Seven Nights In A Rogue's Bed

PRAISE FOR ANNA CAMPBELL

‘Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed is a lush, sensuous treat. I was enthralled from the first page to the last and still wanted more.’ —Laura Lee Guhrke, New York Times bestselling author

‘The fast pace and slightly gothic atmosphere make the pages fly. She keeps readers highly satisfied with the plot’s tenderness and touching emotions that reach the heart.’

—Kathe Robin, RT Book Reviews

‘Campbell matches up two proud, wary victims of abuse in this smart Regency romance…delightful insight and…luscious love scenes. Readers will cheer for these loveable and well-crafted characters.’

—Publishers Weekly

‘Truly, deeply romantic’

—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author on Captive of Sin

‘Regency noir—different and intriguing’

—Stephanie Laurens, New York Times bestselling author on Claiming the Courtesan

A scar as wide as her thumb ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Another thinner scar bisected one arrogant black eyebrow.

A gesture of the graceful white hand curled around a heavy crystal goblet. In the candlelight, the ruby signet ring glittered malevolently. The claret and the ruby were the colour of blood, Sidonie noticed, then wished to heaven she hadn’t.

‘You’re late.’ His voice was deep and as replete with ennui as his manner.

Sidonie had expected to be frightened. She hadn’t expected to be angry as well. This man’s palpable lack of interest in his victim stirred outrage, powerful as a cleansing tide. ‘The journey took longer than expected.’ She was so furious, her hands were steady when they slid her hood back. ‘The weather disapproves of your nefarious schemes, Mr Merrick.’

As she uncovered her features, she had the grim satisfaction of watching the boredom leach from his expression, replaced by astonished curiosity. He straightened and glared down the table at her.

‘Just who in hell are you?’

THE SONS OF SIN

Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed March 2014

The Rake’s Midnight Kiss July 2014

Till Dawn with the Duke November 2014

ANNA CAMPBELL was the sort of kid who spent her childhood with her nose buried between the pages of a book. She decided when she was a child that she wanted to be a writer. When she’s not writing passionate, intense stories featuring gorgeous Regency heroes and the women who are their destiny, Anna loves to travel, especially in the United Kingdom, and listen to all kinds of music. She has settled near the sea on the east coast of Australia, where she’s losing her battle with an overgrown subtropical garden.

Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed has generated some wonderful reviews and a number of awards, including favourite historical romance from the Australian Romance Readers Association. She was also voted favourite Australian romance author at the ARRA Awards.

Anna loves to hear from her readers. You can contact her through her website at www.annacampbell.info.

Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed

Anna Campbell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

PRAISE FOR ANNA CAMPBELL

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Preview

Copyright

Chapter One

South Devon Coast, November 1826

Storms split the heavens on the night Sidonie Forsythe went to her ruin.

The horses neighed wildly as the shabby hired carriage lurched to a shuddering stop. The wind was so powerful the vehicle rocked even when stationary. Sidonie had seconds to catch her breath before the driver, a shadow in streaming oilskins, loomed out of the darkness to wrench the door open.

“Here be Castle Craven, miss,” he shouted through the sheeting rain.

For a second, terror at what awaited inside the castle held her paralyzed. Castle Craven indeed.

“I can’t leave the nags standing. Be ’ee staying, miss?”

The cowardly urge rose to beg the driver to carry her back to Sidmouth and safety. She could leave now with no damage done. Nobody would even know she’d been here.

Then what would happen to Roberta and her sons?

The remorseless reminder of her sister’s danger prodded Sidonie into frantic motion. Grabbing her valise, she stumbled from the carriage. When the wind caught her, she staggered. She fought to keep her footing on the slippery cobbles as she looked up, up, up at the towering black edifice before her.

She thought she’d been cold in the carriage. In the open, the chill was arctic. She cringed as the wind sliced through her woolen cloak like a knife through butter. As if to confirm she’d entered a realm of gothic horrors, lightning flashed. The ensuing crack of thunder made the horses shift nervously in their harness.

For all his understandable wish to return to civilization, the driver didn’t immediately leave. “Sartain ’ee be expected, miss?”

Even through the howling wind, she heard his misgivings. Misgivings echoing her own. Sidonie straightened as well as she could against the gale. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Wallis.”

“I wish ’ee well, then.” He heaved himself onto the driver’s box and whipped the horses into an unsteady gallop.

Sidonie hoisted her bag and dashed up the shallow flight of steps to the heavy doors. The pointed arch above the entrance offered paltry protection. Another flash of lightning helped her locate the iron knocker shaped like a lion’s head. She seized it in one gloved hand and let it crash. The bang hardly registered against the roaring wind.

