where did you learn to do that?" she wondered next.

He frowned. "Do what?"

"Rear brats."

He shrugged. "I've raised three children." He said dryly, "Four if you include Wil ."

"Hmm." She approached him, making his muscles pulse. "And you don't want to be a father?"

"No," he returned succinctly.

"Or a husband?"

He bristled. "No."

She looked at him closely, hotly...

She humphed.

He remained rooted to the spot as she brushed past him and vanished through another causeway, leaving him bewildered, wondering what sort of game she was playing. But whatever the woman's scheme, it was doomed to fail, for he intended to be the victor in their battle of wills.

Chapter 20.

"A choo!"

Sophia rubbed her nose and sniffed. She snuggled under the coverlets to keep warm, for the room was drafty. It was a s.p.a.cious bedchamber with tall ceilings. The furniture was fine. There was a dash of red pigment in the rosewood l.u.s.ter that matched the pink papered walls and apple crimson fabric. She cringed at the garish colors. She preferred the contrast of burnt sienna woods and milky white textiles. But the s.p.a.ce was wel manicured...if cold.

The low-burning flames in the hearth flickered as a soft zephyr moved through the room. Sophia searched over her shoulder for the source of the breeze. She eyed the black devil. He had entered the chamber and closed the door. He was watching her closely, hotly.

She shivered.

The man's dark trousers hugged his burly legs; the thick muscles thrummed with energy and strength. He was wearing a simple white shirt, tucked. The cravat was missing, the collar loose and low and exposing the center of his strapping chest.

She munched on her bottom lip as she met his s.e.xy blue eyes again, shadowed by black brows and thick, sooty lashes. The smoldering glow quickly warmed her.

"What are you doing here?" She glanced at the dagger on the smal table beside the bed, comforted.

"You won't need it," he said sagely.