Kiss From a Rogue by Shirley Karr

but they’d assaulted and kidnapped a gentleman. The man might be a rake, but he was innocent in their match of wits with the Revenue men.
    “My lady?”
    “Something wrong?”
    “Is the bugger dead, then?”
    She held up one hand, halting the flood of questions from the men clustered around her. “He’s not dead. He’s also not a Revenue agent.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    “Sounded like one to me, asking so many bloody questions.”
    “It ain’t a coincidence he showed up the same night a shipment is due.”
    She ignored them all, and set about discovering why he hadn’t moved or made any sound since the moan on the doorstep. She ran her hands down his limbs, checking for broken bones. He gave a slight twitch as she passed her hand over his right shoulder blade, but she felt nothing give where it shouldn’t. Even in his relaxed state, she could feel sleek muscles. His hands were callused. Not those of a man who performed harsh labor, but neither was he an idle gentleman of leisure. He must have been unconscious before they tied him, fortunately, because there were only the faintest of marks from the rope on his wrists.
    The irony of the situation was not lost on her. Earlier, she’d been irked by his attempted liberties, merely touching her chin unnecessarily while tying her bonnet without her permission, and now she was running her hands all over his body.
    Satisfied there were no broken bones, she slid her fingers through his hair, which was just a little longer than was fashionable, ignoring its silky softness as she searched for a lump or soft spot. There, on the back of his head. Not the mushy give of a broken skull, thankfully, but her fingertips came away covered in a sticky mix of blood and flour.
    His left hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Sylvia gasped. She looked beyond her fingers, past his strong grip, to his eyes. Wide open, the color of rich chocolate, they stared at her unblinking.
    “What the hell are you doing?” His voice was low and intense, the rich timbre even smoother than she remembered. The cultured accent confirmed his social status as gentleman.
    “Checking that they didn’t accidentally bash your skull in.” Knowing the men were still clustered around her, Sylvia was able to keep her voice steady. He was young and strong, but they had him outnumbered eight to one. Ten, if Galen and Mrs. Spencer joined in. Both hovered near the doorway, ready to call for assistance if needed. The tiny parlor was already crammed full of people.
    Still gripping her wrist, the stranger slowly sat up and swung his legs over the sofa. He glanced at the men. “Step back, or I’ll snap her like a twig.”
    She heard their intake of breath, felt their indecision. “You’ll do no such thing.” She swung her free hand to the side of his head and shoved him back down to the sofa. Being a gentleman, he hesitated to use his strength to retaliate against a woman. She used that hesitation to jump up to her feet and plop down on his chest.
    Who knew that years of minding her rambunctious cousins would come in so handy? The fact that he was undoubtedly still woozy was also in her favor. She’d once kept her fifteen-year-old cousin down like this for five minutes, until he’d promised to stop trying to kiss the upstairs maid.
    Conscious of his hand around her wrist, she forced a smile and met the stranger’s shocked gaze. “No one is going to hurt you, sir, and you are not going to hurt anyone, either. Am I clear?”
    He gave a brief nod, and glanced at the men.
    She glanced at them also, though the stranger shifted beneath her, and she felt his free hand touching her lower back. Quite low. Her stomach gave a slight flutter. His silent message was a warning that he could unseat her if he chose. “Am I clear?” She stared at them until all had nodded in agreement. She looked back at the stranger. “You see? No one means any harm. This was all a terrible misunderstanding.”
    “Can’t breathe,”