Her imperious summons gained no quick response. The temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees while she huddled against the lashing rain.

What on earth would she do if the house was uninhabited?

By the time the door creaked open to reveal an aged woman, Sidonie’s teeth were chattering and she shook as though she had the ague. A gust caught the servant’s single candle, making the frail light flicker.

“I’m—” she shouted over the storm but the woman merely turned away. At a loss, Sidonie trailed after her.

Sidonie entered a cavernous hall crowded with shadows. Muddy brown tapestries drooped from the lofty stone walls. Ahead, the fire in the massive hearth was unlit, adding to the lack of welcome. Sidonie shivered as cold seeped up from the flagstones beneath her half-boots. Behind her, the heavy door slammed shut with a thud like the strike of doom. Startled, Sidonie turned to discover another equally geriatric retainer, male this time, turning a heavy key in the lock.

What in heaven’s name have I done, coming to this godforsaken place?

With the door shut, the silence within was more ominous than the shrieking tempest without. The only sound was the sullen drip, drip, drip of water from her sodden cloak. Fear, her faithful companion since Roberta had confided her plight, settled like lead in Sidonie’s belly. When she’d agreed to help her sister, she’d assumed the torment, however horrid, would be over quickly. Inside this dismal fortress, the horrible premonition gripped her that she’d never again see the outside world.

You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Stop it.

The bracing words did nothing to calm spiraling panic. Bile rose in her throat as she followed the still-silent housekeeper across acres of floor. She felt like a thousand malevolent ghosts leered from the corners. Sidonie tightened numb fingers around her bag’s handle and reminded herself what agony Roberta would endure if she failed.

I can do this.

The stark fact remained that she’d come so far and still might fail. The plan had always been risky. Arriving here alone and vulnerable, Sidonie couldn’t help considering the scheme devised at Barstowe Hall feeble to the point of idiocy. If only her clamoring doubts conjured some alternative way to save her sister.

The woman still shuffled ahead. Sidonie was so rigid with cold that it was an effort forcing her legs to move. The man had offered to take neither her cloak nor bag. When she glanced back, he’d disappeared as efficiently as if he numbered among the castle’s ghosts.

Sidonie and her taciturn escort approached a door in the opposite wall, as imposing as the door outside. When the woman pushed it open, it shifted smoothly on welloiled hinges. Steeling herself, Sidonie stepped into a blaze of light and warmth.

Trembling, she stopped at one end of a refectory table extending down the room. Heavy oak chairs, dark with age, lined the table on either side. It was a room designed for an uproarious crowd, but as her gaze slowly traveled up the length of board, she realized, apart from her decrepit guide, only one other person was present.

Jonas Merrick.

Bastard offspring of scandal. Rich as Croesus. Power broker to the mighty. And the reprobate who tonight would use her body.

“Maister, the lady be here.”

Without straightening from his careless slouch in the throne-like chair at the room’s far end, the man raised his head.

At this, her first sight of him, the breath jammed painfully in Sidonie’s throat. From nerveless fingers, her bag slid to the floor. Swiftly she looked down, hiding her shock under her hood.

Roberta had warned her. William, her brother-in-law, had been merciless in his excoriations on Merrick’s character and appearance. And of course, like everyone else, Sidonie had heard the gossip.

But nothing had prepared her for that ruined face.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood and fought the urge to turn and flee into the night. She couldn’t run. Too much depended upon staying. In childhood Roberta had been Sidonie’s only protector. Now Sidonie had to save her sister, no matter the cost.

Hesitantly she lifted her gaze to her notorious host. Merrick wore boots, breeches, and a white shirt, open at the neck. Sidonie tore her gaze from the shadowy hint of a muscled chest and made herself look at his face. Perhaps she’d detect a chink in his determination, some trace of pity to deter him from this appalling act.

Closer inspection confirmed that hope was futile. A man ruthless enough to instigate this devil’s bargain wouldn’t relent now that his prize was within his grasp.

Abundant coal black hair, longer than fashion decreed, tumbled across his high forehead. Prominent cheekbones. A square jaw indicating haughty self-confidence. Deep-set eyes focused on her with a bored expression that frightened her more than eagerness would have.

He’d never have been handsome, even before some assailant in his mysterious past had sliced his commanding blade of a nose and his lean cheek. A scar as wide as her thumb ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Another thinner scar bisected one arrogant black eyebrow.

A gesture of the graceful white hand curled around a heavy crystal goblet. In the candlelight, the ruby signet ring glittered malevolently. The claret and the ruby were the color of blood, Sidonie noticed, then wished to heaven she hadn’t.

“You’re late.” His voice was deep and as replete with ennui as his manner.

