Seven Nights In A Rogue's Bed. Anna Campbell

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      She regarded him with well-deserved hatred. “I’m not hungry.”

      “Pity. You’ll need your strength later.”

      He let that sink in while he sat and rang the bell. Mrs. Bevan appeared with astonishing speed. She’d probably been listening at the door. Entertainment at Castle Craven was so lacking, he hardly blamed her.

      “You may serve dinner, Mrs. Bevan,” he said with a cheerfulness that earned him a puzzled glance from his housekeeper.

      “Aye, maister. And for yon lady?”

      Miss Forsythe remained standing where she had when he’d kissed her. She was back to looking like a marble statue, but now that he’d touched her, he knew she was flesh and blood, all right.

      “Two?”

      The girl didn’t react. Good Lord, had that kiss silenced her clever tongue? He hoped to coax her into using it again. Not for idle conversation.

      He addressed Mrs. Bevan. “No, for one. Please show the lady to her room. Mr. Bevan can serve my meal.”

      “Aye, maister.” The woman shuffled out and after a brief hesitation, the girl collected her meager luggage and followed.

      Jonas wished he could be there when Miss Forsythe discovered that in this ramshackle pile, her room also served as his.

       Chapter Two

      In the elaborate four-poster bed, Sidonie huddled under the covers. Outside, the gale tore at the castle walls. Its roar made her feel even more defenseless. Fear had hounded her since Roberta had come to her at Barstowe Hall two days ago and begged for help. Fear cramped her stomach and lodged like a boulder in her throat. Fear tasted foul in her mouth.

      Second thoughts came too late. Whatever Merrick did to Sidonie couldn’t compare to the consequences if William discovered his wife had shared his enemy’s bed. Roberta’s recklessness had placed them all in jeopardy. Sidonie. Roberta. Roberta’s two children, Nicholas and Thomas. But how could Sidonie maintain her anger? Roberta had been more mother than sister when the two Forsythe girls had lived under their parents’ negligent regime. Then Roberta had exchanged her father’s cold, sarcastic tyranny for her husband’s cruelty. Over eight years of marriage, Roberta had changed from a vivacious, affectionate girl into a nervy shadow. The only time Sidonie glimpsed a trace of Roberta’s former gaiety was if she won at the gaming tables.

      When she was on a winning streak, Roberta was blind to all consequences. It wasn’t difficult to picture Jonas Merrick luring her into deeper and deeper play. Until finally he held his enemy’s wife in his power.

      For pride’s sake and to avoid damaging scandal, both William and Roberta kept the misery of their union a domestic secret. Jonas Merrick could have no idea of the damage he threatened to the innocent when he accepted Lady Hillbrook’s vowels. Or perhaps he guessed and didn’t care.

      So now Sidonie waited in Jonas Merrick’s bed like a sacrificial lamb. She guessed this was Merrick’s room, although the only evidence of his occupancy was a set of heavy silver brushes on the dressing table, and some subtle scent lingering on the linen and in the air. When he’d kissed her downstairs, he’d imprinted himself on her senses in a way she couldn’t define. And didn’t like. His touch had left an invisible mark. That frightened her almost as much as what was to happen in this glittering chamber. When she pictured him crushing her into the mattress with his powerful body, a scream swelled in her constricted throat.

      Her surroundings offered no reassurance. Instead, they added to mounting dread, even as they puzzled her. This was the most bizarre room she’d ever seen. Gold proliferated. On the ornate old-fashioned furniture, the sconces along the walls, the glinting metallic thread in curtains and carpets. Everywhere Sidonie saw herself reflected in battalions of mirrors. Instead of paintings, gilt mirrors lined the walls. Cheval mirrors in each corner. A mirror above the dressing table, over the chest of drawers, between the doors of the armoire. Most surprising—and daunting—was the large oval mirror suspended from the tester above her head.

      This proof of her mercurial host’s vanity baffled her. His careless dress didn’t indicate overweening conceit. Surely any normal man would shrink from dwelling so obsessively upon his disfigurement.

      Reflected high above, she saw a pale girl lying straight and still as a cadaver under the heavy cover, gold of course. Thick brown hair was severely pulled back from her face and one fat plait snaked its way across her chest. A girl lying alone. Mr. Merrick seemed in no hurry to pursue his conquest.

      At first, Sidonie had perched on a chair. When she’d started to shiver in the damp muslin, she’d changed into her night rail. As hours passed, marked by the ormolu clock on the cabinet, she’d shifted to the bed. Why draw out the preliminaries? There was no escape from the endgame.

      Sourly she wondered whether Merrick would demonstrate more ardor if instead of an inexperienced stranger, her pretty sister awaited. But of course he hadn’t lured Roberta here because he wanted her. He’d concocted this scheme to score points against his cousin, Lord Hillbrook. This was just the latest spiteful gambit between bitter enemies.

      Tightening her grip on the covers, Sidonie struggled for fatalistic calm. But courage faltered when she imagined Merrick shoving himself inside her. Would he expect her to undress? Would she have to…touch him? Would he kiss her again? Absurdly, that seemed the greatest threat of all. His kiss left her flummoxed. It had been chaste as a child’s buss upon the lips. Although the fact that Mer-rick was long past childhood robbed the act of genuine innocence.

      She’d never been kissed before. Not by a man. Not with desire.

      How sad that her first kiss occurred in such sordid circumstances. Sad and insidiously shameful. Because she hadn’t hated his kiss, even though she should. Mer-rick’s kiss had left her intrigued rather than outraged. What would it be like when he took liberties beyond mere kissing?

      No, she wouldn’t think about it. She wouldn’t…

      Easier said than done when she lay in Merrick’s bed.

      Although her host had long ago lost any legal right to use the Merrick name. He should by rights employ his mother’s surname. Jonas Merrick was son to Anthony, the late Viscount Hillbrook, and the Spanish mistress purporting to be his wife. When the viscount’s younger brother successfully challenged the supposed marriage, Jonas was declared bastard. Upon Anthony’s death, his nephew William inherited the Hillbrook title and the feud between Jonas and his cousin, stemming from boyhood, had only become more vicious.

      Sidonie shivered. William’s reaction when he learned his bastard cousin had tumbled his wife—surely this scheme’s object was that William would find out—was unthinkable. Remembering that Roberta’s very life depended on what happened in this bed bolstered Sidonie’s purpose. Until the heavy door opened and Mer-rick prowled into the candlelit room.

      A deeply feminine fear, thick and heavy as tar, coalesced in Sidonie’s stomach as she surged up against the headboard. Merrick appeared impossibly large lounging against the door, arms folded across his lean chest. Candlelight flickered over his ruined face, lending him a devilish mien.

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