Along Came a Rogue (8 page)

“What about him?” he demanded. He didn't give a damn about her husband.

“His death wasn't an accident,” she admitted in a whisper so low he barely heard it.

“What do you mean?” Confusion pulsed through him.

She opened her eyes and stared at him. The raw fear he saw in her was so intense, so monstrous that it ripped his breath away—

“He was murdered.”

Christ.
He remained perfectly still, not letting his expression register his shock. He stared at her closely, gauging the emotions on her face, remembering the fear he'd seen in her eyes and the loaded pistols she apparently kept in every room of the house.

For once, she wasn't lying.

“How?” he asked as gently as possible.

“He went out riding, and when he didn't come back, the grooms went after him. They found him in a field. His skull…” She shook her head, unable to offer more.

His heart tore for her, knowing the pain she suffered but also knowing he had to uncover more in order to help her. “Riding accidents are common.” He loosened his hold on her hands, just enough that she could sit back, but he didn't let go. If he gave in now to those soft pleadings of hers, he might never learn the truth. “What makes you think it anything more?”

“Andrew was a solid rider,” she explained. “Not as good as you and Thomas, but he never would have fallen off like that. If the horse rolled over on him or broke its leg…but to just fall off an unharmed horse in the middle of a flat field—never.”

He squeezed her fingers. Sorrow swelled inside him that she'd lost her husband, that she was so desperate to find a reason for her loss that she clung to the possibility of murder. “It happens sometimes, even to the best riders.”

She gave a faint shake of her head, as if she'd pondered that very thing every day since he died. “How does a man fall from a horse hard enough to crush his skull but not get a smudge of dirt on his clothes?”

His heart skipped. He didn't have an answer for that.

“Whoever killed him didn't chase him down, didn't attack him,” she continued, her fingers tightening around his. “Whoever it was talked him down from the horse, I'm certain of it. Andrew knew and trusted him. Which means I most likely know and trust him.” Then she whispered, so softly he could barely hear her, “Which means I can't trust anyone.”

When she raised her eyes to his, the fear was gone, replaced by a deep fatigue and firm resolve, an expression that was almost emotionless now that she'd confessed this secret to him. She was completely drained yet forced herself to endure. He'd seen that same expression on the faces of the war wounded, of civilians forced to flee from their homes, of old soldiers who had served too long in the heat of battle—it was the look of survival.

“I know you must think me an utter bedlamite,” she continued, “shooting guns at you, claiming my husband was murdered when I have no real proof…but I'm not mad, Grey.” She jutted her chin into the air with grim determination. “I
know
my husband was murdered.”

“But why?” He shook his head gently with disbelief. “Emily, what you're saying—”

“Because Andrew became the heir apparent to Alistair Crenshaw, Marquess of Dunwich,” she poured out in a rush, yet so softly whispered that he barely heard her over the rolling wheels beneath them. “That's why he was killed.”

She pulled away. This time, stunned by that news, he let her go.

He stared across the dimly lit compartment at her.
Impossible.
Of course, stories littered English history of men who committed fratricide and patricide in order to inherit titles and of women who killed to become heiresses. But to murder Andrew Crenshaw, a man few people in London knew existed and even fewer cared about…no. Her grief over losing her husband had made her irrational, that was all.

“At the time your husband died, no one knew who was in line to inherit,” he explained gently. “Even the Committee for Privileges didn't know.” Or the gossip of that would have poured through London like a spring rain.

“Someone knew,” she assured him. “They've known for six months.”

“Tell me.”

She drew a deep breath. “It started right before Andrew was killed, strange happenings around the estate…a stray bullet from a hunter hit the carriage, a footman who fell down the stairs swore he'd been pushed, food was poisoned…” She held her arms wrapped against her lower stomach, as if trying to hold and comfort herself. “At the time no one thought they were anything more than just accidents.”

“Then your husband died,” he murmured, “and you began to suspect they were more than coincidental.”

