An Unforgettable Rogue by Annette Blair Page A

medieval armor might prove worthless with the tenacious Alexandra. He grabbed his cane, snuffed the candles, and made his toe-stubbing way to the bed, cursing as he went.
    “Serves you right,” Alex said, from somewhere across the room. “Am I to bathe in the dark, then?”
    Hawk climbed onto the far side of the bed and arranged the covers. “I humbly beg your forgiveness. Re-light the candles, if you wish. The light will not disturb my sleep.”
    He heard her exasperated huff, and when the candles were lit, she, too, wore only a dressing gown, and that, not well fastened. Hawk both raged and salivated as he watched her delightful breasts, better fit to spring free than in her seductive nightrail the night before. And as she stepped into her dressing room, she gave him an amazing glimpse of one long and shapely leg, ankle to thigh, almost by accident.
    Despite himself, Hawk imagined her dropping her dressing gown and stepping naked, about then, into the tub in which he had just bathed. If he had not vowed to set her free, he would go and join her, bedamned to his scars, her modesty, or anything else.
    But he did not have the right, and no matter his bride’s reassurances, seeing each other through the gauze of wet garments at the age of ten, and seeing each other naked now, were nothing like.
    Her innocence might remain intact, despite her denial to the contrary, but his certainly did not.
    “I think you should come and wash my hair,” she called. “I washed yours.”
    Hawksworth mentally applauded her tenacity and considered the tower room daybed with longing.
    Accidentally, indeed.
    He had been right, he mused, as he closed his eyes and drifted toward sleep, living again just might kill him. Then again, for the first time since the battle of Waterloo, living again felt rather … hopeful.
    Hawk yawned. For a dead man, he had had a tiring day.
    Alex was thoroughly disgruntled by the time she climbed into bed beside her husband. She was no expert, but she did not think that marriage beds were supposed to be tedious or dull as ditchwater. Neither did she believe that any of Hawk’s former mistresses had found him unconscious when they climbed into bed with him.
    Though she was very much tempted to slip the bedcovers off and examine him at her leisure, she supposed that in fairness to his dignity, she should wait until she was invited, if the blasted day ever arrived.
    She must, also, face the fact that Hawksworth had not chosen her as his bride in the truest sense, which might mean that he did not care to touch her, or could not bear to, which made her want to smack him as he slept, the paper-skulled jackanapes.
    To be fair, however, ‘twas only a little more than a year ago that he had been so badly wounded, he was taken for dead, and he could still be recovering his strength. She had caught the pain in his eyes too often to count, today, though he tried to hide it.
    She had not seen the damage to his leg, not yet, at any rate, but the limb might very well be festering still. Leg wounds often did.
    When all was said and done, however, even though she was not his choice, Hawksworth was her first and only choice. In addition, they were already married—till death do them part. But life could seem a very long time, if one was feeling neglected and … needy.
    If Hawksworth did not plan to seduce her, then, perhaps, she should try and seduce him.
    If only she knew how.
    She supposed there were worse schemes than to seduce one’s own husband. Though seduction seemed too good for him, considering his reason for marrying her, and the fact that he waited so blasted long to let her know he lived. Punishment seemed a better choice.
    Just thinking about his offenses made her angry all over again. And sad, and hurt, and … devil it, she wanted him to know how much he hurt her. She wanted him to feel her pain.
    What she should do, Alex thought, turning yet again in her formerly comfortable bed, was make him worship her, as she