Along Came a Rogue (4 page)

Swallowing hard, he gently took her shoulders and set her away from him.

She wiped at her eyes. “You didn't have to come all this way.” But gratitude swelled in her soft voice. “You could have sent word—”

He grinned at her. “I've come to escort you to London.”

Her hand paused in mid-swipe as the bright happiness on her face disappeared, replaced once again by that mysterious fear he'd glimpsed earlier. This time stronger than before. For a moment, he thought she might just jump to her feet and flee like a frightened hare.

“Thomas asked for you,” he explained. “I promised to bring you to him.”

“Thomas asked…?” For a fleeting moment, a desperate longing registered in every inch of her, the overwhelming compassion and grief she felt for her brother palpable. She pressed her hand against her heart.

Then suddenly she stiffened, and the vulnerability he glimpsed in her vanished as a veil came down over her face. Yet she couldn't hide the fear.
That
still shined in her eyes as brightly as her lingering tears. “Thank you for telling me about Thomas. I truly appreciate your kindness and your devotion to him, more than you know.” She hesitated, as if forcing herself to say, “But I'm not going anywhere with you.”

He was stunned. “Emily—”

“Mrs. Crenshaw,” she corrected, then more softly, “if you please.”

He clenched his jaw. What should he care if she preferred formality from him? But inexplicably, it angered him. So did her refusal to see her brother. Had the sweet girl he remembered turned into a coldhearted bitch?

“I can't possibly travel right now, Major.” Her voice caught as she gave her apologies, but she hurried on. “So you and your man will have to leave after your tea.”

“We're spending the night,” he countered.

Her eyes flared, as if she didn't know whether to be furious or terrified at the prospect of having him as a guest. “There's no room for you here.”

Skeptically, he raised his eyes to the large country house behind her and silently arched a brow.

“We're not able to accommodate guests at this time,” she clarified with an almost desperate impatience to convince him to leave. Averting her eyes, she focused intently on pulling at her skirt with her fingers. “But there's an inn at the village—”

He grabbed her hand, stilling it against her skirt.

With a shocked gasp, she looked up at him, her blue eyes round and huge.

“You really expect me to believe that?” He kept his voice low and his anger checked, but he refused to release her wrist as she attempted to yank her hand away.

“It's true!”

“It's a damned lie,” he growled.

“Captain Grey!” Aghast at his accusation, she struggled to free herself, but his grip only tightened. He didn't trust her not to run for the hills. Or for a kitchen knife.

“
Major
Grey,” he corrected irritably, wanting no misunderstanding that he might still be the young officer she'd wrapped around her finger five years ago with her sweetness and innocence. He'd fallen for her manipulations then, but he certainly wouldn't fall for them a second time. “This is more than simply not wanting visitors, Mrs. Crenshaw. You
shot
at me!”

She sniffed haughtily. “And you rode up uninvited.”

His eyes narrowed. The brat had grown into a woman, but also into one of the worst liars he'd ever met. And certainly the most infuriating. “Since when do society ladies shoot at visitors, uninvited or otherwise?”

“Since they—” Her mouth snapped shut on whatever it was she was about to say, and she stopped struggling. Her gaze dropped to his chest as she pleaded in exasperation, “Please, just go away!”

But the more she demanded he leave, the more determined he was to stay.

Yet this time when she tugged to free herself, he let her go. To give her enough rope to hang herself with her lies.

She scrambled to her feet, her restless hands brushing nervously at the bits of grass clinging to her skirt as she backed away from him. “I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing, Major, but I'm too ill to travel. I'll write to Thomas—”

“The hell you will!” he exploded as the thin thread of his patience snapped, the curse so fierce she flinched. “You are coming with me to London, and we are leaving first thing in the morning.”

“No.” The damned chit jutted her chin defiantly into the air. “I absolutely refuse!”