She nodded. “A month later I received a letter from Dunwich's attorney, stating that Andrew was the new heir—they hadn't heard that he'd died. He was a distant cousin, you see, so I never thought to send word to that branch of the Crenshaws. But I knew when I saw that letter what happened to him and why.”

“And the accidents?”

“They stopped when he was killed.” Her blue eyes glowed bright even in the darkness. “Until tonight.”

His blood turned cold. He understood now why she'd pleaded with him so fiercely to leave, why there had been such fear in her eyes when he'd refused. Whoever had caused the accidents and murdered her husband was still there, still watching her, and whoever it was thought Grey was a threat. Enough of a potential risk that he'd set the house on fire to try to kill them both.

“That's why I wanted you to leave,” she whispered and looked down at her trembling hands in her lap. “I couldn't bear it if—” The words choked her. Turning her face toward the shadows, she breathed out softly, “I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you because of me.”

His chest tightened with wrenching regret. He'd been wrong about her, so very wrong…He'd thought she was simply a coldhearted harridan who couldn't be bothered with her brother when she'd actually been going through hell. Alone and isolated in the countryside, she'd been dealing not only with the grief of her husband's murder but also the terror of knowing that whoever did it might come after her.

No wonder she needed brandy to help her sleep and kept a loaded pistol in her sitting room. No wonder she'd shot at them when they arrived.
Good God.
For the past five months, she must have felt as if she were being hunted.

But now she had him. And he would protect her the same way he'd always protected her brother. With his life.

He held open his arms. “Come here, brat.”

Emily stared at him as he waited for her, his arms wide in invitation, and the emotions churned inside her.

For so long, she'd been alone. First during those long years at school when she'd never fit in and made no friends, then even after her marriage, when she'd lost both her husband and her brother. All alone and isolated…until today, when Thomas sent Grey to her.

Nathaniel Grey. More than loneliness drew her to him. It was
all
of him—the way his grin warmed her insides, how she could talk to him so easily, how he made her laugh even when she was so furious with him that she wanted to throttle him. She admired most of all the fight he possessed, the determination to carve out a better life than fate had given him. She was even attracted to the vulnerability she glimpsed in him, that vulnerability he tried so hard to hide from the world beneath his devil-may-care veneer.

She nearly laughed that the same man who inadvertently caused her loneliness was now the same man offering to rescue her from it by taking her into his arms. And oh, how badly she wanted to let him! Yet she was still keeping secrets, and how furious would he be when he learned the truth? She'd told him about Andrew, but nothing else had changed. And every minute she spent with him only continued to put his life in danger.

But for now, they were safe, and finally, he was hers.

Slowly, she reached out her hand, and he took it to help her across the bouncing carriage to sit beside him. When his strong arms folded around her to draw her close, she melted against his chest and closed her eyes.

So warm and strong, his arms encircling protectively around her—for a moment, she did nothing but let herself
feel
. And sweet heavens, how good he felt! The strong heartbeat beneath her fingertips as her hand rested on his chest and the steady rise and fall of his deep breaths soothed her more than she could ever have imagined, and when he placed a tender kiss at her temple, she trembled.

“Are you chilled?” he murmured against her hair, misreading her reaction.

He released her and moved across the swaying compartment to pull up the other bench seat and reach inside the box for a lap rug. He found one and tucked it around her like a blanket. She couldn't help but smile at that. They were fleeing through the dark night for their lives, but he was worried she might be chilled.

He knelt on the floor and looked up at her, his eyes solemn with concern. “How are your feet?” he asked gently. “Did you burn them?”

She shook her head. “They're just a bit tender, that's all.”

Dubious of her assessment, he reached down to her bare foot where it peeked out from beneath the singed hem of her dressing robe, and she caught her breath as his large hand folded warmly around her ankle so he could examine it in the dim light of the carriage lamps. When his fingertips stroked carefully over her sole, soothingly drawing curving circles against her skin, she closed her eyes with a sigh. Having his hands on her, even in such an innocent touch, felt so good that she could barely sit still.

