Sins of a Rogue-excerpt

Sins of a Rogue is book 2 in Kaya and Paul's journey. (Husband of Convenience now available!) They've been together for 4 months and are exploring both the Sicilian countryside and each other. They're happy, because I write romances! But they barely know each other.

How well does Kaya know Paul when he hates who he used to be and refuses to talk about it? How well does she know her love for him?

And what happens when Paul's past comes back to haunt both of them?

Chapter One

Villa San Giovanni, Italy

January 1785

 

            Beneath her wide-brimmed hat, Kaya Hartley squinted into the brilliant blue skies of Villa San Giovanni. She watched gulls soar in the distance, beautiful, majestic creatures that glided on the wind. Closing her eyes, she listened to their echoing calls, faint whiffs of sound that lifted her spirits.

Her already sensitive stomach rolled, and she pressed her lips together against the remnants of her seasickness. The air smelled of the sea. Of salt and close bodies and the wonderful scent of people and life and movement.

            Kaya whimpered and swallowed hard, trying not to breathe deeply. She stepped onto solid ground and, naturally, her legs gave out and her eyes shot open.

“I’ve got you.” Her husband grasped her arm, and Kaya gratefully leaned against him.

“I hate the water.”

“No, you don’t,” Paul snorted, his humor far too evident for her current liking. Still, he held her securely to his side.

His lips brushed her temple. She barely felt their comforting press through the hijab covering her head and shoulders, but she accepted the solace and relaxed into his touch.

“I do.” Her whisper hurt her head. She licked dry, cracked lips.

She wanted to lie down in a dark, quiet room. Out of the sun and away from the blasted sea. She wanted Paul’s arms around her and his steady heartbeat beneath her ear. Mostly, she wanted the world to stop moving.

“All my life I wanted to see the water. This is how I’m repaid for my curiosity.”

Paul chuckled again, a soft brush of breath over her hot, taut skin. Thankfully, he didn’t release his hold on her. Kaya hated her weakness, this unsteadiness that sucked the very life out of her.

Their satchel was filled with only fig rolls, dried dates, and olives, but still its heaviness weighed her down. The tiny bag was nestled between her and Paul, who carried the rest of their things.

“I detest being ill,” she grumbled.

“I don’t think it’s anything personal on the water’s part.”

Kaya scoffed. Before she could think of a suitable reply, one that would defend herself and disparage the water, a sailor bumped into her. She instantly reached for her dagger with one hand and her bag with the other.

“Oi!” In a smooth step, Paul moved in front of her, blocking any potential attack or theft. “Watch where you’re walking!”

“Mi dispiace!” The man shouted his apologies but didn’t stop.

Grumbling Sicilian obscenities, Paul turned to steady her, his hands warm and firm on her arms.

In the nearly four months since leaving Cairo and her small family, Kaya had learned much of the world. Unfortunately, trusting others was a skill she hadn’t yet mastered.

“Paul.” She stood straight. Not because she wished to, but because her stiff bodice, and the jewels sewn into it, demanded she do so. Her stomach protested. Violently.

Kaya wished she’d sewn the jewels someplace else, impractical though that might have been. The uneven stones pressing against a stomach that hated the water was about as uncomfortable as anything she’d ever experienced.

Even in her limited experience.

“Come.” Paul wrapped his arm around her waist again and took most of her weight, quite the bold move in public “We’ll find an inn until you recover your land legs.”

“I don’t understand.” Kaya frowned. “What does the land have to do with my legs and how I recover them?”

He ducked down to see her beneath the hat. His blue-green eyes danced in that way she’d come to recognize meant she’d said something amusing. Or naïve.

“Means until you’re steady again on land.” Paul shifted and gently took the satchel, slinging it over his own shoulders. He knocked his hat to the side in the process and deftly caught it before it fell.

Kaya marveled at his quick reflexes. The smoothness of them, the grace. She loved the way he moved, could watch him all day. Paul crouched down again to look her in the eye, and he smiled that slightly crooked but utterly authentic grin. Laden with their items, he ignored the added weight and his hat and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“You’ll be fine soon.” He brushed his fingers along her cheek. “I’ll even buy you fresh coffee.”

