Page 3 of Road Trip With a Rogue

She had no hope thathewould save her. He was a villain, despite his glittering military career. He’d save his own skin at the expense of hers.

Daisy kicked weakly against her assailant, but all the strength had left her limbs and a dark wave of fatalistic humor seized her. The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was Lucien Vaughan’s sinfully handsome face.

It had a pleasing kind of symmetry, she supposed. He’d haunted her dreams for years. Perhaps, if he watched her die, she’d haunt his.

She bloody well hoped so.

Chapter Two

Lucien William Devereaux Vaughan, the twelfth Duke of Cranford, glanced down at the unconscious woman in the road, then back up at his faithful—if somewhat overenthusiastic—valet.

“You didn’t need to strangle her, Finch,” he said coolly. “You could have just held her arms to restrain her.”

Lucien frowned as he crouched down beside her and tried to still the uncharacteristic pounding of his heart. Few things managed to increase his heart rate anymore, but the female before him had always managed it, even against his will.

Daisy Hamilton. He’d recognized her the moment he’d heard her voice.

She was still breathing; she’d come round in a moment or two. He’d seen Finch use that same move countless times to incapacitate an enemy, and he knew precisely the amount of pressure to employ, but that knowledge didn’t seem to prevent Lucien from worrying, apparently.

Finch gave an unapologetic shrug and dipped his chinto indicate the lethal-looking knife that had fallen from her hand.

“You saw what she did to that bastard before you put a hole in ’im.” He gestured toward the body lying in the road with her knife embedded in its arm. “I didn’t think it wise to underestimate her.”

Lucien grunted in reluctant agreement, even as his gaze roamed over her features as if he’d been starved of the sight of her. Her wild mop of curly brown hair was the same as ever, unsuccessfully restrained by a black ribbon at the back of her neck. Her skin was pale in the moonlight, her eyebrows dark, but he could see the sprinkle of freckles that peppered her nose, and the lush perfection of her lips.

His body heated. He’d kissed those lips. Five years ago, now. And God, if it hadn’t been one of the best and worst nights of his life.

He was glad her eyes were closed. Something strange always happened to him whenever their eyes met: he experienced a tightening in his chest, an instant rush of desire that turned his cock to iron. It was infuriating. No other woman had ever had the same effect.

She’d been pretty at eighteen, before he’d left for war. An impetuous wide-eyed beauty just shimmering on the edge of womanhood. Now, at twenty-three, she was enough to stop a man’s heart.

He’d glimpsed her a few times, briefly, at various social functions since he’d been back in England, but he’d never allowed himself to approach her. Like an alcoholic who knew he couldn’t be trusted to look at a tumbler of whisky without needing a sip—and then the whole bottle—he’d stayed far away from her. He simply hadn’t needed the aggravation.

Had he occasionally imagined her beneath him while he was fucking a dark-haired courtesan? Yes. Had he once accidentally breathed her name while debauching his mistress? Yes again.

But those were perfectly acceptable substitutions. Theonlysafe scenarios in which he would allow himself to think of Daisy Hamilton.

She was not for him. Not back then, and certainly not now.

Thanks to her brothers, he knew she worked as some sort of private investigator, but he’d resisted the urge to learn more. She was his curse, not his salvation, and he’d been right to let her go. It had been for the best. Noble, even. But regret still scorched his veins as he remembered his deliberately cruel rejection of her.

If the horrified look she’d given him just before she lost consciousness was any indication, she’d neither forgotten, nor forgiven, that particular episode either.

Bloody Hell.

What in God’s name was she doinghere?

Cursing himself for a fool, he gave in to the temptation to touch her. At least he was wearing gloves. His leather-covered thumb stroked her cheek as he cupped the back of her head, gently cradling her skull, while his other hand tugged impatiently at the handkerchief tied at her throat to allow her to breathe.

He suppressed a dark laugh. Daisy being unconscious was the only way he’d ever get the chance to undress her.

His heart gave a relieved thump as she stirred. He released her and leaned back on his haunches, trying not to loom, as her eyelids fluttered and she took a deep gulp of air. Her eyes opened, and for a brief minute the world fellaway as she stared up at him in complete incomprehension. She looked dreamy, delightfully confused.

He knew the exact moment she recognized him: her lips parted in a gasp and she reached for her knife.

Finch, thankfully, had removed it, because Lucien was certain she would have stabbed him in the heart without a second thought.

“You!” Her voice was a croak, but full of loathing. “What are you doing here?”