Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,1

she gazed upon the eligible lords she hoped Guinevere might wed. After nearly five years of her mother’s unwavering and unwanted devotion to the task of getting Guinevere wed, she wished heartily that Mama would cease her efforts. It was a hopeless yearning. Her mother was not easily dissuaded. If only her father would be her champion against Mama’s demands, but Guinevere suspected her father found it easier to let Mama do as she wished than cause marital strife by disagreeing.

Guinevere moved toward the tree she intended to climb, eying it. It had been five years since she’d ascended its branches, but she held every confidence she could do so once again. After all, she was in top form—just as healthy at three and twenty as she had been back then.

The start of the climb was much more difficult than she had recalled. Bark scraped the tender skin of her palms, and perspiration gathered between her breasts and rolled down her back. At the nape of her neck, sweaty clumps of hair had loosened from the chignon Ballenger had fashioned for her. Guinevere paused to blow a strand away from eyes. Her lady’s maid would have apoplexy if she saw what a mess Guinevere had made of her hair. Thankfully, Guinevere had no intention of requesting Ballenger right Guinevere’s hair. Once she was done with this climb, and in the security of her bedchamber, she’d discard the evidence that she’d been up to less-than-ladylike behavior—her mud-splattered gown—and she’d seek out her younger sister Vivian. She was quite handy with hair.

Finding another foothold with a wiggle of her toes, she grunted and grasped above her toward an appropriately sturdy branch by which to pull herself up. Her fingers gripped the bark and—

Snap! She fell to the ground faster than gossip spread among the bored, vapid members of her set. The smack of her back against the earth snatched all the air from her lungs. And her head… Heaven above! It pounded so loudly her eardrums hurt. Her thoughts clunked together from the noise.

“Damn, damn, damn,” she cursed. She would never dare utter such a word aloud were she not alone, but now, satisfaction at using the forbidden expletive filled her.

A shadow suddenly blocked the stars above, and disbelief stilled her as she stared at the outline of what appeared to be a man.

A hundred horrible possibilities entered her mind in a whirlwind. The shadow moved, lowering in a swift descent, and the aroma of whisky washed over her. Men in London, men of the ton, did not imbibe whisky. In fact, she’d only ever known one man to do so. His taste and his scent would be imprinted on her mind until her dying day.

“It cannot be,” she said in a deplorable, shock-laden whisper that made her cringe.

“Hello to ye, too, Guinevere.”

The faint but memorably deep Scottish brogue punctured her thoughts at the same moment it pierced her heart, making the blasted organ squeeze.

“I see ye’re still scheming,” Asher said. Before she could reply to that unwarranted insult to her character, he continued. “What’s this? Speechless, are ye? I don’t remember there ever being a time ye were at a loss for words.”

Was that a compliment or a barb?

Drat her tongue. It was tied in a thousand knots of complete and utter shock.

“Take my hand, then, little muted bird.”

Her body seemed to relax and pull toward him like a magnet. It was as if neither time nor his betrayal had dulled her desire for him. No. She refused to allow the all too familiar reaction.

She smacked his hand away from her face. “I’d sooner cut it off you than take it,” she snapped, then added, “Your Grace.” After all, there was no reason to let him see he could make her forget her manners.

“If I recall, we had moved past formalities last time I saw ye,” he said with the easy tone only a practiced rogue could affect.

“And if I recall, you are not the sort of man I want to be on intimate terms with ever again, Your Grace.”

He stiffened. She could feel it in the shift of air around him. It was subtle, but nonetheless, she sensed it. And she despised that she sensed it.

With that thought, she scrambled away from him and to her feet. “If you don’t mind,” she said, waving a dismissive hand while turning away from him and focusing on the tree once more. Not only would it be disastrous to be discovered alone with