Page 23 of The Princess and the Rogue

“Stop,” she demanded. “This hurts my—it’s too uncomfortable.”

Wolff reined the horse to a halt. “Giving orders, Miss Brown?” he said dryly. “You’ve certainly learned to emulate the imperious tones of your employer.”

Anya bit back the scathing retort that sprang to her lips. She was supposed to be a servant; she really should try to be more reverential. Even if it pained her.

“I was merely going to suggest that I ride behind you, my lord,” she murmured, trying to appear properly chastised.

“You mean astride?” His disdain was clear;ladiesdidn’t do that. They didn’t raise their skirts above the knee for modesty’s sake. Well, damn that. Let him think she came from peasant stock. They could ride much faster if she were behind him, and it would be far more comfortable for the horse.

She lifted her chin. “Yes.”

Anya restrained herself from telling him she could probably ride better than he could, skirts or no skirts. She and Dmitri had been taught by a pair of Cossack brothers who were masters of the skill and had once been part of a famous circus act. She’d learned tricks that would put an equestrienne at Astley’s Amphitheatre to shame.

With an indifferent shrug, Wolff let her slide to the ground, then swung her up behind him. Her face heated as she hitched her skirts above her knees and settled herself with him between her open thighs. It was an utterly indecent position. Thank God she was wearing thick woolen stockings and that her cloak was long enough to cover most of the exposed leg.

She tugged her hood up to protect her from the rain and with great reluctance looped her arms around his waist. The position drew her front against his back. Not an inch of space separated them. The sensation of his hard muscle against her breasts and stomach made hercatch her breath. He was sobig. So wide and so unmistakably male. There wasn’t a soft place on him anywhere.

He tensed at the sudden contact, then caught her hands and repositioned them higher up on the flat plane of his stomach. “Hold on,” he said gruffly.

Anya turned her head sideways and rested her cheek against his shoulder. She could feel the play of muscle beneath his clothes as he rocked gently with the horse’s gait, could smell the leather of the saddle and a faint masculine cologne rising from his wet greatcoat.

Her stomach gave a little twist. She’d never experienced such immediate attraction to another person in her life. It was highly disconcerting.

They couldn’t travel quickly, not with both of them on one horse, and she fell into a kind of dull stupor. The rain didn’t so much fall as envelop them in a grey mist. Wolff’s body was the only point of warmth in an otherwise frigid world, and she clung to him as to a lifeboat in a tempest.

At long last they left the lonely desolation of the heath and made their way back to civilization. Hamlets gave way to the outskirts of the city, then more populated streets, and eventually she spied the familiar green expanse of Hyde Park.

The Tricorn Club was situated in St. James’s Square, only a stone’s throw from Anya’s tiny apartment in Covent Garden. Anya heard a clock strike midnight as they finally arrived, but the lights and laughter emanating from the front of the club indicated that for the patrons within, the night was still young.

Wolff guided the horse around the back of the building to the private mews where they were greeted by a yawning stable boy. Anya slid easily off the horse without waiting for assistance, keen to put some distance between herself and her “host.” His nearness duringthe journey had been most disturbing. She wasn’t sure whether to think of him as a captor or as her savior.

Wolff hardly spared her a glance. She followed him up a set of steps, through a shiny black door, and into what she assumed was the private part of the club.

The faint hum of conversation filtered through the walls, and Anya looked around with interest. She’d never been inside a gentleman’s lodgings before. It didn’t seem all that mysterious. A tall tiled entranceway gave onto several rooms, but before she could peer inside them, a door at the end of the corridor opened and a giant of a man lumbered into view. He was as broad as a Cossack, with a square jaw and a nose that had clearly been broken more than once.

“Ah, Mickey,” Wolff said, greeting the giant with a smile that softened his face and made Anya’s heart catch in her throat. “We have a visitor. This is Miss Brown. She’s to be our guest for the next—” He glanced at her uncertainly, as if trying to decide on a suitable timeframe. “Few days? Weeks? For an indeterminate stretch of time, let us say.”

Anya didn’t like that. It sounded like a prison sentence being passed down by a judge.

The giant sent her a friendly nod. “Ma’am.”

“She’ll be staying in Benedict’s old rooms.” Wolff shrugged out of his greatcoat. “I trust they’re made up?”

“Yes, sir. May I take your cloak, ma’am?”

Anya nodded and allowed the manservant to take it from her.

She was wearing one of the three gowns she owned, the plainest of the ones she’d brought from Paris. After a year of almost constant wear, it was sadly out of style and had faded from the original cheerful lavender to a dreary dishwater-grey. The damp skirts clung to her, and she shivered despite the warmth of the hallway.

“Does the lady have any luggage to bring in?”

Wolff chuckled. “She does not. Miss Brown is that rarest of creatures—a woman who travels without a mountain of luggage.” He shot her a laughing glance, and Anya glared at him. She didn’t even have a dry change of clothes, curse him.

He seemed impervious to her disapproval. He strode forward and she followed him, peering into the various rooms as they passed. They all appeared to be tastefully and expensively furnished, although with a decidedly masculine flavor. No pastel ruffles or Meissen shepherdesses here. She followed him up a wide, curved staircase and along another corridor. He opened a door into a suite of rooms that contained a desk and chair and a pair of comfortable-looking armchairs grouped in front of an unlit fire. He gestured to an inner doorway. “Bedroom’s through there.”

Anya was so tired, she barely managed to nod. She had no energy to fight. The warmth of the house seemed to be leeching the strength out of her. She wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week.

He stepped back from the door. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the rooms next door. We’ll talk in the morning. I shall expect you in my study at ten o’clock. Good night.”

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