“Buy, eh?” Closing her eyes and sighing, Kaya leaned her head on his arm.

“Promise.” His vow held humor, but if he promised, she believed him. Even if Paul usually erred more on the side of thief than customer. “Come along, you’re doing great, sweetheart.”

She whimpered and staggered along the wharf, trying very hard to steady her stomach.  This was her first voyage on water since leaving Egypt, and she’d discovered how much her body didn’t enjoy the sea. “I’m finished with seasickness. No more ships for me. Ever.”

The smell of the Strait of Messina, and life and wharves and whatever else clung to the air, churned her stomach.

            Fantastic.

            “Signora Conrad.”

            She turned toward the sound of the name Paul had used on their papers—or tried to turn. Paul held her steady, his shoulders stiff with annoyance. Kaya elbowed him, and he grunted. Not one for manners, her Paul.

            “Be nice,” she mumbled.

            Paul grumbled unintelligibly but guided her around so she faced the polite, handsome ferry captain.

            A head shorter than she, and with a shock of gray hair, the captain watched her with concerned blue eyes. He’d done so since Kaya warned him of her seasickness when they booked passage.

            “Captain Morano.” Kaya nodded and instantly stilled.

            Her stomach revolted at the simplest things. Like nodding. She grasped Paul’s hand, fingers digging into his, and swallowed. Hard.

            She detested this sickness.

            “The inn at via Brindisi, it stands after the terremoto.”

            “The terremoto?” Kaya couldn’t place the new word. Since landing in Sicily, she’d learned much of the language, but not that word. “I don’t understand.”

            Captain Morano frowned. “Terremoto…ah.” He held his hands up, palms flat, and rocked them back and forth. “Tremor.”

            “Oh! Tremor. Sì. A ground tremor.”

            “Wonderful,” Paul muttered, entirely too low for the captain to hear. “Just what we need.”

            “Where is via Brindisi?” she asked.

            “Two streets in, on the right.” Captain Morano gestured grandly, but Kaya didn’t follow his movements.

            “Grazie, Captain.” Kaya smiled at the kindly gentleman, who looked genuinely concerned.

            “Benvenuti.” The captain tipped his hat, face crinkling with his smile, and turned around to see to whatever ferry captains saw to after they made port.

She patted Paul’s hand, warm and firm around her waist. “We’ll be fine.”

            “Plague forty years ago, and now earthquakes,” Paul huffed as they walked up the wharf to the main streets. Though he no doubt wanted to move faster, Kaya kept the pace slow until her nausea abated. “I knew we should’ve sailed for Reggio di Calabria.”

            Kaya shuddered, shivering in the warm sunlight. “Too far.”

            Paul grasped her hands and wrapped them in his warm ones. “I know. At least no one knows where we’ve landed.”

            He meant that anyone who followed them, either from Egypt or across Sicily, might also assume they’d sailed for the larger city of Reggio di Calabria. Only a fool crossed the Strait of Messina’s rough waters if there was another option.

            “Plus, we don’t know the state of Reggio di Calabria. Ground tremors spread; they are not—” Kaya broke off, searching for the English word. “Not in one place.”

            “Isolated. Localized.” Paul released her hands, moving one of his to the small of her back. Kaya barely resisted stretching into his touch. “Can you walk faster?”

“No.” She sighed, body shuddering at the faintest jar, but she forced her legs to carry her more quickly. Each heavy step unsettled her barely settled stomach. “Why?”

“I want you off these wharves.” His voice lowered, but she couldn’t tell if it was because he’d looked behind them. “I don’t want you exposed like this, in the open, where you can’t defend yourself.”

Kaya started to reply but had no retort. She couldn’t fight, not in this condition. If someone threatened her or tried to kidnap her—both of which had happened in the previous four months—she was too vulnerable to protect herself.

“I can walk faster.” She uttered only a partial lie.

Her legs trembled, and her head pounded.  Despite the monstrosity of a hat she wore over her hijab, her eyes ached in the bright sunlight. However, Paul wanted them in town, where no one remembered them, and she didn’t blame him.

She had no desire to repeat their more dangerous adventures in Sicily. Frankly, she wasn’t in any position to do so anyway. Right now, she’d be more likely to fall over than wield her khanjar.