Slowly, he rose to his full height and clenched his jaw to keep back the ungentlemanly response about where she could shove her refusal. Her eyes grew big as saucers at the white-hot aggravation she sensed in him. Instinctively, she stepped back.

And he pursued, advancing toward her with each step she retreated. “I'm not leaving without you.”

“Please, Grey.” Another step back, another advance…until her back hit against the wall of the house, until she raised her hands futilely against his chest to push him away. “You have to go!”

The pleading tone in her voice, the increasing panic in her eyes—she was desperate to make him leave. “Why?” he demanded, refusing to budge.

“Because—because you can't stay—”

“Why did you shoot at us?” He pressed in closer, trapping her between the house and his body. So close that her hands flattened against his chest.

“I didn't know it was you.”

“Obviously. Why?”

“Please just go—”

“What's wrong here?”

“Nothing! I swear.”

“Tell me.”

“Grey,
please
!” Her shoulders slumped, and he felt her hands on him change, no longer pushing him away but now fisting into the lapels of his coat to keep him close. Not that he would have gone anywhere until he had the truth.

In her panic, her breathing faltered, unwittingly drawing his attention to her chest. And that was a mistake. Because it was a very fine chest indeed, the tops of her full breasts rising and falling rapidly against the neckline of her tight bodice with each fast breath.

She's the brat
, he reminded himself, tearing his gaze back up to hers. Thomas's sister. The woman who would get him killed at the hands of his best friend if he dared lay a finger on her again. And certainly not a woman he should be looking at as…well, as a woman.

He locked his eyes on hers and refused to let them stray lower. “You shot at me.”

“There have been highwaymen—”

“Brat,” he growled in warning at the lie she was about to tell.

“There is nothing of concern here.” Then she forced a smile that did nothing to reassure him. “And I promise not to shoot at you when you leave.”

Despite her attempt at humor, his eyes narrowed. “If nothing's wrong—”

“There's not,” she protested, far too quickly.

“Then answer me this.” He lowered his head until his eyes leveled with hers, until his face hovered so close he could feel her trembling breath shadowing his lips. “Where are all your servants, Mrs. Crenshaw?”

She froze, the only movement a momentary widening of her eyes, a deepening of the fear in their wild depths. The look of a caught prisoner.

“I've been here for a while now, and no one could have missed that gunfire when we arrived. Where are your footmen and grooms?” He took her chin in his fingers and held her so she couldn't look away. “And do
not
lie to me.”

She stared warily at him, as if trying to decide exactly how much she could trust him. Then she answered, the single word tearing from her in a hoarse whisper—“Gone.”

He couldn't possibly have heard her correctly. “Pardon?”

“My husband was killed in a riding accident five months ago,” she whispered, as if terrified of being overheard. “But there were other…incidents. The servants feared for their lives. Half departed the night of his death, the others were gone by his burial. A handful remain, and if they hear gunfire, believe me, they will not come to investigate until it is long over.”

Grey stared at her, unable to fathom the creature before him and the situation she described. Was she really spinning ghost stories and expecting him to believe them?

He straightened away from her, yanking her fingers free from his coat. For a moment, her hands stayed in the air, as if still grasping for him, before she lowered her arms to her sides to bury her hands in the pockets of her baggy pelisse.

He shook his head. “Your parents never mentioned any of this. Thomas never said a word.”

“My family doesn't know.” She drew a ragged breath, her gaze training on his chest. “Andrew died last fall when the weather was too bad for them to travel to his funeral. Then, the time was simply never right to tell them about the servants.”

Never right?
For God's sake, she'd been widowed and abandoned by her staff, and the time was never right to ask for help? “Mrs. Crenshaw—”

“I was unwell,” she interrupted. “Andrew's death was such a shock—I fell ill. And then…” Her voice trailed off, and whatever she had been about to say was lost. “But I'm better now. In fact, I plan on closing up the house and returning to London next month, when the roads will be passable and when I'm feeling stronger.” But the words came far too smoothly, too practiced, and her eyes lifted to his, as if searching for proof that he believed her. “And now you know everything.”