He released her left foot and reached for the right, to again trace his fingers over her. But this time, she would have sworn that his hand reached further up her calf, that his fingers lingered longer against her skin. And this time, the feeling that warmed up her leg was anything but soothing.

He slipped his fingers between her toes.

She caught her breath in a trembling gasp.
Oh, sweet Lord!
He was slowly gliding his fingers
between her toes
in the most delicate caresses she'd ever felt in her life, and every inch of her tingled, electric. How was it possible that a simple foot rub could be so erotic? Or if his hands were all the way down on her toes, how she could feel each slow, slippery slide of his fingers ache all the way up between her thighs?

She swallowed, afraid he might feel her trembling again and wrongly think she was in pain. Or worse, to think that she was some shameless wanton, so easily titillated…even if she was. Because no matter how much she wanted him—and heaven help her, she wanted him desperately—some lines could not be crossed now. Not even with Grey.

“No burns, then?” she forced out, as lightly as she could, yet her voice still sounded husky to her own ears.

“Nothing serious.” He caressed his fingertips along the bottom of her foot in soft, slow circles. “But I'll examine them again in the morning to be certain.”

If this was how it felt to be examined, she didn't think she could endure it a second time. Not without insisting that he examine all of her with those wonderful fingers of his, just as slowly, just as tantalizingly…She nodded tightly. “If you insist.”

He sat next to her and took her back into his arms, angling his long legs across the compartment to give her as much room as possible. Even this small gesture made her eyes sting with gratitude at his thoughtfulness.

He tucked a curl behind her ear. “Close your eyes, brat,” he urged, “and try to rest. I'll watch over you.”

I'll watch over you…
If only it were that simple, she thought sadly. But at least for this night, she could let someone else take care of her.

With a sigh, she laid her head against his chest and closed her eyes. Rocked by the swaying carriage and lulled by his heartbeat in the darkness, she fell asleep in his arms.

T
he next afternoon, Emily lay curled up like a cat on the bench next to Grey, her head resting against his shoulder and his arm lying lazily across her back. Since leaving Snowden, she'd spent the night and most of the next day sleeping. She hadn't realized how exhausted she'd truly been until she had this opportunity to sleep, safe and protected. Yet she'd rested more peacefully than she'd ever imagined possible in such a cramped position in a cold, bouncing carriage while the dark day grew more and more chilly and wet around them.

All thanks to Grey. Whenever he brushed his hand over her back or shoulder, or took the liberty of tucking a stray curl behind her ear, the gentle touches comforted her and nearly lulled her back to sleep. Oh, she could easily grow used to this.

A sigh of contented relaxation escaped her, the soft sound earning her another stroke of his hand down her back.
Very easily.

The day hadn't been all silence, though. Between naps, they talked comfortably like old friends. He was fascinating, even more so than she remembered because the years had tempered his brash personality and given him a maturity she found intriguing. He told her stories about Spain and the War Office, but she noticed that he never shared anything from his childhood or the days before he joined the army. While that hadn't surprised her, it hurt her more than she wanted to admit that he didn't trust her with that part of his life.

In her turn, she described childhood adventures with Thomas, the two of them often ganging up on helpless tutors and nannies, and how he taught her how to ride and shoot as well as the boys. She shared her old dream of being an artist and even described her school days, although hiding most of the bad incidents and injecting far more happiness into the telling than she'd ever felt as a pupil. Whenever Grey asked about her life since she'd married, though, she answered in such a vague manner that he wouldn't be able to draw any definite conclusions. She wasn't yet ready to talk about her marriage. Not even with him.

She sat up and stretched, her muscles stiff from the ride. A glance outside at the sky confirmed that the weather hadn't improved.

“Are we going to stop for the night, or are we driving straight through again?” she asked, concerned both about being caught in a storm and about highwaymen.

“We'll stop.” He slid to the bench across from her to give her more room. “We're far enough away now to be safe, and Hedley needs to rest.”

