The Devil Rogue Read online

  The

  Devil Rogue

  LORI VILLARREAL

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE DEVIL ROGUE

  © 2011 by Lori Villarreal

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design by Lori Villarreal

  www.lorivillarreal.com

  TITLES BY LORI VILLARREAL

  Whispers in Time

  Kissing Mr. Bellamy

  Twelfth Moon, Legend of the Pantera

  5

  Villarreal / The Devil Rogue

  Chapter 1

  ANGELA HAD PLAYED here as a child. She’d hidden from pretend monsters, feeling safe in the belief there were no such things as real monsters.

  But right now her heart was pounding. Her legs were shaking. Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead, her temples, between her shoulder blades.

  The air was stifling in the small attic room where she’d fled, where she now faced her attacker – a real life monster, as it were. The accumulation of the day’s summer heat made the air thick and hot and heavy in the uppermost floor of the mansion.

  She only had seconds to live, unless by something akin to divine intervention prevented her from being murdered.

  Blood oozed from a wound on her forearm where he had already cut her. It dripped in a slow, steady rhythm, hitting the wood floor like little splotches of red paint. Her bottom lip was split and swollen, the metallic taste in her mouth telling her that it, too, was bleeding. She swayed unsteadily on her feet, her right eye throbbing from the blow she’d received from his powerful fist.

  She was determined not to show any weakness. It would only serve to enrage him further. He was a cruel and bitter man who believed females should be meek and subservient. But her pride was the one thing she could never hide from him. To her everlasting grief.

  This was it. She was going to die and she was prepared to face it with courage. He was a full head taller than her and outweighed her by at least seven stone. She knew she was no match for him, but there was no going back. She had to hold her ground.

  “You only had to do one simple thing, girl. Just this one thing. One night and all my troubles would be over, all my debts paid.”

  “I’m not responsible for the payment of your debts,” she said. Her chest rose and fell as she gasped for breath in the heavy air. Her body tensed, ready for his attack.

  “All you had to do was lay with him for one night.”

  “I’ll not let you use my body for barter. I’m not for sale, nor shall I ever be.” His face turned scarlet with rage. His temper could not be reckoned with this time. Not like before, when she had always been able to reason with him. This time was different. This time he was desperate beyond all reason. She knew this because he usually made sure not to leave any visible marks.

  “He holds all my markers. I’ll be ruined if he calls them in. But he’s agreed to pay them off for just one night with you. Please.” Suddenly he fell to his knees, dropping the knife. He covered his face with his hands and wept.

  She’d never seen him cry before and the sight of it made her falter. She hated him with every fiber of her being, and yet his display of emotion tugged at her softer nature. It was that small weakness he always seemed able to exploit.

  Perhaps there was a way to salvage the situation. She had no use for her virginity at the age of six and twenty and no dowry to speak of. Maybe there was a way she could use this bargain as a means of escape.

  Apparently, she was for sale, for the right price.

  “I’ll agree on one condition.”

  He raised his head, his eyes hopeful. “What condition?”

  “I want twenty thousand pounds beyond whatever your original agreement was.”

  “Twenty thousand pounds! He’ll never agree to it.”

  “I agree to your terms,” said a deep voice from the stairwell. “But I have a condition of my own in exchange for such a large sum.”

  How long had he been standing there?

  “What is your condition?” she asked, staying in the shadows. She wasn’t sure how much he’d witnessed, but she didn’t want him to see her, bruised and bleeding. He might even rescind his offer if he were to get a good look at her face now.

  “You are to live with me as my mistress for three months, beginning this very moment. Tomorrow, I’ll have my solicitors deposit the funds into an account in your name. Of course, it won’t be accessible until the end of the three month period.”

  Now? “I have arrangements to make first. Surely, you understand that I just cannot walk out the door without packing.”

  “It’s your decision,” the stranger said. “Make it now, or you get nothing.”

  Live with him – for three months? But then what were a few months of her time compared to what she would gain in the end? It would mean she could be free to live her life as she wished. Who was this man? Obviously he was extremely wealthy, and for some reason she could not discern, he wanted her.

  She had never met him, never even seen his face. In the darkness of the stairwell, he was large and imposing. His broad shoulders filled the space, the top of his head brushing the ceiling, even though he was standing several steps down.

  Making her decision quickly, she said, “All right, I agree to your terms. If you would wait for me downstairs, I’ll join you shortly.”

  “You have fifteen minutes.” He retreated back down the narrow steps as quietly as he’d appeared.

  “My dear, I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve saved my life.”

  “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for me, so I could be free of you at last.” She brushed past him with the last shred of dignity she possessed. Her arm throbbed and her head hurt. Her eye seemed to pulse with its own rhythm, and her bottom lip was sore, but she held herself erect with a new determination to forge her own destiny.

  Fate had intervened, but rather than being divine, she felt more like she’d just made a deal with the devil.

  “Then I suppose you have me to thank, girl,” he shot at her with a cruel twist of his lips.

