Page 54 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Why was it that this man was the one who made her feel this way? Why was it that only Sloane drew her, tempted her? Why couldn’t it have been Nathan? Someone good and kind and loving instead of a man who had ripped her heart out and left?

Sloane returned, cutting off her thoughts, and they went into the workshop. Dust lay thick on everything. The back window had broken at some point, and rain had blown in, warping the floor beneath the window and sending leaves and twigs across the floor. The familiar table and stools and cabinets were there, but it seemed so empty, so devoid of life that she felt almost no connection to the place.

She looked up at the missing railing near the top of the stairs, mute evidence of her father’s death. Annabeth made herself bring her eyes down to the floor beneath the railing, afraid she might see a bloodstain there. But, of course, there wasn’t any; a broken neck had killed him. Taking a little breath, she moved forward briskly.

It was fortunate she had on the supple leather riding gloves Priscilla had lent her, for her hands would have quickly been filthy as she looked through the books and instruments on her father’s worktable. On the other side of the room, Sloane was opening and closing drawers and doors and sifting through the contents of the bookshelf.

Working his way back to Annabeth, Sloane pulled out each book to see if it concealed a hidden compartment in the wall. He shook them to make sure there was no paper folded and hidden among the pages. In the meantime, Annabeth was busy finding and opening all her father’s secret hiding places.

She found a box he had started before his death, and that brought tears to her eyes. She found pieces of various woods. She found screws and nails and wire and string, springs both large and small. There were windup figures like the one Papa had given Timothy, and others that looked to be failures or had simply been abandoned.

There were plans and drawings and a few letters, and each time Annabeth’s heart leaped, but upon perusal, they turned out to be quite ordinary correspondence about supplies or exchanges of information or notes from friends.

Her father had not been much of one for writing. She smiled, thinking of her father sitting out here with his portable writing desk, frowning over a piece of paper, quill in hand. Annabeth pulled in a sharp breath that made Sloane turn, saying, “What? What did you find?”

“His desk! Why didn’t I think?”

“What desk?” He came closer, glancing around the room.

“He had a portable writing desk, meant for travel, but he used it for most of his letters. Its sides all folded out, with holders for quills and inks and paper and a surface for writing on. But it could all be folded back up again very neatly, and when it was, it looked like a box. About a foot square, and maybe ten inches tall.” She shaped it with her hands. “He had made it himself, and it was beautiful. It was teak, glossy, and elegant. He loved it. He took it with him whenever he traveled, and he brought it out here. He preferred it, really, to his secretaire in the house. That is where this mysterious document would be.” She smiled triumphantly.

Sloane let out a laugh and picked her up. Annabeth threw her arms around his neck, still grinning, as he spun her around. But when he set her back down on her feet, she was suddenly, intensely aware of her body sliding down his. Both laughter and triumph vanished; indeed, all thoughts seemed to flee as she looked up at Sloane.

There was nothing in that moment but Sloane’s body only inches from hers and the heat in his eyes as he gazed down into her face. Nothing but the feelings and the hunger that blossomed up in her. Her hands were still on his chest, and she slid them up as she moved toward him.

“Anna...” he breathed, and he lowered his head to meet hers.

Her arms curled around his neck as he hovered, his lips almost touching hers for what felt like an eternity. Then he was kissing her, his mouth slow and heated on hers, and she clung to him as the only steady thing in the onslaught of desire. All the hunger that had been building inside her throughout the ride—the past few days, to be honest—welled up in her, sweeping away restraint and logic.

Sloane’s hand roamed her body as he kissed her again and again. His breathing was ragged, his body burning, and his desire pushed hers higher. She let out a little moan as his lips left hers to make their way down her neck, and she dug her hands into the front of his jacket as if to hold him there.

But it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere. He lifted her from the ground, his arm beneath her buttocks, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around him. He walked blindly forward until he reached the table and set her down on it. She kept her legs tight around him, pressing him against that insistent ache that mingled pleasure and frustration.

She wanted to be closer to him, wanted to feel his skin beneath her hands, and she slid her hands under his jacket. Still kissing her, Sloane fumbled at the buttons on her bodice. His fingers slipped beneath the material, gliding over the soft skin of her breast, and he groaned softly, a shudder running through him.

“Lady Priscilla? Miss Winfield?” a woman’s voice called from outside. “Mr. Rutherford?”

Annabeth and Sloane sprang apart and whirled to face the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE VOICE CAME AGAIN, closer to the building. “Is anyone there?”

Sloane let out an oath and strode to the other side of the room and stood, looking out the window. Annabeth hurried toward the door, rebuttoning her dress with fingers that trembled. She suspected that her hair was disheveled, but maybe that could be passed off as a result of her work in here. But God only knew what was in her face; her cheeks were blazing. Still, she was probably in better shape to face the public than Sloane.

She pressed her palms against her cheeks and drew in a breath before she opened the door. “Mrs. Todd. How nice to see you.”

“Miss Winfield. I was rather worried.” She gestured behind her to where a groom stood, holding the head of the horse Annabeth had been riding this morning. “One of the grooms found this mare wandering about, and he thought it was Lady Priscilla’s. I was worried that she might have met with an accident. It occurred to me that perhaps you and she were here. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I’m terribly sorry. Please come in.” Annabeth stepped back to let the other woman enter. “I borrowed Priscilla’s horse. I’m afraid it threw me.”

Mrs. Todd drew in a little gasp. “Oh, my. Were you hurt?”

“Nothing but my pride,” Annabeth replied with a smile. “Fortunately Mr. Rutherford was with me.”

“Ah, yes, I see.”

Sloane turned and gave her a polite bow. “Mrs. Todd. It’s good to see you again.”