Along Came a Rogue (25 page)

Her eyes stinging at her friend's concern, Emily squeezed Kate's hand. Nodding, unable to say anything around the knot in her throat, she looked away—and her heart stopped.

On the other side of the street, Grey sauntered slowly toward them. Dressed casually as if he'd planned nothing more for his day than a ride through the park, in his dusty boots and buckskin breeches, tan waistcoat, and maroon riding jacket, he stood out among the decorated dandies. A hawk among the peacocks. He tugged at the wrists of his leather riding gloves, the only outward sign that he was as nervous as she was about this wholly planned accidental meeting.

And he'd never looked more dashing.

Emily released Kate's arm and stepped toward the street so she could claim a better view of him as he approached, despite knowing that she should run. Her hands shook, a nervous trembling that soon spread to the rest of her, right down to her toes, and worsened with each stride he drew nearer. Dear God, what would she say to him? And he to her? Her heart raced as she fought to breathe. Could she get through this at all without throwing herself into his arms like a complete cake?

With an uneasy smile, more happy to see him again than she would ever admit, Emily stopped at the edge of the street and waited for him to look up and see her. Her eyes focused intently on him. He gave no outward sign that he knew she was there, yet his stride quickened, just barely, almost imperceptibly.

The thundering sound of pounding hooves exploded behind her. Angry male shouts and fearful female screams split the air. She turned—

A phaeton raced toward them down the street. Perched on his high seat, the driver flicked his whip mercilessly and sent the team veering directly at her.

“Look out!” she screamed. With a fierce shove, she pushed Kate away just as the phaeton bore down on them. The duchess staggered backward, missing being struck by mere inches.

But Emily was too close. The wheel snagged her skirt as the rig flew past, tangling her dress around the axle and yanking her off her feet. She spun in a circle, pulled back toward the crushing wheel. She heard the scream tear from her throat as she fell away, saw the ground rush toward her, felt the sharp pain as she hit the cobblestones—

Then everything went instantly still.

Her eyes closed. Muffled screams and shouts reverberated through the fuzzy whirling inside her head, and pain radiating from her bruised body. Then she felt hands gently stroking her face, strong arms lifting her…Through the darkness, she heard her name.

Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, just long enough to see Grey's terrified face.

Then she fainted away.

L
ess than an hour later, Grey bounded up the front steps of Chatham House and into the foyer.

“Where's Lady Emily?” he asked Jensen, glancing beyond the butler and down the hall.

Jensen's eyes flickered up the stairs. “If you'll wait in the drawing room, Major, I shall inquire if she is—”

“The hell I will,” he snarled, and Jensen's face drained to white.

Emily was here, he knew it. He'd put her into the Strathmore carriage himself and barked out orders for the driver to bring her and the duchess directly here, then sent the tiger to fetch Dr. Brandon. He had no intention of being forced to wait in the drawing room for an hour, only to be turned away. Not this afternoon.

No—Emily was here, so was Thomas. And he wasn't leaving until he'd spoken to both of them.

“Grey.” Thomas sauntered down the stairs, then dryly arched an eyebrow at the commotion he was making. “Please don't frighten the butler to death.”

“Where's Emily?” Grey demanded, his chest tight with worry. “How is she?”

Thomas dismissed Jensen with a nod, and the butler scurried away gratefully. “She's upstairs with Kate Westover and Dr. Brandon right now.” When Grey turned toward the stairs, Thomas grabbed his arm and stopped him. “She's fine. Join me for a drink.”

“I don't want a damned drink,” he bit out, yanking his arm free. What he wanted was to see Emily and find out for himself if she was truly all right, if she needed him.
Christ!
His heart pounded so hard with worry that each beat was like a sledgehammer to his chest.

“Good.” Imperturbably, Thomas pushed him toward the drawing room off the foyer. “More for me, then.”

Despite the desperate need in his gut to see Emily, Grey went grudgingly, knowing both that he wouldn't be let upstairs until her brother gave him permission and that Thomas was just well enough now to be able to stop him if he tried to force his way upstairs anyway.

Thomas poured two glasses of whiskey and handed one over, then flopped down onto the settee and kicked his boots onto the tea table. Grey sank onto the chair opposite him.