  She turned slowly to face him. “Goodbye, father – may you rot in hell.”

  5

  Villarreal / The Devil Rogue

  Chapter 2

  ANGELA ENTERED HER bedchamber, only to be accosted by her maid. “Oh, miss! What has he done to you this time? I know what the master is about. He wants you to . . . to have relations with that stranger in order to pay off his debts.”

  “Well, I’m about to do more than ‘have relations’ with that stranger, so calm yourself, Rosemary,” Angela said, and then announced, “I’ve agreed to become his mistress for the next three months.”

  The maid’s dark eyes widened. “God’s teeth, you can’t be serious!”

  “I’m quite serious and I’ll be twenty thousand pounds richer at the end of it.”

  “Bloody hell!” Rosemary whistled at the amount.

  “He gave me fifteen minutes to ready myself to leave. Here, tear a piece of that old sheet off and help me bind this cut on my arm. I need to at least stop the bleeding.”

  “But, miss! You’re to leave immediately, without your belongings? Why, he’s nothing but a lowly beast!”

  “It’s all right, Rosemary, I don’t have much to take, anyway.”

  Angela Hopkins looked around her sparse bedroom with an unfeeling detachment while Rosemary tended to her injuries. Her gaze swept the bed, with its lumpy mattress and threadbare, patchwork coverlet. The few small rugs covering the wood floor were, likewise,
thin and worn.

  There were several colorful ball gowns hanging in the bureau, none of which she had any desire to bring with her. They were props for her father’s deception, an illusion created to present to the world an image of wealth and prosperity. The dresses had belonged to her mother, who died of a lung illness when Angela was only nine years old.

  When Angela came of age, ready to enter society, her father had tossed the gowns onto her bed and told her to make them presentable. They’d been re-worked many times through the years. Angela and Rosemary had often plied needle and thread into the early morning hours. The results were always spectacular, between Rosemary’s sewing skill and Angela’s talent for design.

  “What will I do, miss, with you gone?” Rosemary asked softly, the threat of tears in her voice. “Without you to protect me, the master will force himself on me the first chance he gets.”

  “You’re coming with me. My father won’t be touching you.”

  “I don’t think He will allow it, miss.”

  “I don’t care what He has to say about the matter, Rosemary,” Angela declared angrily. “You’re coming with me whether He likes it or not. I’ll not leave you to that wolf I call father.”

  Rosemary had been with her since they were both thirteen. Angela considered her more of a friend than a servant. She was not about to leave Rosemary behind.

  Rosemary dabbed gently at Angela’s eye with a cloth dipped in cool water. “’Tis rare for him to mark your face, love,” she murmured, and then shifted her attention to the small cut on Angela’s lip. “He must have been in a high dudgeon this time.”

  “Yes, and I was prepared to meet my maker. But then he began to cry. As much as I hate the man, he’s still my father. I did love him once.”

  “Aye, but that was too long ago for you to hold on to such an endearment for the likes of him,” Rosemary spat.

  Angela had taken more than one beating from her father as a result of protecting Rosemary from his advances. She felt a duty to protect her friend, as well as the rest of the household staff from his cruel temper. He had always been a cold and distant man, but when her mother had died, and no longer served as a buffer, his rages ran unchecked. Angela knew he had loved her mother in his own fashion, even mourned her passing, but once she was gone he treated Angela like a possession, a piece of property.

  He often drank heavily, drowning whatever sorrows he might believe he suffered from in an excess of strong liquor. During his drunken stupors was when he usually tried to accost Rosemary, or spitefully reprimanded another servant for some imagined misconduct. Those were the times when Angela needed to be on guard. Unfortunately, Angela usually found herself on the receiving end of his anger.

  But he’d always taken care not to beat her too viciously. He couldn’t sell off damaged goods, after all. It had been her father’s ambition to secure a profitable match by marrying her to a wealthy gentleman, placing all his hopes on the possibility that her beauty would out shadow the lack of an impressive dowry.

  As the years went by without any offers, however, he had obviously resorted to selling her favors to the highest bidder. Now, here she was, about to become some man’s mistress. A man who was a complete stranger.

  Stopping in front of the full-length mirror that had once belonged to her mother, Angela studied her reflection. She hardly recognized herself. One sleeve of her gown was torn at the shoulder, the other stained with blood. Several strands of golden, blonde hair had escaped from the otherwise neatly coiled chignon. A purplish bruise had appeared around the outside of her eye, extending to her temple, and there was a tiny cut in the middle of her bottom lip, no doubt from when her father had backhanded her.

  “We don’t have much time left, so you’ll have to come with me now,” Angela said, still staring at herself in the mirror. “Perhaps He will allow you to send for your belongings later.”

  “I don’t care about my things, love. I only want to go with you.”

  “I look like I’ve been dragged behind a vegetable cart,” Angela said dryly. “If He gets a good look at me in this condition, He will no doubt change his mind.” Dark blue eyes surrounded by thick, dusky lashes stared back at her. Her lips were soft and full, enough to entice a man with sensual promises.