“Of course.” They'd stopped just before dawn at an inn to change out teams, to buy food, and apparently, as she discovered when Grey came back to the carriage with a greatcoat for himself and a pair of shoes for her, to literally buy the clothes off the innkeeper's back. Grey sent word back to Yardley for the maid to travel to London and meet Emily at Chatham House, and Hedley hired a man to be a second driver so that he and Grey could rest between turns in the driver's seat. After only a short break, they'd driven on, to put as much distance as possible between themselves and whoever tried to burn them alive.

Emily could use a night at an inn, too. Despite the naps, her aching body craved the softness of a mattress, and her belly longed for a hot meal.

She sighed gratefully. “I never suspected the thought of spending the night at a posting inn could be so appealing.”

“A hot meal, a warm hearth,” he drawled as he arched a sardonic brow, “and a room that doesn't burn down around you in the middle of the night?”

“Heavenly!”

As she laughed softly, he grinned at her, his eyes sparkling even in the dim blue-gray light of the rainy day. His smile cascaded through her, all the way down to the singed tips of her toes.
Oh my.
It warmed her from the inside out, the way no blanket ever could.

She cleared her throat and glanced out the window to distract herself from how appealing he looked, all travel-rumpled and unshaven, but the mud-streaked glass made it impossible to see anything. “Do you think—”

The vehicle lurched, the wheels stopping so suddenly that she sailed off the leather-cushioned seat and across the compartment, straight toward him.

With a fluid motion, he caught her and pulled her down onto his lap. She gasped in surprise and threw her arms around his neck.

They'd stopped. Everything around them came to a sudden halt. Except her heart, which now pounded so fiercely she was certain he could hear it. Or worse. That with her body pressed against his like this that he'd be able to feel it.

His mouth hovered close to hers, their eyes level as she sat perched precariously across his thighs with her arms wrapped around his neck. Her heart began to beat impossibly faster.

“Are you all right?” he murmured, his eyes flicking down to stare at her mouth before glancing back up to hers.

As the heat of his breath fanned her cheek, she nodded jerkily. “I'm the one who landed on you.” She forced a nervous smile, as if sitting on the lap of a handsome army major was the most ordinary thing in the world. But she'd die of mortification if he ever suspected the fluttering for him low in her stomach or how her breasts grew heavy as they brushed unintentionally against his chest. “Are
you
all right?”

“Just fine,” he answered, although she could have sworn she saw a fleeting grimace of pain on his face. “Perhaps I should check outside to see—”

With another swaying lurch that once again left her clinging to him to keep from falling, the carriage rolled forward.

“What happened?” she whispered.

Her cheek brushed against his. At the delicious sensation of his beard stubble scratching her skin, a tingle swept through her, landing straight between her thighs and blossoming the intimate ache growing there. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember to breathe.

“We're moving again.” His voice tickled her ear, making her tremble. “We must have been stuck.” But his arms didn't loosen their hold around her, his hands on her back didn't drop away. The warmth of his body seeped through her thin dressing robe and stirred a prickling heat beneath her skin that made her remember how good it felt to be in a man's arms, to have her body pressed hotly against another's.

“Oh.” Suddenly her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips to wet them.

“Mrs. Crenshaw,” he rasped out hoarsely.

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat. “You're still sitting on my lap.”

“Oh!”

Embarrassed, she tried to scoot away, but her off-balance position worked against her. Her feet failed to find purchase on the floor, and she could do nothing more than wiggle her bottom against his thighs.

And he wasn't helping. Instead of setting her on her feet, Grey sucked in a mouthful of air between clenched teeth and just sat there, his body stiffening.

“Emily,” he ground out.

“I'm trying, but I can't get my balance to—”

“
Stop
wiggling!”

She froze.

Slowly, she raised her gaze to look at him. And lost her breath. “Oh,” she whispered, her swirling mind unable to think of anything else except the raw desire she saw in his eyes. She nervously licked her lips again, and this time, when his gaze fell to her mouth, he didn't look away.

