He stared at her, his eyes stinging against the cold. “Because I would rather rot in hell than harm a single strand of your hair.”
The wind whispered through the trees, snowflakes falling softly onto the bears, onto her red hair, the crystals clinging to her lashes.
Beth’s voice was steady, almost defiant. “Very well.” She turned to him, her green eyes gleaming in the dim light. “What will be my last challenge?”
Boyd blinked, startled. His breath caught, his pulse thrumming hard against his ribs. “You don’t have to do this anymore. Almoster will settle your father’s debts. You can go home, Beth. The challenges are over.”
She hugged her arms to herself, her form small but unyielding. “Who won?”
Boyd shut his eyes, the answer hollowing him out.
“I lost.”
Chapter eighteen
"A rogue broods best alone—because no rogue worth his name allows feelings to ruin his perfectly good misery." The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement
Boyd sat by the window, the music sheet in his hands, the edges crinkled where his grip had tightened. The lines and notes blurred as he stared at them. He traced the faded ink with a finger as if touch alone could coax the melody from the paper. The room was silent, except for the occasional pop from the fire, the sound grating against his nerves. The quiet pressed in on him, each second stretching unbearably, the promise of sleep just out of reach.
Boyd shut his eyes, the notes on the sheet swimming behind his lids. His fingers curled, crumpling the sheet before he forced himself to smooth it out again.
The door creaked open.
His body stiffened, his heartbeat quickening. He glanced at the mirror. His usually neat appearance was disheveled, his jacket thrown over a chair, his cravat loose. She would think him even more of a savage.
“What do you want, Beth? I told you the challenges are over.”
Her skirt rustled as she stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
Boyd didn’t trust himself to look up.
“I’m not here because of your challenges.”
His temples throbbed as he pressed his fingers to them, expecting the confrontation he deserved—accusations, demands for explanations. “If you’re here to—”
“I have a challenge of my own.”
Boyd’s gaze shot to her.
She stood just beyond the edge of the Persian carpet, her back straight, her eyes resolute.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to disrobe for me.”
His hands fisted on the arms of the chair as his mind reeled. Where had this boldness come from? Was she mocking him? But her expression held no trace of humor. She was in earnest. God help him, she was serious. His English rose had grown thorns.
The room felt warmer, the crackling fire amplifying the heat that prickled along his skin. Her eyes were steady, unflinching as she met his gaze.
Would she never give up? Couldn’t she see he was not worth her? Boyd pushed to his feet, the chair groaning under the force. He opened his arms. “Do you want me naked, Beth? Then suit yourself.”
He waited, half-expecting her to hesitate, to retreat. Instead, she stepped forward, her chin lifted, her eyes glowing. His heartbeat quickened as he counted the seconds until she arrived.
The room went silent. But not the barren silence of his nights, but a pregnant one, filled with the sound of his own pulse drumming in his ears.
She was serious. She was not leaving. She was choosing him, even now, knowing him at his worst.
Beth touched his cheek, her fingers brushing lightly against his stubble before she pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. How did one defend oneself from such a tender attack? The silk of the cravat slipped through her fingers as she unwound it, exposing his throat.
