Romancing the Rake (Brotherhood of the Black Tartan #2)

by Nichole Van

“I am no one to you, Lord Rafe.” “Lady Sophie—” “Good day, my lord.” She coolly turned on her heel and continued toward the hackney stand. Rafe gritted his teeth and . . . . . . did nothing. Because despite how his heart panged and thumped in his chest—emphatically insisting that Lady Sophie was everything to him—she was, in fact as she said . . . truly no one. He had no claim on her, no right, and, worst of all, no freedom to change the situation. And that was the greatest tragedy of all.

Rafe sucked in a stunned breath. Bloody hell. Of all the places for this conversation to land— You don’t remember kissing me. He damn well remembered kissing her. The lush curve of her in his arms, the hitch in her breath as he dipped his head to hers, the gentle give of her lips as he lifted her closer— The memory nearly undid him. He had spent the last several years fighting to not remember their kiss. But it seemed every last second with this woman ended up imprinted on his very bones. Sophie had become part of his actual biology. You don’t remember kissing me. She looked at him, those expressive green eyes meeting his, catapulting him back four years to that night. To that glorious stolen kiss and all his hopes and dreams for the future. For their future. How was he to answer? Our kiss is all I can remember. You are blazoned on my very soul.

He did not look at her, however. He remained standing, eyes trained on the window and the dark world outside. But his next words reached her nonetheless: “Never doubt the sincerity of my intentions that night, Sophie.” Something hot and painful lodged in her throat. She heard his unspoken words clearly. Never doubt that you were wanted.

“How about you take some of that Scottish charisma into the inn there and charm the innkeep into selling us another hot brick or two?” True to his abilities, there were three hot bricks waiting for her when she returned to the carriage a half hour later. The man truly was a menace to her heart.

If Sophie had found Rafe attractive as a London rake and a roguish Highlander, nothing prepared her for the spine-weakening sight of Lord Rafe in his most true element—competent, virile man.

“Despite it being the absolute profoundest wish of my heart, I cannot see how there can be an . . . us.” Even though Sophie knew the words were coming, even though she knew he would—and should—choose his mother over her, hurt still lanced through her chest. She licked a tear off her upper lip. Rafe observed it in silence, dark eyes tracking the drops on her cheeks. He brushed them away with his thumbs, but more followed. Shaking his head, he let out a curse and bent down. He began kissing the tears away, murmuring his love over and over. “I would give anything tae be the one to always kiss away your grief,” he whispered, a hitch in his breath.