They blended in on the wharves, at least, moving easily with the mass of people disembarking and rushing in all directions.

Sailors and wharf workers shouted in several languages. Kaya tensed, waiting for her old fears. Old, unnecessary fears, but they still occasionally shivered up her spine. She waited, but no shout came telling her she’d been discovered.

“Why are we turning right?” Kaya frowned as they rounded a corner.

They passed brightly painted doors and new construction, workers shouting to each other as they hauled large stones into place. She stumbled on the uneven walk, but Paul caught her.

“Easy. Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

“I know.” She licked her lips and tried not to think about how fully she trusted him.

In Mazzarelli, Sicily, they’d agreed to see where their relationship led. They travelled over the island and made love. Grew closer. Being with Paul warmed her. He made her laugh, held her at night, promised with deed and word that he’d take care of her.

The once-spoken words, however, had not been repeated. Paul’s confession of love scared and confused her. Her reciprocal I love you terrified her. The largeness of that feeling simultaneously crushed and elated her.

Her knees gave out again, whether from seasickness or all-encompassing love, she didn’t know. Paul held her firmly. That warmth of security and rightness spread through her, warming her numb fingers and heating her cheeks.

What had she been saying? “Right—why are we turning right?”

When Paul laughed, her heart flipped and her stomach swooped like the birds she’d earlier admired. Kaya gritted her teeth against that swooping.

She couldn’t ignore her answering smile.

“The inn is to the right.” He said it as if she were the dense one.

Kaya sniffed haughtily, or as haughtily as she could manage. She closed her eyes and trusted him to guide her along the walk. “This from the man who insisted on traveling around Sicily even though Mazzarelli sits on the eastern coast, so much closer to Messina?”

“You wanted to see the island,” Paul countered in an equally haughty tone. “I did not wish to disappoint my wife.”

She laughed, a soft breath of sound. True. They had seen much of the historic architecture and stunning mountain views.

“Sicily is beautiful,” she admitted. “I should have quite liked to settle in Palermo. Or seen Syracuse or Augusta.”

“You loved Agrigento.” In Agrigento, they explored the ruins, pagan temples, and ancient churches.

“Yes.” She sighed happily at the memory of their sheer enjoyment, and she squeezed his hand. “Agrigento was lovely.”

“And if we hadn’t walked around the island, you wouldn’t have seen Palermo.” Paul again ducked his head and met her gaze beneath the hat. “Or the Valley of Temples.”

The look he gave her stole her breath. That soft, focused look that blanked her mind of anything save Paul. As if none of the people around them existed, and only the two of them mattered.

Kaya returned his smile, her heart skipping and her blood warming, but then quickly averted her gaze. She loved him. It swelled her heart and settled in her soul. That ever-expanding warmth of connection and acceptance.

This wonderful, paranoid, sometimes dishonest, and always concerned for her well-being man.

Scrambling for words that wouldn’t convey her inner turmoil, Kaya grasped for the threads of their conversation. “Why are we pretending to stay at the inn?”

Paul slowed their pace. Relieved, Kaya wished for a bed. It’d taken her weeks to recover from her first voyage. Hopefully, a night’s rest would restore her from today’s short ferry ride.

“I don’t want the captain thinking we’re not.” She heard the grimace in his voice. He stopped and helped her lean against the side of a building. The cool stone, shadowed from the bright noon sun, bit into her back, but it did not move.

“Is that why you used Conrad instead of Hartley?” Kaya leaned her head against the wall, tipping her hat to meet his gaze. No longer moving, her stomach finally settled.

Paul looked around the crowded square, watching everyone who walked past. She knew his back itched, in the open as they were, exposed and vulnerable. She also knew he stood before her to protect her. Kaya’s lips curled upward in fondness and trust.

When they sneaked out of Cairo, she hadn’t thought she’d learn anything about Sergeant Hartley. It amazed her how well she now knew even his smallest mannerisms. The square of his shoulders, the sparkle in his eyes, the quirk of his lips.

“Our papers say Conrad.” Paul’s voice was pitched low. “I couldn’t find anyone on that entire damn island I trusted to forge a new set.”

