The Rogue's Return by Jo Beverley Read Free Book Online Page B

will think it strange for us to keep to our usual arrangement tonight.” Shespoke so calmly, he wondered if she understood the physical implications of marriage at all.
    But he knew she did. By some instinct he was sure she wasn’t that kind of protected innocent, and he was grateful for it. Remembering the comfort they’d found in each other’s arms, he drew her close. She tensed for a moment, perhaps thinking he meant to kiss her, but then relaxed.
    He had meant only to comfort her, but he found comfort for himself. She was a sweet armful, neither too angular nor too soft, too large or too small, and she carried the soothing aroma of a bakery.
    He rested his head against her hair, more at ease now with his mild stirrings of desire. They offered hope that when the time was right, their marriage bed would be natural and pleasurable for both of them.

Chapter Four
    T he new Mrs. Simon St. Bride rested against her husband’s chest thinking miserably that one should be careful what one wished for.
    How many nights had she dreamed of being in Simon’s arms? Dreamed even of becoming Simon’s bride, bride to the most wonderful man she’d ever met.
    To her, he was perfectly handsome, with his lean, vigorous body, his ready smile, and his deep-set hazel eyes that came alive with every vivid emotion. She had often had to resist an urge to touch his thick dark hair that shot fire in the light.
    Presumably a wife was allowed to do that. But not an unwanted wife. Simon hadn’t wanted to marry her, which was hardly surprising. And she hadn’t wanted to marry him. Because if he ever learned the truth about her, he would hate her.
    Oh, Lord, what was she to do?
    Move, for a start, so she did, separating them.
    He adjusted her cloak, a slight smile in his eyes, or at least a look of pleasure.
    If only, if only . . .
    She pushed straggling hair off her face. “I must look a mess.”
    â€œSomewhat, but it’s a pleasure to see your hair. It’s lovely.”
    For some reason that seemed threatening. She turnedquickly to lead the way into the house. She didn’t want him to come upstairs with her—to the bedrooms—so in the hall she said, “I believe I can make my way to my room without help.”
    â€œIf you wish to lie down for a while, it will be all right.”
    â€œNo, I’ll be back soon.”
    As she climbed the stairs she reflected on how easy it was to act a part. Once in her room, however, she collapsed back against the door, her knuckles in her mouth.
    This was her first real solitude since she’d heard the boom of the shot. The memory of finding Isaiah on the floor, clutching his belly, blood already welling between his fingers, made her bite down to conquer a howl.
    She hadn’t screamed then, however, and she would not do so now. Life, dreadful life, must go on.
    Her hair. She hurried to her dressing table, but as soon as she saw herself she groaned. It clung tangled to her forehead and cheeks, and flour and mud marked her gown. She looked like a vagrant.
    Like a Haskett.
    She ripped off the ribbon and attacked the mess, looking anywhere but at her reflection as she untangled and brushed. Her image stayed in her mind, however. She’d looked like that for her wedding!
    So many times she had imagined the perfect wedding. It would be summer. She’d walk to the church in the company of friends and family. There would be flowers and a handsome groom. . . .
    She opened her eyes and inhaled. She had the handsome groom, that was for sure, but he thought he’d married Jane Otterburn, and he hadn’t.
    She was an impostor. She was Nan Otterburn, Archibald Otterburn’s misbegotten child taken in by his widow out of charity and raised as Jane Otterburn’s foster sister.
    She turned to the mirror again, seeing swollen eyes that at least were honest. She’d come to love IsaiahTrewitt, even if he was no true uncle of