Read Online A Rogue by Any Other Name by Sarah MacLean - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah MacLean
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by quick, blessed anger. “Let me go.”
He did not move. In fact, for a long moment, Penelope thought he had not heard her.
“No.”
The refusal was emotionless.
She struggled again, kicking out, one booted foot connecting with his shin, hard enough to spur a very satisfying grunt. “Dammit!” she cried, knowing that ladies didn’t curse, knowing that she would likely spend an eternity in purgatory for the transgression but not knowing how else to communicate with this brutish stranger. “What are you going to do, leave me here in the snow to freeze to death?”
“No.” The word was low and dark at her ear as he held her, easily.
She did not give up. “Kidnap me then? Hold me for ransom for Falconwell?”
“No, though it wouldn’t be a terrible idea.” He was so close, she could smell him, bergamot and cedar, and she paused at the sensation of his breath brushing over the skin of her cheek. “But I’ve got something much worse in mind.”
She stilled. He wouldn’t kill her.
After all, they’d been friends once. Long ago, before he’d become handsome as the devil and twice as cold.
He wouldn’t kill her.
Would he?
“Wh—what is it?”
He stroked the tip of one finger down the long column of her neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Her breath caught in her throat at the touch . . . all wicked warmth and nearly unbearable sensation.
“You have my land, Penelope,” he whispered at her ear, the sound low and liquid and altogether too distracting even as it sent tremors of anxiety spiraling through her, “and I want it back.”
She should not have left the house that evening.
If she survived this, she would never leave the house again.
She shook her head, eyes closed as he wreaked havoc on her senses. “I can’t give it to you.”
He stroked one hand down her arm in a long, lovely caress, taking her wrist in his firm, warm clasp. “No, but I can take it.”
She opened her eyes, met his, black in the darkness. “What does that mean?”
“It means, my darling”—the endearment was mocking—“that we are to be married.”
Shock coursed through her as he lifted her arm, tossed her over his shoulder, and headed into the trees toward Falconwell Manor.
* * *
Dear M—
I cannot believe that you did not tell me that you were named head of class and I had to hear it from your mother (who is very proud indeed). I’m shocked and appalled that you would not share with me . . . and not a little bit impressed that you managed not to brag about it.
There must be masses that you haven’t told me about school. I am waiting.
Ever patient—P
Needham Manor, February 1814
* * *
Dear P—
I’m afraid head of class isn’t much of a title when you’re a first-year; I’m still subject to the whims of the older boys when I am not at study. Fear not—when I am named head of class next year, I shall brag shamelessly.
There are masses to tell . . . but not to girls.
—M
Eton College, February 1814
Bourne had imagined a half dozen scenarios that ended in his ferreting Penelope away from her father and her family and marrying her to reclaim his land. He’d planned for seduction, and for coercion, and even—in the extreme—for abduction.
But not one of those scenarios had involved a snow-covered woman with a penchant for danger and less than the recommended allotment of sense approaching him in the bitter cold of a Surrey January in the dead of night.
She’d saved him quite a bit of work.
Naturally, it would have been wrong of him to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.
And so he’d taken her.
“You brute!”
He winced as she pounded her fists against his shoulders, her legs flailing about, their awkward angle the only thing that kept him from losing critical parts of his anatomy to a single well-placed kick.
“Put me down!”
He ignored her, instead capturing her legs with one arm, tilting her up until she squeaked and grasped the back of his coat for balance,
He did not move. In fact, for a long moment, Penelope thought he had not heard her.
“No.”
The refusal was emotionless.
She struggled again, kicking out, one booted foot connecting with his shin, hard enough to spur a very satisfying grunt. “Dammit!” she cried, knowing that ladies didn’t curse, knowing that she would likely spend an eternity in purgatory for the transgression but not knowing how else to communicate with this brutish stranger. “What are you going to do, leave me here in the snow to freeze to death?”
“No.” The word was low and dark at her ear as he held her, easily.
She did not give up. “Kidnap me then? Hold me for ransom for Falconwell?”
“No, though it wouldn’t be a terrible idea.” He was so close, she could smell him, bergamot and cedar, and she paused at the sensation of his breath brushing over the skin of her cheek. “But I’ve got something much worse in mind.”
She stilled. He wouldn’t kill her.
After all, they’d been friends once. Long ago, before he’d become handsome as the devil and twice as cold.
He wouldn’t kill her.
Would he?
“Wh—what is it?”
He stroked the tip of one finger down the long column of her neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Her breath caught in her throat at the touch . . . all wicked warmth and nearly unbearable sensation.
“You have my land, Penelope,” he whispered at her ear, the sound low and liquid and altogether too distracting even as it sent tremors of anxiety spiraling through her, “and I want it back.”
She should not have left the house that evening.
If she survived this, she would never leave the house again.
She shook her head, eyes closed as he wreaked havoc on her senses. “I can’t give it to you.”
He stroked one hand down her arm in a long, lovely caress, taking her wrist in his firm, warm clasp. “No, but I can take it.”
She opened her eyes, met his, black in the darkness. “What does that mean?”
“It means, my darling”—the endearment was mocking—“that we are to be married.”
Shock coursed through her as he lifted her arm, tossed her over his shoulder, and headed into the trees toward Falconwell Manor.
* * *
Dear M—
I cannot believe that you did not tell me that you were named head of class and I had to hear it from your mother (who is very proud indeed). I’m shocked and appalled that you would not share with me . . . and not a little bit impressed that you managed not to brag about it.
There must be masses that you haven’t told me about school. I am waiting.
Ever patient—P
Needham Manor, February 1814
* * *
Dear P—
I’m afraid head of class isn’t much of a title when you’re a first-year; I’m still subject to the whims of the older boys when I am not at study. Fear not—when I am named head of class next year, I shall brag shamelessly.
There are masses to tell . . . but not to girls.
—M
Eton College, February 1814
Bourne had imagined a half dozen scenarios that ended in his ferreting Penelope away from her father and her family and marrying her to reclaim his land. He’d planned for seduction, and for coercion, and even—in the extreme—for abduction.
But not one of those scenarios had involved a snow-covered woman with a penchant for danger and less than the recommended allotment of sense approaching him in the bitter cold of a Surrey January in the dead of night.
She’d saved him quite a bit of work.
Naturally, it would have been wrong of him to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.
And so he’d taken her.
“You brute!”
He winced as she pounded her fists against his shoulders, her legs flailing about, their awkward angle the only thing that kept him from losing critical parts of his anatomy to a single well-placed kick.
“Put me down!”
He ignored her, instead capturing her legs with one arm, tilting her up until she squeaked and grasped the back of his coat for balance,
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