“You don’t trust anyone.”

 He held her gaze with an intense steadiness that said more than words. It settled over her, the heavy understanding of his wordless look. “I trust you,” he whispered.

“Paul.” Throat tight, she willed her heart to stop pounding quite so loudly.

He looked away and pulled her upright, steadying her, though he did not look at her. “Can you continue?”

“Yes.” She leaned her head against his arm.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she relaxed. Paul’s embrace provided a safety she craved.

“I forgot about our papers,” Kaya admitted, accepting his obvious change of subject.

They passed the inn, the sunlight glinting off the stone. Kaya saw what Captain Morano meant about it still standing, though how remained a mystery. Rubble littered the street corners, courtyards, and abandoned lots. This inn, however, stood defiant.

“Where are we staying, then?”

“Not sure yet. I’ll know it when I see it.”

“As long as there’s a bed,” she sighed. “And coffee, or carob juice.”

“I’ve got you.” Paul slipped his arm to her waist and tightened his hold on her. “Just a little further,” he promised.

She met his gaze, serious and worried. Kaya smiled; it wobbled, but it was fully formed. “All right.”

“Still don’t know why you trust me.”

Her heart twisted. Paul didn’t say those words often. Once, during an argument, when they’d first landed in Sicily, he insisted she’d misplaced her trust in him.

I’m not a nice man.

Kaya had yet to see that side of him. He’d protected her, a stranger, when he could have tossed her body into en-Nīl and stolen the jewels for himself. Or abandoned her in the desert, in Damietta, in Mazzarelli.

He’d cared for her when that wretched seasickness took hold.

“You’re a very lucky man,” Kaya said now. “You’re lucky to have me.”

Paul laughed, a gentle breath of sound that warmed her heart. His fingers cupped the back of her head, and he pressed his lips to her forehead, his way of agreeing with her when he had no words.

“How about I sit here?” Kaya squeezed his arms and flicked her eyes to a low stone wall beside them. She thought it used to be the side of a building. Now it sat abandoned, its stone stolen for other structures.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Paul.” She sighed and sat, too exhausted to move another step.

“Kaya.” He raised an eyebrow, and she defiantly met his gaze. “The last time I left you, several villagers thought you were a witch, sent to steal their souls by…I don’t even know what.” Paul raised his other eyebrow, too, but Kaya steadfastly refused to rise—either to his barb or physically. “You disagree?”

She huffed, annoyed with the memory. “They were clearly mistaken.”

“Clearly,” he agreed, dryly. “The time before, you were nearly kidnapped by slavers.”

She dismissed that with a wave of her hand and an indignant huff. “I fought him off.”

His lips thinned, and his eyes hardened. “Kaya, you can’t fight anyone off now.”

“I can’t.” Oh, she hated to admit that. The words barely reached her ears, but she knew Paul heard them. Annoyed with her weakness, her body, her aching stomach and head, she looked away from his gaze for a moment then back again. “I’m sure the ginger and turmeric were supposed to help, but I—I can’t—”

Frustrated, she broke off. Never had her body betrayed her as it had on the water. She’d trained her entire life to fight, to defend herself from her family’s enemies. Once she left her home, Kaya envisioned sailing across the world, exploring every corner of it.

But if she never set foot on a ship again, she’d die a happy woman.

Paul ran a hand down his face. His shoulders tensed beneath his pack, and her own shoulders relaxed at his obvious unease. She knew this mannerism, too. The against-his-better-judgment agreement.

He often looked like that.

“Paul, I’ll stay here. I’ll be fine. I have my khanjar.” She pulled the gold-encrusted, bone-handled dagger from its sheath at her waist.

            His lips thinned, and he scowled and pointed a finger at her. “Don’t move.” He jabbed the finger again. “Don’t wander.”

            “I promise.” Kaya refrained from stating the obvious. She was on this wall because her body needed rest. She’d wander nowhere. Taking his hand, she squeezed. “I’ll stay here.”

            Paul sighed in resignation. He pressed his lips to her forehead, then turned sharply and disappeared around a corner. Able to move faster without her, Kaya doubted he’d be long.