“Emily's fine. Just shaken up a bit and bruised,” Thomas assured him, a sympathetic timbre underlying his voice. “She needs to rest, but I'll tell her you stopped by.”

Grey took a swallow of whiskey. He was glad he hadn't refused the drink after all, especially now that it was clear Thomas had no intention of letting him anywhere near his sister this afternoon. “She told you what happened?”

“The duchess said there was an accident while they were shopping. A runaway phaeton. That Emily fell and fainted.” He pinned Grey's gaze over the rim of the glass. “It wasn't an accident, though, was it?”

“No,” he answered gravely, his throat tightening. “Someone tried to kill her.”

Thomas's expression never changed, but Grey sensed him freeze. He had lived—and nearly died—with this man, and he knew him better than anyone else in the world, save Emily, well enough to know what emotions he felt even as he worked to hide them. And what he felt was a heartbeat of incredulousness, followed by a flash of white-hot anger. Grey knew that because he'd felt the same thing himself. The sight of the phaeton bearing down on her, that heart-stopping moment when the wheel struck her and sent her reeling to the ground, the sound of her scream slicing through him—and all he could do was look on helplessly. He'd never felt so powerless in his life.

He stared down at his hands. They shook so badly even now that the whiskey bounced in his glass.

“You were right about Andrew Crenshaw,” Grey told him reluctantly. Emily should have been the one to tell Thomas this, but the time for keeping secrets was over. “The man was a bastard who left her a month after their wedding, to gamble and whore away her dowry. She lied to you—to everyone—putting up the appearance that her marriage was just fine.”

Thomas's eyes flicked to Grey, landing hard on him. His face darkened as he tried to absorb all that Grey was telling him, all the secrets Emily had kept from him. Even Thomas's careful control wasn't enough to stop an expression of betrayal and hurt from flashing across his face, or prevent him from rubbing at his wrists in that nervous habit he'd developed since the shooting.

“And you think that perhaps Crenshaw got in over his head, owed too much money or cheated someone at cards?” Thomas asked quietly, his jaw clenched. He didn't mention Emily's lack of trust in him, and Grey knew he wouldn't. Not until he spoke to Emily. “That whoever is doing this wants retribution?”

Grey shook his head. “Why attack Emily?” He looked down into his whiskey. “She believes that whoever killed Crenshaw is coming after her baby.”

“She told me about the fire, all the incidents surrounding Andrew's death…” Thomas let loose a harsh curse of self-recrimination. “I thought it was someone within her household at Snowden Hall. I thought she'd be safe in London.”

“I thought so, too.” He frowned into his glass. “But the only one who knew about the baby was Yardley, and Emily trusts the woman with her life. She even offered to help Emily run away to Glasgow.”

“You think Reynard Crenshaw is responsible, then?”

He looked hard at Thomas. “Yes.”

But Thomas frowned at that. “Reynard has nothing against the baby. He's already stated that he won't challenge the inheritance if she has a son.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He didn't even know she was with child until she arrived in London.”

Grey felt the familiar frustration rising inside him again. They were back at the beginning, with no answers and with Emily still in danger. He shoved himself to his feet and began to pace, unable any longer to sit still and do nothing. “Then who?”

Thomas shook his head silently as his eyes followed Grey back and forth across the room in his pacing.

“I'll find him and stop him, whoever he is. I've got Hedley investigating the phaeton driver, and I'm still hoping to hear something from my contacts in Yorkshire.” But even as he said that, a frustrated powerlessness gripped him. He'd spent the past hour with Hedley questioning witnesses about the phaeton, and all the conflicting information came to nothing. So had all the leads from Yorkshire. “In the meantime, my men will keep guarding her. If she's right, then the attempts against her should cease with the birth. If it's a girl, they'll stop completely.”

“If it's a boy,” Thomas agreed gravely, “he inherits at birth. It would be too obvious, then, if someone attempted to murder him in order to inherit.”

“And if it
is
someone after revenge for any of Crenshaw's debts”—Grey forced a casual shrug, doing his best to hide the fury he felt toward her dead husband—“then the inheritance will pay off whatever he owes, and there will be no reason to come after either of them anymore.” God help the bastard if he did, because Grey would kill him before he let Emily or her baby be harmed. “I don't want her alone for a moment until the baby arrives.”

