Page 88 of Rogue of My Heart

“You still haven’t introduced yourself,” she reminded him in a hoarse voice a moment later, meeting his eyes again.

“I’m surprised you didn’t remember me on sight,” he said, taking a step forward. Her eyes widened and she snuck another look at his willy. “Christian Darrow?” he said, forming it as a question to see if the name would jog her memory. “Lord Kilrea’s errant and prodigal younger son.”

Marie’s mouth dropped open—which was entirely distracting, since she was still staring at his cock and the sight of her pink lips parted that way threatened to give her more than she bargained for to look at—and she gasped in recognition. “Aren’t you in Spain or some such?” she asked, gaze meeting his again at last.

“Yes,” he answered, trying not to laugh. “That’s where we are at present, is it not?”

Marie snapped her mouth shut and sent him a flat look.

“I must have gone for a longer swim than I thought and washed up on this shore instead of the one near Bilbao.” He winked for good measure.

“Well, then, you won’t be needing these.” She tossed her armful of his clothes behind her. “You can just swim back to Spain and fetch the clothes you left there.”

“I could.” He shrugged. “But who needs clothes on a fine, warm day like this. I trust you’re warming up yourself, Lady Marie?”

His pointed teasing didn’t have quite the effect he’d hoped for. Any other fine lady whose acquaintance he’d ever made would be fainting with embarrassment at the sight of him. All of him. Part of him wanted to see how far he could push things to make Lady Marie faint as well. Except that if she hadn’t already, if she wasn’t falling all over herself in an effort not to stare at his naked body, he doubted there was anything short of vulgarity that he could do to put her off.

Not that he wanted to put her off. Quite the opposite.

God, he liked her.

After a heavy pause, she blinked and glanced up again. “You know who I am?” she asked.

“All of Ireland knows who you are, Lady Marie O’Shea,” he said, adding a wink.

“Thank God,” she said in a seemingly relieved voice.

Christian wondered if she truly was relieved or if he’d finally embarrassed her by mentioning her reputation. Her face was a little too pink, and her eyes sparkled a bit too much. Whether she was letting on or not, he’d unnerved her at least a little bit. Which was grand, as far as he was concerned.

Her gaze started to drop again, but she cleared her throat and crossed her arms. “So you’re back in Ireland, then, Mr. Christian Darrow.”

“I am,” Christian said with a nod, unable to resist adding, “In the flesh.” He peeked down at himself.

Marie burst into a snort that she had to hide with one hand to her mouth. “And what fine flesh it is too,” she added, giggling as she did.

That was it. Christian was charmed beyond reason. He’d taken a shine to women on sight in the past, as they had to him, but the instant draw he felt toward Lady Marie went beyond any of those trifling feelings. Any woman who could endure his naked company with both appreciation and a snort of laughter was the sort of woman he wanted to be friends with. Or more. In spite of the fact that his father would chastise him for having no decorum or discretion. Perhaps because of it. His bloody father had never understood the way he enjoyed life. If his father had had his way, every man on earth would be boring and stolid and?—

And the last thing he wanted to think about when faced with a beautiful nymph like Lady Marie was his failure to live up to his father’s expectations.

“What brings you to this bit of beach that I thought was secluded enough for a dip in the middle of the afternoon?” he asked, shifting his weight but continuing to pretend there was nothing unusual about him having the conversation naked.

“My brother has just given me a bicycle,” she explained.

“Lucifer,” he said, proving he remembered the name.

“And I was exploring,” she finished.

“I bet you were,” he said, one eyebrow flickering.

She laughed out loud, and perhaps would have said more if a hint of movement from beyond the beach hadn’t distracted them both. They turned to find an old woman—likely from one of the nearby villages—strolling along the road. She had a basket over one shoulder and was singing to herself.

“Quick,” Christian hissed, dropping to his knees on the sand. “When she sees us, pretend I’ve just washed up on the shore.”

“What do you—you can’t just—how do you expect—” Marie issued her flurry of protests, but giggled even harder as he flopped to his stomach, arms spread, feigning death. “Oh, you are a corker, aren’t you,” she mumbled, dropping to her knees beside him.

A moment later, the old woman’s singing stopped and turned into an alarmed shout.

“Help, oh, help!” Marie called out to her—a little overdramatic, but still admirable in her enthusiasm.