  Angela saw nothing extraordinary in her image, though, to explain why people thought she was so beautiful. To her, she had a face like so many others, with eyes, a nose, and a mouth. If anyone were to ask her, she would say her eyes were too far apart, her waist was too small, and her breasts too large.

  What was really so different about her face that made her more appealing than the next woman? She bared her teeth, moving her lips around, making silly shapes. They were just ordinary teeth, straight and white. She supposed she was fortunate that none were missing.

  She was not a very tall woman, appearing almost delicate, but she was by no means weak. She was stronger than she looked, making up for her lack of physical strength with an indomitable spirit.

  “Nonsense, Miss Angela, you’re a raging beauty,” Rosemary said with feeling, and then turned her lips up wryly. “You would be gorgeous covered in mud. Now, let us get down to your man.”

  “What! My man?” Rosemary’s words made Angela laugh aloud. It served to ease some of her anxiety. “I haven’t even consummated the bonds of ‘mistress-ship’ yet, and you’re already calling him ‘my man.’” The fact that she could joke about something like this was a good sign – or maybe it was one of the first stages of madness.

  “Wait until you get a good look at him, love, and I mean a really good look at him, under the sheets, before you go making any hasty judgments,” Rosemary teased. “You never know – you might want to keep him for longer than three months.”

  “I can assure you that will never happen. I intend to use that twenty thousand to become an independent woman. Maybe I’ll even do some traveling.”

  “And you deserve it, love. I just hope that this unorthodox way of getting what you want doesn’t turn around and bite you in the a—”

  “I’ll just make sure that it doesn’t. But, right now, we’d better go.”

  Angela smiled. One of the things she loved about Rosemary was her colorful use of the English language, especially the profanity. It hadn’t taken long for Angela’s repertoire of cuss words to increase from her close association with her maid.

  They were both the same age and had become friends right from the start. Where Angela was blonde and blue-eyed, Rosemary had shiny black hair and dark, exotic eyes. They made a striking pair, their opposite coloring often causing heads to turn. And even though they were separated by class distinctions, Angela always treated Rosemary with affection and respect, and Rosemary, in turn, would do anything for her mistress.

  Rosemary may have the talent for swearing like a crusty sailor, but she’d also been educated right along with Angela. She possessed the training and ability to display graceful manners when the situation demanded it. It was only when they were alone together that she spoke so freely.

  “Here, put this on.” Rosemary held up Angela’s best cloak. “He won’t be able to see your face.”

  “Good idea,” Angela said, grabbing the cloak and hastily slipping into it. “But he’s going to see me eventually.”

  “Yes, but not until we get to his home. By then it will be harder for him to go back on his word.”

  Angela chuckled. “You’re right, of course. I knew there was a reason I wanted you to come with me.” She didn’t look back as she and Rosemary proceeded down the hall. In light of these strange circumstances, she finally felt a sense of hope that her future was hers to make.

  THEY ARRIVED DOWNSTAIRS to find the stranger checking his watch. He looked up at their approach. “You’re just in time, Miss Hopkins, and not a moment too soon. I was about to come get you myself.”

  When he stepped from the shadows, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t you think it’s a bit warm for that?” He gestured toward her outerwear.

&nb
sp; He was a beautiful man. And tall. So very tall and broad-shouldered. Rosemary’s gasp behind her confirmed Angela’s first impression. “I felt a slight chill,” Angela lied, after collecting herself from her initial shock.

  Actually, she was sweating like a dock worker under the heavy wool garment, but it was necessary to hide her bruised face. It was humiliating enough that the staff knew of her beatings. To have this stranger see the evidence of it would be more than she could bear at the moment.

  He raised one perfectly formed black eyebrow, scrutinizing her with golden eyes. The way his brows turned up at the outer edges, combined with that unusual eye color, reminded her of a bird of prey.

  But it was his mouth that captured and held her attention. It was nothing short of sumptuous, if she were to give it a description. It was inviting, tantalizing, sensual, as though some mythical god had formed that mouth expressly for kissing.

  His hair was black as pitch and cropped short, but it was still long enough to look lightly tussled, as though he’d just come from his bed. Her face heated. What was she doing thinking about him and a bed?

  Dragging herself back to reality, Angela said, “This is my maid, Rosemary. She’s coming with me.” Her pride didn’t allow her to ask his permission. She decided to take an offensive stance with him right from the start. That way, he wouldn’t be under the impression she was a weak-willed female.

  “I said nothing about bringing your maid,” he stated coldly. “She’s to remain behind.”

  Angela experienced a moment of panic. She couldn’t do this without Rosemary! “But I need her,” she beseeched him. “I know no one at your home and she is a great help to me.”

  “I have plenty of staff. You may choose from one of them.”

  “She’s been with me since I was the age of thirteen. She knows me better than anyone.” Taking a few steps closer to him, she placed her hand on his arm, making sure to turn away her bruised eye. “Please,” she whispered, not able to keep the desperation from her voice. “I am lost without her.”