Although if the damned stubborn woman had agreed to marry him by now, she wouldn't be alone.

“I'll make certain Yardley's with her,” Thomas assured him.

Yardley, when it should have been him. The sting of fresh rejection coursed through him. “I'm going to check in with Hedley, do some more investigating,” he informed Thomas as he moved toward the door. “Tell her I stopped by and that I'll be back.” He shot Thomas a determined look. “And this time, she won't be able to avoid me.”

“You know, a lesser man would have given up by now.”

“Emily doesn't deserve a lesser man.” Grey turned on his heel and stalked out the door.

“In my opinion,” Dr. Brandon told Emily as he patted her hand, “you have some nasty bruises along your backside, my dear, but nothing more.”

Emily gave a relieved sigh. She'd been terrified for her baby when she regained consciousness in the carriage as Kate rushed her back to Chatham House, the accident now little more than a blurry memory. And a throbbing bruise on her bottom.

Beside her on the bed, Kate Westover squeezed her arm reassuringly around Emily's shoulders. “No other injuries?”

“None that I see.” Bushy gray brows lifted at Emily. “I think your backside took the brunt of the fall.”

She grimaced painfully and rubbed at her hip. “I
know
so.”

“And the baby?” a deep voice interjected from across the room.

Emily looked up at Thomas. He leaned back against the wall beside the open door, arms folded across his chest, his head lowered. Despite the lingering pain in his side, he'd carried her up the stairs from the carriage and gently laid her on the bed, leaving only when Kate shooed him out so that Dr. Brandon could examine her. And now he'd returned to his post, as immovable as a mountain.

Emily's throat tightened at the expression etched onto his face—one of worry and fear. His eyes fixed on the doctor. “Was the baby injured?”

“Not at all that I can assess,” Dr. Brandon assured them as he closed his bag and lifted it from the bed. “But you should watch her closely for a few days.”

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Brandon.” Kate slid from the bed with a grateful smile and placed her hand on the physician's arm. “I'll walk you down.”

Thomas nodded to the doctor as Kate escorted him from the room and closed the door behind them, keeping his gaze focused unmoving on his sister as she lay propped up against the pillows on the bed. “Are you truly all right, Emily?”

Where there should have been warmth inside her at his concern, there was only unease. The little hairs on her arms stood on end, and she could feel a tension spring up between them as thick as water. Something had changed during the few minutes he'd been gone.

“Yes.” She forced a nod.

He paused for a moment before informing her solemnly, “Grey stopped by.”

“Oh?” She bit her lip in trepidation. “What did he want?”

“To see you, of course.”

Her heart slammed hard against her ribs. Seeing him today had shocked her more than the accident. “Is he still here?”

“No.” Thomas pushed himself away from the door and came slowly toward her. “He's gone to track down the driver of the phaeton.”

Her breath choked as her nervousness turned to fear. “It wasn't an accident, was it?”

“No,” he answered quietly.

Oh God
, it was happening again! As she pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, she felt the familiar fear stir inside her chest, the same fear Grey had once chased away by holding her in his arms. “Whoever killed Andrew and set the house on fire…He thinks—he thinks they're coming after me here?”

“We don't know that for certain,” he tried to reassure her, but the grim expression darkening his face told her otherwise. “We'll know more soon. No need to worry.”

No need to worry?
She swallowed back a laugh at that. Oh, there was so much to worry about! But she put on a brave face for her brother, the same one he was showing for her, and nodded.

He sat down beside her on the bed, just as he did when they were little, and his eyes filled with emotion. “But Grey also told me what happened with your marriage.”

Quick anger flashed through her. “He had
no
right to tell you—”

“Brat,” he whispered pleadingly, unable to find his voice beneath the betrayal and hurt revealed on his face.

Cut by the pain she saw in him for both himself and her, tears of regret swelled up in her eyes. “I'm so sorry, Thomas,” she choked out, barely above a whisper as the emotions overtook her. “Please…please forgive me.”

With a sob, she fell into his arms and clung to him as she cried, and all the pain, guilt, and regret she'd been carrying inside her finally released. She'd dreaded this moment for so long, so afraid of what he would think of her when she finally told him the truth, how ashamed she would be to admit that she'd been so wrong about Andrew…but there was no recrimination in him, no blame. Only forgiveness.