A Rebel Without a Rogue Read Online Free Page B

her with child? An illegitimate child, now woman-grown and standing before him? If so, he understood her reluctance to openly admit the truth of such parentage. But he would not cast aspersions. He’d never agreed with the church’s insistence on blaming the child for the sins of its parents, one of the many reasons he’d grown disenchanted with the profession his father had insisted he pursue.  
    Had she agreed to become Ingestrie’s mistress solely so she might travel to England and search for this man? And if Kit helped her find him, would she leave Ingestrie far behind? Even if he no longer wished to pursue a life as a clergyman, he’d far rather a woman follow a godly path than one of debauchery and sin.  
    Besides, if she were able to help Kit in return, he’d not have to trouble Uncle Christopher, risk endangering the man’s already precarious health.
    He stared down at her a moment, allowing his instincts to weigh the benefits against the dangers. Then, removing his glove, he held out his hand, as if she were a fellow with whom he was conducting a financial transaction rather than the mistress of another man.  
    “A fair trade. Your help, in exchange for mine.”
    She hesitated for a moment, then, unsmiling, placed her much smaller hand in his.
    A brief snap of electric fire shocked through his fingers. But instead of pulling away, he grasped her hand more firmly.
    Only a superstitious man would take such a commonplace occurrence as an omen, a warning to a mere mortal presumptuous enough to strike a bargain with a leannán sídhe.

CHAPTER THREE

    “Why are you in London in the midst of term, Christian? Is this how you repay the kindness of the dons, by slacking off your duties?”
    Kit looked away as his uncle struggled to shift his unresponsive legs higher up in the bed. Though some might think him callous, Kit knew better than to offer help to a man as proud, or as sharp-tongued, as Colonel Christopher Pennington. Especially as this seemed to be one of his uncle’s poor days, when the pain of his lingering war injuries forced him to remain in bed instead of sitting up in a chair. As Kit had learned all too well during his visits over the past nine years, any offer of help would only result in his being filleted on the edge of his uncle’s ire, dressed down as harshly as a private who’d had the unmitigated gall to question the orders of his commanding officer. Not at all the right way to soothe a tetchy man.
    Nor would telling him about being shot help, either. No, Kit would be keeping that little incident to himself, especially his suspicion that his attacker had ties to Ireland. Penningtons did not speak of Ireland, not in front of Uncle Christopher.
    The table beside his uncle’s bed held only maps and books, with none of the usual powders, pills, or other medicines common to the sickroom. Not even Great-Aunt Allyne, who’d been kind enough to offer the wounded soldier a place in her own home after his brother, Lord Saybrook, had died, was allowed to physic Uncle Christopher, not even with a tot of brandy or rum. She wasn’t his wife, nor even his aunt, after all, only the aunt of his brother’s long-dead wife.  
    Kit pretended not to notice the sweat breaking out on the Colonel’s brow as he used his strongly muscled arms to lever himself into a comfortable position. If the man felt any pain, he refused to show it.
    Uncle Christopher cocked an eyebrow as he settled himself against the pillows. “Well, sir? Explain yourself.”
    “It was kind of the dons to extend my fellowship for another year, was it not?” Kit began.
    “They didn’t do it out of love for you, my boy, and don’t you forget it. ’Twas on your father’s account, and in the hopes of continued Saybrook patronage. Felt such a generous benefactor deserved a full year of mourning from his sons, they did. Pious bastards.”
    Kit smiled. Uncle Christopher had never had much use for the more sedentary professions. “No