Sidonie had expected to be frightened. She hadn’t expected to be angry as well. This man’s palpable lack of interest in his victim stirred outrage, powerful as a cleansing tide. “The journey took longer than expected.” She was so furious, her hands were steady when they slid her hood back. “The weather disapproves of your nefarious schemes, Mr. Merrick.”

As she uncovered her features, she had the grim satisfaction of watching the boredom leach from his expression, replaced by astonished curiosity. He straightened and glared down the table at her.

“Just who in hell are you?”

The girl, whoever the devil she was, didn’t flinch at Jonas’s irascible question. Under disheveled coffee-colored hair, her face was pale and beautiful in the heavy-lidded, voluptuous manner.

He had to give her credit. She must be scared out of her wits, not to mention as cold as a cat locked out in a snowstorm, yet she stood calm as a marble monument.

Not quite. If he looked closely, faint color marked her cheeks. She was far from the indomitable creature she struggled to appear.

And she was young. Too young to tangle with a cynical, self-serving scoundrel like Jonas Merrick.

At the bella incognita’s side, Mrs. Bevan wrung her wrinkled hands. “Maister, ’ee said to expect a lady. When she knocked—”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Bevan.” Without shifting his gaze from his visitor, he waved dismissal. He should be piqued that his original prey evaded his snare, but curiosity swamped anger. Just who was this incomparable? “Leave us.”

“But do ’ee expect another lady tonight?”

A wry smile twisted his lips. “I think not.” He cast an assessing glance over the silent girl. “I’ll ring when I require you, Mrs. Bevan.”

Muttering displeasure under her breath, the housekeeper stumped away, leaving him alone with his guest. “I take it the delightful Roberta is otherwise occupied,” he said in a silky tone.

The girl’s full lips flattened. She must be repulsed by his scars—everyone was—but apart from a slight stiffening of her posture when she’d entered, her composure was remarkable. The delightful Roberta had known him for years and still reacted with trembling horror at every encounter.

Thwarted malice darkened his mood. He’d rather looked forward to teaching his cousin’s wife to endure his presence without suffering the megrims. This impetuous beauty’s arrival dashed those hopes. He wondered idly whether she’d offer adequate compensation for his disappointment. Hard to tell. So little of her was visible under the worn cape dripping puddles onto his floor.

“My name is Sidonie Forsythe.” The girl spat out the introduction and her chin tilted insolently. He was too far away to see the color of her eyes but he knew they sparked resentment. Under delicate brows, they were large and slanted, lending her an exotic appearance. “I’m Lady Hillbrook’s younger sister.”

“My condolences,” he said drily. Ah, he knew who she was now. He’d heard an unmarried Forsythe sister lived at Barstowe Hall, his cousin’s family seat, although he’d never encountered her in person.

He sought and failed to find any resemblance to her sister. Roberta, Viscountess Hillbrook, was a celebrated beauty, but in the conventional English style. This girl with her dusky hair and air of untapped sensuality was in a different class altogether. His interest sharpened, although he made sure he sounded as if her arrival were the dullest event imaginable. “Where is Roberta on this fine night? If I haven’t mistaken the date, we’d arranged to enjoy a week of each other’s company.”

A hint of triumph lit the girl’s face, made her dark beauty blaze like a torch. “My sister is beyond your reach, Mr. Merrick.”

“You’re not.” He flavored his smile with menace.

Her brief smugness evaporated. “No.”

“I imagine you offer yourself in her place. Gallant, if a tad presumptuous to assume any random woman meets my requirements.” He sipped his wine with an insouciance designed to irk this chit who’d upset his wicked plans. “I’m afraid the obligation isn’t yours. Your sister incurred the gaming debt, not you. Charming as I’m sure you are.”

Her slender throat moved as she swallowed. Yes, definitely jittery underneath the bravado. He wasn’t a good enough man to pity this valiant girl. But for a discomfiting instant, something within him winced with fellow feeling. He’d been young and afraid in his time. He remembered how it felt to pretend courage while dread crippled the heart.

Relentlessly he mashed the unwelcome empathy down into the dank hollow where he caged all his old, evil memories.

“I’m your payment, Mr. Merrick.” Her voice emerged with impressive coolness. Brava, incognita. “If you don’t collect your winnings from me, the debt becomes moot.”

“Says Roberta.”

“Honor forbids—”

He released a harsh crack of laughter and saw the girl quail at last, from his mockery, not his horror of a face. “Honor holds no sway in this house, Miss Forsythe. If your sister cannot pay with her body, she must pay in the more usual way.”

Her tone hardened. “You are well aware my sister cannot cover her losses.”

“Your sister’s dilemma.”