            Clothing rustled near her, and she snapped her eyes open. She gripped her dagger, annoyed at her moment of inattentiveness. Three women walked by, chatting rapidly, a mixture of Sicilian, which Kaya understood, and a dialect she did not recognize. Kaya caught enough to understand they feared something—oppio.

            Intrigued at this new word, she listened more closely. Their hushed conversation receded as they hurried away. Kaya shivered in the warm sunlight and suddenly wished she’d stayed with Paul.

            Alone on the street, isolated despite the freedom of being outside, in another country, Kaya gripped her khanjar and sat up straighter.

Gaze sweeping the via, she thanked her grandfather for teaching her how to protect herself. Gidd, the image of him as she and Paul left her home, burned in her memory, and Kaya blinked to clear tears from her eyes. She needed to remain alert, not succumb to grief.

            In Cairo, thousands died from starvation. When she left in September, Gidd had assured her he had enough food and money, resources and connections, to live a very long life. But, with no news from the city and no means to contact him, Kaya worried every day.

            Jaw clenched against her grief, Kaya focused on the here and now. Gidd wanted her to explore the world. Perhaps not in this sense, but he wished her safely away from Egypt and the long reach of the Ottoman Empire.

            Searching the bright square for Paul, Kaya looked for danger as well. People hurried past her, and she didn’t think it was because she was sitting on the wall. In the last months, Kaya had learned all too well of the dangers lurking outside her childhood home. Paul, however, had seen only the cruel, dirty world, had fought and killed to survive it.

            It hit her in the chest, her love for Paul. Surprised, Kaya rubbed her fingers where her heart pounded. Of all the people they’d met in Sicily, Kaya had not wished to know any of them as intimately as she did Paul.

She did not want to leave him.

Saying the words once had taken more courage than she realized she possessed. More than leaving Cairo with the stranger she married, more than fighting the slavers in the desert or the kidnappers in Damietta’s souk.

Shaking herself, Kaya searched for a distraction, as she had for months now. A young girl hurried by with a basket swinging on her arm.

            “Perdono, what’s in the basket?” Kaya used her careful Sicilian, pleased when the girl stopped.

            The girl halted but didn’t approach. Her head swiveled left and right, and she looked down at her basket in surprise, as if she’d forgotten she carried it. She moved toward Kaya with measured steps, keeping the basket between her body and Kaya, a move Kaya heartedly approved. “Bergamotto.”

            In small increments, so as not to startle the child, Kaya leaned forward and peered at the fruit the girl held up. “They look like lemons. May I purchase one?”

            “They are special.” The girl shuffled closer, clearly warming to Kaya. She glanced over her shoulder and took another step. “They grow in the winter. They are very good to rid yourself of pidocchi.”

            Frowning at the unfamiliar word, Kaya asked, “Ripeta prego.”

“Pidocchi.” The girl frowned, clearly trying to think of another way to convey her meaning. Finally, she reached to her head, hand hovering over her tightly bound braids, and pretended to scratch violently. Kaya brightened. Lice! Pidocchi had to mean lice, and if it didn’t, anything that soothed an itchy scalp was worth the purchase price.

“Sì, sì. Quanto?” Kaya reached into the small pouch on her waist, pushed her dagger further up on her lap, and offered the girl a few coins.

Eyes wide at the sight of the dagger, the girl pocketed the coins. As she did so, Kaya sensed Paul. She turned and spotted him casually strolling from the opposite direction he’d left in. She narrowed her eyes at his relaxed stroll. Did she need to run? Or had his inn-scouting gone better than anticipated?

His tight grin worried her. Standing, Kaya gripped her khanjar and braced to fight.

“What’s your name?” Kaya calmly asked the girl.

“Teresa.” Teresa followed Kaya’s gaze. “Is he your marito?”

She jerked. Kaya often introduced Paul as her husband. He was, after all, and she had grown used to being referred to as his wife. The way Teresa asked, however, brought home that very real fact.

“Sì.” Her smile widened. Her fingers loosened on her dagger, and warmth flooded her bones, easing her weariness and exhaustion. “Sì, Teresa, he is.”

“He comes from the dens. Be careful, signora.” Teresa’s voice shook. Her eyes, wide now and scared, darted over the street again. “He walks from a bad place.”