Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

He thrashed suddenly, tangling in the bedsheets as his elbow jabbed the pillow. “No,” she heard him moan. Then more forcefully, “No.”


She stood there, immobile, not knowing what to do. Should she wake him? Did she dare? If he were reliving some fight or battle in his dreams, he might lash out at her in confusion. Perhaps she should just leave him. No one ever suffered long-term effects from a nightmare. If he woke on his own and saw her there, he might feel violated or ashamed.

His breathing came fast and shallow now. He ceased wrestling the pillow and flipped onto his back, his fists clenched at his sides. They were the size of millstones. His teeth were gritted, the tendons strained and bulging along his neck. A low, inhuman growl rumbled from his throat and forced its way through his teeth.

Meredith’s heart ached. She didn’t know what form of agony he was enduring in that dream, but she knew she couldn’t stand by and watch him suffer a moment longer. In her girlhood, she’d been witness to his pain and never done a thing about it. There’d been nothing she could have done, then. How exactly did a reedy waif of a servant’s daughter protest the lord’s maltreatment of his own son?

But she wasn’t a girl any longer, and she could do something to ease Rhys’s suffering now.

She crept to the bedside and crouched by his sleeping form. “Hush,” she said quietly. “Hush. You’re safe, Rhys. All is well.”

She forced her fingers to cease trembling and laid one hand to his shoulder. At his sharp wince, she almost withdrew the touch. But she kept shushing and soothing in quiet tones and simply kept her hand there, pressed lightly against his heated flesh, until the tension in his body released. When his fists uncurled at his sides and his breathing steadied, she withdrew her hand and began to breathe again herself.

For a quarter hour or more, she knelt there, watching him return to a peaceful slumber and allowing her own heart rate to slow.

He released a soft sigh in his sleep, one that melted her deep inside, and his lips curled in a little half-smile. She wondered if she was in the dream he was having now. She hoped so. He gave a little groan—one that hinted at pleasure, not pain.

She couldn’t resist any longer. Stealthily, she tugged at the folds of the bedclothes, drawing them loose from his midsection. And then she lifted the side of the sheet and bent her head to peek beneath.

No, no war injury. None that would inhibit his normal male function, at any rate. Whatever scars covered the rest of his body, these parts of him were healthy indeed. Perfect. As if his organ could sense her interest, it jerked for attention. Arousal rushed through her on the receding tide of anxiety. Just looking at him, she felt heat building in the hollows of her knees.

He made a sudden movement, and she dropped the sheet. She pulled her gaze back up to his face just in time to watch his eyes snap open—dark, intense, furious, dangerous. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted, and her heart battered her ribs. She had the suspicion a fair number of Napoleon’s soldiers had witnessed this very same look in Rhys’s eyes, and it was the last thing they’d ever seen.

“It’s me,” she said quickly. “It’s Meredith.”

He blinked a few times. Comprehension drove the violence from his eyes. “Christ,” he muttered, sitting up on one elbow and rubbing a palm over his face, then over his shorn hair. “You surprised me. Is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong.” She almost laughed, remembering her reason for the visit. “Everything is perfectly well. I’m sorry to wake you, I just … heard noises, and I was concerned.”

“Damn nightmares.”

“Do you want to talk about them?”

“No.” With a glance at his exposed chest, he swore again. He shrugged to the far side of the bed, diving under the bed linens and jerking them up to his chin.

And now she did laugh. She couldn’t help it. “Have I offended your modesty?”

“No. No, I’m offending yours. I don’t want to disgust you.”

“Disgust me? How could that be?”

“The other day. You asked me to put on a shirt.” He drew the sheet tighter about his chest. “I know it must look repulsive … you know, with all the scars.”

“Oh, Rhys.” She buried her face in her hands for a moment, then removed them and decided to just be honest. “I asked you to put on a shirt because you’re the most distractingly attractive man I’ve ever seen, and I could barely speak two words of sense for the sight of you. I don’t find anything about you repulsive.”

He blinked some more. “Oh.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, in the empty space he’d created by moving over. “As for scars …” She reached for the top of the bedsheet and pulled. He allowed the linen to slip from his grasp, and she drew it down to reveal his chest, marked by battles of various sorts. “Surely you can’t believe they’re disgusting. Don’t you know how women feel about scars, Rhys? Haven’t your lovers been fascinated by them?”