Free A Rogue by Any Other Name by Sarah MacLean

eyes. “Bourne . . . you’ve proven your point.” He stayed quiet, curious, and she pressed on. “I understand that it was bad judgment to wander out into the woods in the middle of the night. I see now that I could have been overcome. Or abducted. Or worse, and I am prepared to admit that you have taught me a well-needed lesson.”
    “How very gracious of you.”
    She pressed on, as though he had not spoken, edging around him. He moved to block her exit. She stopped and met his gaze, her blue eyes flashing with what he imagined was frustration. “I am also prepared to ignore the fact that you have committed an egregious breach of etiquette by moving me—bodily—from a public location to an entirely inappropriate . . . altogether too private one.”
    “And don’t forget spanking you.”
    “That, too. Utterly . . . completely . . . beyond inappropriate.”
    “Appropriateness seems not to have got you very far.”
    She stilled, and he knew immediately that he had struck a nerve. Something unpleasant flared deep within him. He resisted it.
    He might be planning to marry her, but he was not planning to care for her.
    “I’m afraid I’ve plans for you, Penelope, and you’re not going anywhere tonight.” He extended the bottle of whiskey toward her and spoke, all seriousness. “Have a drink. It will take the edge off until tomorrow.”
    “What happens tomorrow?”
    “Tomorrow, we marry.”

Chapter Four
    P enelope reached out and took hold of the whiskey, snatching it from Michael’s hand and considering, for a fleeting moment, drinking deep, for surely there was no better time than this to begin a life of drink.
    “I will not marry you!”
    “I’m afraid it’s done.”
    Indignation flared. “It is most certainly not done!” She clutched the bottle to her chest and began to push past him toward the door. When he did not move, she stopped, a hairsbreadth away, her cloak brushing against him. She stared directly into his serious, hazel gaze, refusing to bend to his ridiculous will. “Step aside, Lord Bourne. I am returning home. You are a madman.”
    One irritating dark brow rose. “Such tone,” he mocked. “I find I am not in a mood to move. You shall have to find another way.”
    “Do not make me do something I shall regret.”
    “Why regret it?” He lifted one hand, a single, warm finger tilting her chin up. “Poor Penelope,” he said, “so afraid of risk.”
    Poor Penelope.
    Her gaze narrowed at the hated name. “I am not afraid of risk. Nor am I afraid of you.”
    One dark brow arched. “No?”
    “No.”
    He leaned in, close. Too close. Close enough to wrap her in bergamot and cedar. Close enough for her to notice that his eyes had turned a lovely shade of brown. “Prove it.”
    His voice had gone low and gravelly, sending a thrum of excitement down her spine.
    He stepped closer, close enough to touch—close enough for the heat of him to warm her in the freezing room—and the fingers of his hand slid into the hair at the nape of her neck, holding her still as he hovered above her, threatening. Promising.
    As though he wanted her.
    As though he’d come for her.
    Which, of course, he hadn’t.
    If it weren’t for Falconwell, he wouldn’t be here.
    And she would do well to remember that.
    He didn’t want her any more than any of the other men in her life did. He was just like all the others.
    And it wasn’t fair.
    But she’d be damned if he took the only choice she had in the matter away from her. She lifted her hands, the bottle of whiskey firmly clasped in the left, and shoved him with all her might—not enough to move a man of his size usually, but she had the element of surprise on her side.
    He stumbled back, and she rushed past him, almost reaching the door to the kitchens before he regained his footing and came after her, catching her with an “Oh, no you don’t!” and spinning her to face him.
    Frustration flared. “Let me go!”
    “I can’t,” he said simply.