Her heart pounded fiercely now for a whole new reason. Grey wanted her…didn't he?

Oh, she simply didn't know! What she knew about men could fit on the head of a pin, and even that had proved so very wrong before.

But she understood Grey now, knew what kind of man he was and what goodness lay in his heart. If he could make her lips tingle with only his hot gaze, then
surely
…

Or surely
not
. Because he hadn't tried to lay a hand on her, not once during all this time they'd been alone. For heaven's sake! They'd been more intimate five years ago when he'd given her that first kiss. And even now confusion poured through her at the way he stared at her mouth so longingly but made no move to kiss her.

Blast it!
Did the infuriating man want her or not?

Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, she gave a little wiggle. Just a small, teasing movement of her bottom against his hard thighs to test his reaction—

With a curse beneath his breath, he grabbed her waist and forced her to sit still. But she felt him tremble, his breath growing shallow and shaky. And she knew for certain…she
knew
—he wanted her! After all these years, she could barely dare to believe it, but the rush of empowerment was intoxicating, the electric thrill that pulsed through her simply delicious. For the first time in two years she felt alive and feminine, alluring and beautiful, and all because of him.

“Nathaniel,” she whispered.

“Mrs. Crenshaw,” he forced out between clenched teeth.

She smiled at the contradiction of this man, of the gentleman and the rake warring inside him. So
this
was how it was going to be, was it? The gentleman in him was clinging to some misplaced vow he must have made to Thomas not to touch her or to some code of honor among army comrades. But the rake wanted her, she saw it in his eyes—for God's sake, she felt it pressing hard against her bottom!—but he wouldn't let himself act on that desire.

Perhaps, she admitted to herself with a pang of disappointment, it was better if he didn't. No matter how much she wanted him, she couldn't reveal herself completely. The danger to all of them was still too great.

But that didn't mean she couldn't tease him just a bit and make him finally admit that he'd been wrong to ignore her for the past five years, that she was far more now than just the girl he'd kissed in the garden and so quickly forgot. And anyway, they were in a carriage, for goodness' sake; it wasn't as if anything truly intimate could happen here.

Oh yes. It was time for another lesson.

“Emily,” she corrected, then audaciously slid her fingers through the hair at his nape. Goodness, how soft it felt when the rest of his body was so gloriously hard. “My name is Emily.”

“Mrs. Crenshaw,” he returned tightly.

Fighting back a smile of amusement, she twirled his hair around her fingers and asked with false innocence, “Am I too heavy for you?”

A pained expression of half desire, half annoyance darkened his face. “No.”

“Did I hurt you when I fell on you?” She trailed her fingers along his jaw to his chin.

“No,” he repeated, but this time, his voice hitched.

“Hmm.” Her eyes stared at his sensuous mouth as she daringly brushed her thumb across his bottom lip, earning her a sharp inhalation of his breath. The ache inside her grew hotter, and all the blood in her body seemed to pool between her thighs. She was doing this to teach him a lesson, but if she wasn't careful, she'd be schooled herself on the lessons of playing with fire. “Is it uncomfortable having me on your lap?”

“Very,” he bit out.

Laughing softly at that, she leaned against him to lightly brush her breasts against his chest, and when he shuddered, she thrilled with her newfound power over him. She knew she should stop, knew she was flirting with danger even now, but she'd wanted this moment too much, and for too many years, to stop now.

She pressed her lips to his neck, to that spot she'd longed to kiss since last night when he entered her sitting room with his shirt neck falling open, and rained soft kisses across his skin. He groaned, and she couldn't help but wonder…who would win, the gentleman or the rake?

“If I'm making you uncomfortable,” she taunted against his neck in a sultry whisper as she yearned for his kiss, to be in his arms as his lips captured hers, “then perhaps you should do something about it.”

“All right.”

Without warning, he lifted her from his lap and set her down on the opposite bench with a teeth-jarring thud.

“There.” He sat back and folded his arms across his chest, glowering at her. “Now I've done something about it.”