The Dark One by Ronda Thompson Page A

because she found it impossible to remain indifferent toward him.
    They did her no good, these feelings that leaped to life every time she was in close proximity to Armond Wulf. Franklin had made up his mind about her future, and evenif he hadn’t, Armond Wulf would be the last man he’d allow her to court seriously. And obviously, Armond had no desire to court her properly. He instead had chosen to pursue her very improperly.
    The clip-clop of the horses lulled Rosalind. She remembered another night, another carriage ride. Another man. There in the darkness behind her eyelids, Armond came to her again. She felt his lips against hers, soft but commanding. Her breasts swelled, ached with the remembered feel of his hands . . . his tongue . . . his mouth. She remembered exactly how she had felt in his arms, how he had felt pressed against her. The heat that had sprung up between them, the hunger. The sound of her own soft moan startled her, and she abruptly opened her eyes.
    Franklin stared at her, his expression much like that of a cat watching a sleeping mouse. “What were you dreaming about just now?” he asked softly. “Or maybe I should ask who?”
    Rosalind straightened. “I must have dozed off. Are we home?” She made a great show of pulling back the carriage drapes to peek out into the dark night. Only a few lights burned in the townhouse. “Oh, I see that we are. Well, good. I’m exhausted.”
    â€œDon’t think that you’ll simply scamper up to your room and avoid punishment for your behavior this evening,” Franklin said. “I’ve been thinking about what would be appropriate.”
    Rosalind had never suspected that mere words could make her blood freeze in her veins, make her heart rise in her throat, but she was wrong. In spite of her sudden terror, she would make a stand.
    â€œI’m a grown woman, Franklin,” she said. “I won’t be punished like a child. Not by you, not by any man.”
    He lifted a brow over her daring, and his calm expression was more frightening than if he’d flown into a rage.“We will see,” he said. He leaned forward and opened the coach door, then bounded outside. When he extended his hand to help Rosalind alight, she refused to take it.
    â€œYou will not beat me,” she said sternly. “I will no longer stand for your abuse.”
    His calm facade cracked, and for a moment his eyes flared with barely suppressed rage. “You dare tell me what you will or will not tolerate beneath my roof?”
    The coachman appeared to help them alight, saw that Franklin had already done so, and went around in front of the horses to take their reins and lead them to the carriage house. Franklin reached forward, grabbed Rosalind’s arm, and nearly wrenched it from the socket when he pulled her outside. She gasped with the pain.
    As the coach moved from their path, she wanted to call out to the driver, beg him for help, but the rattle and sway of the carriage would have drowned her out, and Franklin would have only become more enraged.
    Panic overtook her and Rosalind tried to bolt. Where she would go, she didn’t know, only that she turned toward the house next door and managed to make it a few feet before Franklin caught her.
    â€œYou think he can help you?” he hissed in her ear. He squeezed her already aching arm and she whimpered. “No one can help you, Rosalind.”
    Desperation made her whisper Penmore’s name as Franklin hauled her toward the house. Her stepbrother only laughed.
    â€œHe doesn’t care, as long as the bruises don’t show.” His gaze ran the length of her. “Of course we’ll have to get you out of that gown. It cost a fortune and I won’t see it ripped and stained.”
    Rosalind tried to dig in the dainty heels of her slippers, but it did no good. Franklin was too strong. If Mary answered the door for them, she’d appeal to her