Ashlyn Macnamara by A Most Devilish Rogue Page A

gray. A sharp breeze blew up from the sea, carrying with it the dull pounding of surf on the unseen beach at the cliff’s base. Her cove lay nearby, bathed in that same otherworldly light.
    That cove was no longer her and Jack’s secret, not since the day Upperton had come upon them. He was no better than an intruder, and a rude one at that. What had she been thinking, entering the manor when she ought to have waited for whoever had left her that note?
    Blasted curiosity, always leading her astray. And it had made her miss her meeting. Whatever
he
had wanted with her … He, yes. Curlicues aside, there was something masculine about the handwriting on that note. She’d trudged up the path to Shoreford house, her heart heavy. What could anyone know about Jack after all these years?
    But she’d gone and let Upperton distract her. Although he’d kept his word and done no more than kiss her, bitter experience ought to have taught her to exercise more caution. She intended to, starting now. She’d go back to her cottage, mind her own business, raise her son, and never look in the direction of the likes of George Upperton again.
    A crack from the hedge to her left brought her up short. Her heart slammed into her ribs, and her senses tingled to the alert. The night air, still but for the distant rush of waves on the shore, pressed in on her. Before her, the path stretched out, empty. Neither, she was certain, did anyone lurk at her back. Not Upperton, surely. Not even he was so insufferably arrogant that he’d have followed. Not the way they’d left things.
    Drawing in a lungful of salt air, she willed her leaden feet forward. Awareness prickled at the back of her neck. How she wished she’d stayed home. Home wassafe. Home was secure. It posed no danger to her reputation or to her person.
    But a young woman wandering alone in the dark was a different matter altogether. She lengthened her stride until she wasn’t quite running. No sense in allowing her fear to show. For all the lane appeared deserted, a sense of watchfulness grew until it weighed on her, sullen and oppressive as the air before a summer storm. Her breath came in ragged puffs.
    Just ahead, a figure loomed out of the darkness—a large, imposing figure. It blocked the path.
    She stopped, whirled. If she ran full out, she might make it within shouting distance of the manor before she was caught. A hand lashed out and clamped about her wrist, the fingers strong as five iron bands. The shocking force of that grip brought her face-to-face with a stranger.
    “Did you really think you could throw me over tonight?” he growled. The menace in that voice sent a knee-weakening shiver through her. “Did you expect me to lie back and take it?”
    She opened her mouth and screamed.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    A FTER I SABELLE ’ S abrupt departure, George once again found himself in the garden. He pulled in fragrant smoke from a cheroot, but for once in his life, he found no comfort in the taste. It did nothing to erase the feeling of Isabelle’s lips moving on his. He strode to the end of the garden. She would have left this way, marching down the path to the village in a temper.
    Damn, damn, and damn.
    Could he possibly have phrased his question any more awkwardly? George Upperton, known for his wit and clever tongue. Only tonight they had failed him. Tonight he’d managed to insult a poor woman who likely endured enough gossip. He’d all but ensured she’d never consider his attentions again.
    Some wit. Some cleverness. He was an idiot, pure and simple.
    He cast the stub of his cheroot to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. Why should he care, at any rate? Dallying with her would bring him no closer to the Earl of Redditch, or to settling Summersby’s debts. He had enough troubles without involving himself in another entanglement, especially one that came with the complications of a child.
    Another child.
    And he was getting nowhere, standing here, mullingover