“I suspect you knew that when you lured her into such deep play. You’re using Roberta to trump Lord Hillbrook.”

“Oh, cruel accusation,” he said with theatrical dismay, however accurate her suspicions. He hadn’t set out that night to entrap Roberta into adultery, but the occasion would have tempted a much better man than Jonas Merrick. Especially as he’d always known that Roberta’s disdain for him included an unhealthy dollop of fascination. “Offering yourself as substitute is a devilish strong demonstration of sisterly devotion.”

The girl didn’t answer. He rose and prowled down the room. “If I’m to accept this exchange, I should see what I’m getting. Roberta may be a henwit, but she’s a deuced decorative henwit.”

“She’s not a henwit.” Miss Forsythe edged away, then stopped to ask suspiciously, “What are you doing, Mr. Merrick?”

His advance didn’t falter. “Unwrapping my gift, Miss Forsythe.”

“Unwr…?” This time she didn’t bother hiding her retreat. “No.”

His lips curled in sardonic amusement. “You mean to wear your wet cloak all night?”

The color in her cheeks intensified. She really was pretty with her creamy skin and full-lipped mouth. Now that he was close enough to look into her eyes, he saw they were a deep, velvety brown, like pansies. Sexual interest stirred. Nothing quite so strong as arousal, but curiosity that could soon become hunger.

“Yes. I mean, no.” She raised a shaking hand in its black leather glove. “You’re trying to intimidate me.”

He still smiled. “If I am, I’d say I’m succeeding.”

She drew herself up to her full height. She was tall for a woman, but didn’t come near to matching his more than six feet. “I told you why I’m here. I won’t fight you. There’s no need to play the villain from an opera.”

“You’ll endure my distasteful caresses but won’t let me take your cloak? Seems a little silly.”

She stopped backing away, purely because she bumped into the stone wall behind her. Her eyes flared gold with anger. “Don’t mock me.”

“Why not?” he asked lazily. He reached to release the ties at her throat.

She pressed into the wall in a futile attempt to escape. “I don’t like it.”

“You’ll get used to it.” His hands brushed along her shoulders, feeling trembling tension beneath the saturated wool. “Before we’re done, you’ll get used to a great deal.”

Bleak self-awareness hardened her expression. “I imagine you’re right.”

The amusement left his voice. “Roberta isn’t worth this, you know.”

The girl—Miss Forsythe, Sidonie—stared back without shying away. “Yes, she is. You don’t understand.”

“I daresay I don’t.” If the wench was determined to rush to perdition, who was he to argue? Especially as she smelled agreeably of rain and a faint evocative hint of woman. When he slid the cape from her shoulders and let it fall in a sodden heap, he revealed a body pleasingly curved to fit his hands.

She gasped as the garment slipped, then stood quivering. Her jaw set with truculent determination. “I’m ready.”

“I doubt you are, bella.” He paid closer attention to her clothing and spoke with genuine horror. “What on earth have you got on?”

The look she shot him indicated virulent dislike. “What’s wrong with it?”

He cast a disapproving glance over the ruffled white muslin, too young for her, too light for the wretched night, too unfashionable, too…everything. “Nothing, if you’re dressing to play the virgin sacrifice.”

“Why not?” she said with a revival of spirit. “I am a virgin.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. Which begs the question why you’re presenting me with your maidenhead instead of letting your fool sister clean up her own mess.”

“You’re offensive, sir.”

He muffled a laugh. She proved more amusing than Roberta. At the very least, Roberta would have treated him to a display of hysterics by now. He couldn’t picture this grave goddess resorting to such dramatics. Perhaps this was his lucky night after all. His lurking frustration at Roberta’s maneuvers, fading under the influence of this lovely girl’s defiance, vanished. Trapping Roberta had been no great challenge, however satisfying the prospect of swiving his loathed cousin’s wife. Seducing Sidonie Forsythe promised fine sport indeed.

“It’s my best dress,” Miss Forsythe said huffily.

He subjected the limp frill at her décolletage to a derisive flick. “Perhaps when you were fifteen.” His gaze sharpened. “Just how old are you?”

“Twenty-four,” she muttered. “How old are you?”

“Too old for you.” At thirty-two, perhaps he wasn’t too old in years but he was a million years too old in experience. And he hadn’t spent those million years wisely.

Sudden hope lit her expression. “Does that mean you’ll let me go?”

This time he laughed openly. “Not on your life.”

Her spiking fear might send her scarpering. He curled one hand around her shoulder, bare under her flimsy bodice. At the contact, something inexplicable arced between them. When startled pansy eyes shot up to meet his, he tumbled headlong into soft brown. She trembled as his hold gentled to shape the graceful curve of bone and sinew.