Free The Rogue by Katharine Ashe Page A

you?”
    His emerald eyes narrowed. “I admit myself confused.”
    â€œBy?”
    â€œI don’t think you are a flirt. I don’t think you intend to seduce a man, then disappoint him, not in the usual manner. It does not suit your nature. But, then, I don’t understand why you do this.”
    â€œYou wanted what you could not have.”
    â€œI did.” He backed away. “But not this time. Forewarned is forearmed.”
    â€œThen what harm will it cause to teach me to fight with a dagger? Please. At least teach me how to hold it correctly.”
    For a stretched moment he only looked at her.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she finally said.
    â€œI am reconsidering.”
    Reconsidering . She drummed her fingertips on the bow. “It is taking too long.”
    He lifted a brow. “Impatient, are we?”
    â€œWe haven’t much time before we are expected at our toilette to change clothes for lunch.”
    â€œThe huntswoman’s leather must give way to the lady’s lace,” he said. “Alas.”
    â€œAlas? You would rather I wear boots in the dining room?”
    â€œAlas that I cannot be present at your toilette.”
    She must not smile. Not so easily and swiftly.
    â€œWhat about ‘forewarned is forearmed’?” she said. “A moment ago you were determined not to flirt with me.”
    â€œThat wasn’t flirting. I really am disappointed I haven’t an entre into your boudoir.”
    She bit back her smile as he walked away. As always, watching his body move did things to her insides, spun gravity in the wrong direction. But he was leaving.
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œInto more light.” Removing his sword and placing it aside, he halted in a splash of sunshine from an open stall window. “Set down your bow, Diana, and come here.”
    Diana. He had called her Diana that day in the wood, the virgin goddess of the hunt who would not allow herself to be captured by any god or mortal man.
    â€œNow?” she said. “Here?”
    â€œIf you would rather not, my horse is still saddled. I can—”
    â€œ No. Yes, now,” she said, elation bubbling. She moved toward him. “Is this because we have spoken of the past and settled it? Bygones and such?”
    â€œNot quite. But now I am thinking of your boudoir and something must be done about that.”
    The quiver slipped from her fingers, strewing arrows upon the stable floor.
    â€œI am only a man,” he said simply. “Distraction is sometimes necessary.” He reached into the top of his boot and drew forth a dagger with a blade perhaps five inches in length.
    She stared. “You carry daggers in your boots?”
    â€œJust the one, and only in this pair.” He approached her and took the bow from her slack hand. “Unlike the daughters of dukes, apparently, I don’t find that I need quick access to a dagger on a daily basis.”
    Not on a daily basis.
    Nightly.
    He was so close she could breathe in his scent and feel the reaction to it in her body.
    â€œWhat a staid life you must lead,” she managed to say, watching him set aside the bow with the same grace with which he always moved. She had known spies and lords, but she had never known a man like this. Her friend Wyn Yalecarried the shadows with him when he wished. Ben’s subdued elegance was unmatched. And Colin Gray declared authority in his very stance. But Frederick Evan Sterling made no statement of dominance, and he had no desire for stealth. With every muscle trained to serve him, he simply moved and it was poetry, art, beauty.
    â€œDo you see where the handle of this dagger touches my palm?” He spread his hand.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWatch as I grip it.” His fingers settled again into place. She mimicked the clasp with her empty hand, then spread her fingers. “Your hands are unusually toned for a gentlewoman’s,” he