Page 64 of Pride: The Rogue
“Men,” the girl pushed her lips together and blew. “I never met a horse I could not tame. Me da is the stablemaster,” she explained.
“Ah.” Latimer dropped to his haunches. “That would be most appreciated…?” He left a question at the end of his sentence.
“Moira, sir!” she said, in an adorably sweet voice.
“Moira. That’s a lovely name.”
Upon his praise, the little girl’s spine grew several inches.
“I’m no ‘sir’, just a mere mister. But you can call me Latimer.” He winked.
Drawing out another purse, he pressed it gently into her small, callused fingers.
The little girl’s eyes grew so round they could have rivaled the fullest moon.
“There’ll be more,” he promised, giving her a little wink.
“Gor, sir!” she whispered, and then sprinted off in the direction of the stables.
As he stared after the resourceful child, an image whispered forward of a small girl in Livian’s exact image.
He smiled wistfully.
Without a doubt, any babes born to Livian Lovelace would be formidable imps, possessed of their mother’s feisty spirit.
That was…if whatever bloody nob she married tolerated sprightly offspring. While everything Latimer knew to be true of the nobility gave him all the answers he needed.
Latimer’s grin withered and even more insidious, poisonous thoughts surfaced—ones with some cold, pompous lord visiting Livian’s chambers. Without a doubt, she’d marry a fellow who insisted they be as decorous as all the peers and keep separate chambers because that’s the manner of fools all those bastards were.
The nob would bed Livian to get an heir and a spare on her.
A dark, murderous, rage rose up inside him.
Then, that same stodgy gent would most likely pay a visit to some scandalous hell—maybe even Latimer’s—and seek out the services of some skilled, but jaded Cyprian.
Not like Latimer. No, if she’d been his wife, he’d have spent every single night fucking her, and leaving the both of them sated, until they fell into a sex-induced stupor.
There came a sudden rush of blood flow to Latimer’s extremities, and he focused on breathing slowly in through his nose.
It wasn’t his business. Livianwasn’this business.
That understanding didn’t have any diminishing effects on Latimer’s white-hot fury.
His nape prickled. That same feeling of being watched wrenched him to the present.
Coming slowly to his feet, Latimer turned and did a search over the courtyards.
He stopped in his tracks.
When he’d arisen to discover Livian gone, he’d believed that’d been the last time he ever saw her.
But here, as if he’d conjured her, Livian stood, some twenty yards away. The generous smile on her generous mouth was made evenmoregenerous by her cheerfully red cheeks.
And last night, came rushing back in a flash.
The taste of her tongue, a sumptuous treat of sweet honey and spicy peppermint.
The gentle swells of her buttocks in his large, coarse hands.
