Page 17 of Road Trip With a Rogue (Her Majesty’s Rebels #3)

Daisy groaned as a clatter from the innyard interrupted a most delicious dream. Her body was warm, tingling with suppressed energy, and it took her several seconds to realize where she was.

In Vaughan’s embrace.

She stilled, hardly daring to breathe, as she catalogued the unfortunate situation.

He was still above the covers, thank God, but his heavy arm was slung over her waist and her bottom was snuggled intimately in his lap.

The hard ridge of his morning erection was nestled against her bottom as if it belonged there, and she resisted the wicked urge to rub herself against him.

His breathing was deep and even; every inhalation pressed his chest against her spine. She was sure he was still asleep.

Her head was tucked under his chin, and the scent of him filled her brain and made her think terrible, wicked thoughts.

If she pretended to still be asleep, she could roll over and press her nose to the bare skin of his throat where his shirt lay open.

She could raise her chin so her mouth brushed his.

He’d kiss her back. Even half asleep, he’d kiss her. And then he’d wake fully and roll her over and press her down and his hands would be in her hair and—

No. That would be underhanded. She was no coward. If she wanted him, she would be honest about it, not pretend she was dazed and half conscious.

And now was not the time. She had a job to do. A runaway heiress to catch.

But God, it was tempting to stay.

It was clear they’d ended up in this position unconsciously; his body was merely reacting to a female form, not her specifically, but he’d broken his promise not to stay on his side of the bed.

A wicked smile curved her lips. She’d show him.

She slid her right hand slowly beneath her pillow until her fingers closed around the familiar hilt of her knife, then stretched languidly as if trying to get more comfortable.

It was hard to move with Vaughan’s arm pinning her down, and his lax hand brushed dangerously close to her breast as she turned over to face him.

She held her breath as he stirred slightly, but his eyes remained closed and his breathing even as she angled her blade so the edge of it touched the skin of his throat.

A surge of unholy elation filled her as his eyes snapped open.

“Good morning,” she purred.

His pupils flared as he stared down at her, and she bit her lip against the urge to laugh.

“Good morning yourself.” His deep timbre rumbled against her chest and made her blood sing. “You had a knife under your pillow.”

His composure was impressive, considering.

“I did.” Her lips curved in triumph. “I warned you not to underestimate me.”

“You did indeed.”

He didn’t seem appropriately concerned, so she added a little more pressure, and his eyes darkened even more. Her heart began to pound.

“I love how sneaky you are, Dorothea.” The heat of him was irresistible.

“Daisy,” she growled.

“It makes me want to kiss you.” He leaned forward, into the blade, accepting the sting so their lips were almost touching.

“I’ll cut you,” she warned, even as her body tingled with anticipation.

His warm breath skated over her lips. “Worth it.”

He closed the distance before she could disagree. His lips pressed hers, hard and warm, and for a split second she let herself melt into the kiss.

And then he moved like lightning. One moment he was kissing her, the next, she was flat on her back, his fingers pinning both her wrists to the bed, his hard body on top of hers.

Daisy gave a howl of frustration at how quickly he’d gained the advantage.

“Bastard! Let me up.” Violence and desire had her almost burning up.

His laughter made her buck furiously against him, but that only served to inflame her even more. Her thighs cradled his hardness and his chest pressed down on hers, and she could only be glad that the coverlet provided a barrier between them.

She stilled, recognizing the futility of trying to make him move before he was ready and angry with herself for falling for such an obvious distraction. She’d been stupidly complacent.

“That’s better,” he murmured, his eyes sparkling with laughter. He gave her wrists a little warning squeeze, but she didn’t release her blade, stubborn to the last.

“Nice knife. Where did you get it?”

“From an admirer,” she growled. “An Italian thief.”

“Whatever happened to giving a girl a nice bouquet of flowers?”

She glared up at him. “I prefer the blade.”

“Such a violent little thing.” He made it sound like an endearment.

His gaze flicked down to her lips, and she tensed, half hoping he meant to kiss her again, but he rolled to the side instead, easing his weight off her slowly, releasing her. She sat up, rubbing her wrists even though he hadn’t hurt her at all.

He slid off the bed and stood, looking down at her, and lifted his fingers to the side of his throat, just beneath his jaw. “First blood to you.”

A smear of red coated his fingertips. He angled his chin and glanced in the mirror to inspect the damage, and her heart gave an odd lurch at the sight of the thin cut she’d inflicted on his skin.

His lips curved, as if he found the injury amusing. “Pax?”

She made a point of placing her knife on the bedside table within easy reach. “Are you going to give my other knives back?”

“Eventually. When I’m satisfied you’re not going to use them on me. Truce?”

She nodded, still grouchy. “Fine. Yes. Truce.”

For now.

Lucien tried not to laugh at the furious color that bloomed in Daisy’s cheeks. She looked delicious, her eyes sparking at him, her chest rising and falling in aggravation beneath her shirt.

He turned away to hide the throbbing evidence of his arousal, although she must have felt it when he’d lain on top of her. His stupid body didn’t seem to know the difference between fighting and foreplay.

With Daisy, there was hardly any difference. He wanted her with a desperation that was shocking.

He’d been awake for far longer than she had, and he’d reveled in the unfamiliar sensation of waking with a woman in his arms. He’d never invited any of his previous lovers to sleep in his bed or to linger once their mutual pleasure had been achieved.

But holding Daisy felt scarily right. Her curly mop of hair had tickled his chin, her body had nestled into his as perfectly as an acorn fitting into its cup.

Being wicked, he hadn’t bothered to deny himself the temptation of touching her while she slept.

He’d skimmed his palm over her thigh and into the dip of her waist, stealing the knowledge of her curves with guiltless pleasure.

His finger had traced the side of her neck, and she’d shifted restlessly as he’d stroked the petal-soft skin of her cheek and touched the corner of her mouth.

When her pink lips had parted on a restless sigh, he’d snatched his hand away, fearful of being caught even as he weighed the possibility of stealing a kiss.

He’d known the instant she woke. She’d tensed, and he’d feigned sleep, his heart pounding in anticipation as he waited to see what she would do.

He’d felt her slide her hand beneath her pillow, but the sweet press of her breasts against his chest and the slide of her leg against his when she’d turned over to face him had been incredibly distracting.

He bit back a smile at the way she’d outsmarted him. He hadn’t expected the knife. God, he loved her spirit.

He crossed the room and kicked the fire back to life, giving her space. Distance was probably a good idea.

“I’ll go and see about breakfast.”

The thump of the water jug against the drawers was the only indication that she’d heard him.