Page 43 of The Rogue’s Embrace

Replete from the cannoli, a companionable calm descended upon the four of them.

The Misses McTavish were an eccentric pair, clearly bent on furthering the acquaintance between himself and Mrs. Bongorge—or Stella, as the others referred to her. However, he couldn't find it in himself to be annoyed. The ease he felt contrasted with the formality between himself and Miss Maitland. As amiable as her parents were, he hadn't found himself able to relax and laugh in their company as he had today.

Rockley felt surprisingly amenable. Impulse had driven him to join them ashore, despite his earlier resolution to keep his distance. He was a grown man; not some adolescent ruled by sexual caprice. He was capable of enjoying the company of Mrs. Bongorge without casting off all his principles.

At first, she'd been somewhat prickly, no doubt uncertain of his motives in accompanying them. They'd parted in a way that could only be described as uncomfortable. However, it hadn't taken long before she indulged her usual playful manner.

She was looking particularly lovely, too—in frothy white muslin embroidered with rosebuds. He didn't usually pay much attention to the details of a woman's dress, but he approved of this one. A wide sash accentuated her waist, above the padding and contraptions going on beneath the skirts. He'd a feeling her own hips would be perfectly adequate in giving the outfit shape, creating just the right counterbalance to the curves within her bodice.

He didn't mean to stare, but perhaps he was, for she adjusted the positioning of her hat, hiding her face behind the great saucer. "If I sit much longer, I shan't be able to move at all. A short turn about the square, I think. Please remain as you are."

"Nonsense, dear,"

said Margaret McTavish. "Rockley will accompany you. Even if you are in plain sight, we're in a foreign country. Better to have a gentleman by your side."

"We might climb one of the bell towers, if you're feeling up to it? The steps don't number more than about a hundred, and the view is worthwhile."

He found himself hoping, very much, that she'd consent.

"Oh yes,"

the other Miss McTavish prompted. "You must see that, and there's no need to hurry back. We'll sit until you collect us."

Mrs. Bongorge rose and took his arm, walking in step with him across the piazza, towards the western of the two belltowers. The spiral upward being narrow, he sent her ahead. All was quiet, but for the sound of their step and the slight brush of her skirts over the rising stones, though she lifted her hem, giving him a view of white boots and a modest heel.

She kept a good pace, though her breathing came more noticeably as they approached the final turn. Emerging onto the open-windowed balcony of the summit, she pressed her hand to her chest, laughing and triumphant.

It was just as well they were alone in having made the ascent, for there was little enough room for the two of them. The bell hung within the vault, its rope tied to one side.

Taking off her hat she leant out, gazing down at the square and across the terracotta rooftops, then farther, towards the strait and the harbor. "Look, we can see the ship! I can see everything… except—"

she moved to the next opening. "Is that Mount Etna? It's smaller than I imagined."

"It's the tallest of all Europe's volcanoes; the most active, too."

He came to stand directly behind her, and the breeze carried her perfume to him—jasmine today, underlaid with earthier notes. A raven curl had broken lose from the pins coiling her hair. "At least a quarter of the island's population lives on its slopes, since those are the most fertile."

"Isn't that dangerous?"

She squinted westward.

"Not as much as you might think. It's been more than five decades since the last eruption. In any case, the lava travels slowly. Farms and homes are swept away, but rarely lives. Far more people have been lost to conflict over the years, not to mention disease and hardship."

"Everything looks so peaceful, it's hard to imagine it any other way."

She was watching the passing of those far below.

"Not entirely peaceful."

He knew more about that than she needed to hear. There were organizations on the island of Sicily whose methods of keeping the peace were far from civilized—though, superficially, they did the job as effectively as any government. "It was a British protectorate for a time, to ensure access to the sea routes during the Napoleonic wars. Like most places, it has its secrets, and a history layered with glory and strife. Almost every power in the region has taken control here, at some time or other: the Phoenicians and Carthaginians, Greeks and Romans, all the way through to the Normans and Spanish."

"All things pass, don't they. Like a woman's beauty—fleeting. One day we'll be gone, and who will be able to say they ever knew us?"

She pressed back against him, resting her head lightly upon his shoulder. He stood very still—aware of the warmth of her body; knowing she would feel the heat from his.

When she turned her lashes were lowered, but she tilted back her head, parting her lips, entreating him.

His gut tightened.

She wanted him to kiss her, and with every fiber of his being, he wanted it too.