That
was a laugh. He'd barely scratched the surface of the secrets being kept here.

“As you can see, there's nothing to concern you, but I cannot accommodate guests. Nor do I feel up to traveling…even as much as I want to see Thomas.” An aching grief passed over her face before she averted her eyes, and she drew a shaking breath, her hands wrapping in her skirt. “So when will you be leaving, Major?”

“Tomorrow.” He stared at her, grimly noting all the obvious signs of fear and unease she so openly displayed. “First light.”

Her shoulders sagged, and a soft sigh of relief escaped her. “I'll have Yardley bring the letter to you at the inn—”

“Oh, no,” he interrupted with a forced calmness he didn't feel. “You misunderstand me.”

Her eyes darted up to his. Sudden panic made their blue depths resemble a storm-tossed ocean. The tip of her tongue darted out nervously to wet her lips, and he watched, fascinated by the little movement. He placed his hand on the wall beside her shoulder and leaned in closer, close enough to see her pulse racing tantalizingly in the hollow at the base of her throat.

The brat
, he reminded himself again. Thomas's sister, which meant she was as good as a sister to him, too…a sister who just happened to have amazingly plump breasts.

“I'm not leaving without you.” He drew a deep breath to steady his concentration. “Hedley and I are spending the night here, and in the morning, you're coming with us to—”

With a frustrated groan, she shoved futilely at his shoulders. “Why won't you just trust me?”

His rising frustration matched hers as he ground out, “Because the last time we met, you nearly ‘trusted' me straight into a duel.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” The words poured from her with an angry groan. “How many more times will that kiss ruin my life?”

His head snapped back as if she'd slapped him. “
What?
”

Her hand flew to her mouth as she realized what she'd said, deep regret dancing in her wide eyes. “I'm so sorry,” she forced out, muffled between her fingers. “I didn't mean—oh, Grey…”

His eyes narrowed on her. She'd certainly meant it, all right. “The last time I saw you—” He angrily choked off. Lord, how this woman roiled his insides! One moment, the minx had him wanting to strip her naked, the next he wanted to wring her little neck. “Damned stupid of us—of
me
—to let you talk me into…”
Christ!

He'd been kicked out of Ivy Glen, nearly lost Thomas's friendship—now the damned woman had the nerve to blame
him
for ruining her life?

“Forget it, Emily. Please.” He'd certainly done his best to do just that, until Thomas sent him here, apparently straight into hell after all. “I'm still being punished for it by your parents. I don't deserve to be punished by you, too.”

She gaped at him. “Punished—
you
? When
I
was sent—” She stopped, her eyes narrowing curiously on the bewildered look he gave her. Remorse darkened her face as she asked quietly, “You truly don't know? Thomas never told you?”

“Told me what?” He sighed heavily, wanting nothing more than to put the past behind them for good, get on the road to London, and leave for Spain, where he already should have been. “He said you went off to school, then got married.”

And widowed last fall. Was that what was wrong? His heart skipped. Was all this emotion because she was still grieving her late husband?

“Emily,” he pleaded, his voice gentling, “tell me what's wrong so I can help you.”

She hesitated, an expression of such grief and fear dashing across her face that he lost his breath. For one moment her lips parted, and she looked pleadingly at him for understanding, as if she wanted to unburden herself—

Then her mouth snapped shut, the veil once more falling over her face.

She arched a brow. “You won't leave here without me?” she asked, veering the conversation back to their standoff.

“No,” he answered firmly.

“Then we seem to have a problem, Major.” Indignantly, she pushed him back and stepped past. “Because I'm not going anywhere!”

Clenching his jaw so tightly that the muscle twitched in his cheek, he watched her bend over to pick up the hunting gun she'd used to shoot at him. Then she walked away toward the house.

“You don't have a choice,” he called out to her retreating back. He'd shove her into a carriage and drive away with her inside if it came to that.