He clasped her tightly, anchoring her to him. Gently at first, he tugged her bottom lip, teasing, but when he entered with his tongue, he uttered a low, rough sound.

As the kiss grew in urgency, she gave herself over to it entirely, letting herself melt into the heat of his body and the commanding hunger of his mouth.

He moved his hands lower, to cup her behind through the flimsy material, squeezing her roundness, while pressing himself to her belly.

She loved that he wanted her, that he was unafraid to surrender, to give in to the hot lick of passion.

She was no demure debutante, and immediately desired more.

She wanted everything—to unbutton him and take him in her mouth, to caress and suckle. Then she wanted to lift her skirts and have him bury his cock inside her—that mysterious, gargantuan cock he believed no woman could endure. She wanted him to take her right there, with her legs wrapped around him.

She let her own palms travel lower, seeking out the hard curve of his buttocks.

"Stella."

He was breathing hard. "Stop. We must stop."

"There's no one here; no one to see."

She brought one hand to the waistband of his trousers. "I can make you feel wonderful. Just let me…"

"No."

He looked at her with beseeching eyes. "I began this, but I was wrong."

Despite the warmth of the afternoon, a chill enfolded her.

He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

She knew it to be true.

A man didn't kiss like that unless he felt something.

"You still plan to wed."

Her voice wasn't her own.

He looked wretched. "Think of your own marriages. Did you make them because you fell in love?"

Of course she hadn't. As sister to a viscount, she'd always been assured a level of social acceptance. Coupled with beauty and wit, there had been nothing to stop her from making almost any match. But there was a reason she'd sought out the husbands she had. Love—at least on her side—had not been a prerequisite. In return, she'd enjoyed great wealth and, more importantly, freedom.

Only now was she rethinking what she needed.

Her funds were sufficient that she need not marry again. As for position, there were circles in which she wasn't welcome, but she couldn't summon much regret on that count.

"If I break off the engagement, Miss Maitland will be humiliated. I can't be responsible for that and maintain any sense of self-worth."

How could she argue? He'd made his feelings plain from the start. Nothing but her own foolishness had led her into thinking it might be otherwise, and she truly did feel a fool. He was set to marry a nice, innocent girl—young enough, almost, to be her daughter.

"You're right. Forgive me."

She made herself say it. She was the one at fault, tempting him to throw away his self-respect for…what exactly?

Whatever problems Rockley thought he had, he'd overcome them eventually, and sire the heir he deserved. That ship had sailed for Estela. Even were she willing to bear a child for a man she thought she might care for, her age made that highly unlikely to happen.

"We should go down."

Without further appeal, she began the descent. By the time she'd reached the bottom, her mind was made up. The only possible answer was to have nothing more to do with him. The alternative would lead to actions they'd both regret. "Would you be kind enough to return to the restaurant? I wish to sit in the cathedral for a while, but I won't be long."

His eyes were anguished, though whether on his own behalf or hers, she couldn't say. "Let me stay with you. I can sit far off if you prefer."

"Kind of you, but not necessary."

She needed to reassert the version of herself with which she was more familiar. Emotions were always a bad idea. She'd had it right from the first. What she needed was a damn good rodgering, and if His Grace didn't wish to oblige, she'd find someone who would.

Leaving him at the bottom of the tower, Estela moved into the half-light of the cathedral. It was eerily quiet, compared with earlier in the day. An elderly woman, all in black, knelt nearby, her hands clasped in prayer. In a side chapel, one of the clergy was polishing the crucifixes adorning the small altar.

She was going to do something terrible; something blasphemously wicked—purely to remind herself of what she was capable. This was who she was: a woman without scruples who took what she wanted.

Prissy Rockley, who couldn't make up his mind, could jump in the harbor for all she cared.

Entering the side chapel, she touched the robed man's sleeve. He was younger than she'd anticipated. A novice priest? It would explain why he was conducting menial duties. Nevertheless, when she whispered in his ear, he nodded, leading them towards the confessional.

Only once the door on his side was closed did she cast her eyes the length of the nave, assuring herself they were unobserved. The next moment, she was slipping into the gloom of the booth where the young man sat.

He started in surprise but made no sound. Nevertheless, she placed one hand upon his mouth. With her other, she caressed his cheek—as yet untainted by any growth of beard. A brush of her lips across his eyelids brought the quickening of his breath.

She'd barely had time to take to her knees when the door opened behind her. A figure loomed on the threshold, silhouetted against the light.

The figure of Rockley.