The Rogue's Proposal (15 page)

She gazed up at his stubbly jaw. “Can you sleep?”

He gave a low chuckle. “Probably.”

“Mmm.”

They were silent for long moments, and a languid, heavy drowsiness spread through
Emma.

“Luke?”

“Hmm?”

“It was…perfect.”

And she drifted into oblivion.

L
uke awoke with a start in the middle of the night. But it wasn’t a nightmare that
woke him this time. He kept his eyes closed, remembering Emma’s lips closing over
his cock in his dream.

He was as hard as a rock.

Emma stirred beside him. She was turned away, and her delectable backside brushed
against his aching flesh.

The force of need came on him with brutal ferocity. He wanted her. He needed to be
inside her.

He slid his hand over her buttocks. She wiggled against him. God, she was so damned
receptive to him. Even in sleep.

It was completely shocking. Almost bewildering.

He reached between her cheeks gently, smoothing his hand at first softly, then exerting
more pressure. He stroked her in long, slow glides. She was still wet from their last
joining, but as he stroked, she grew wetter. Her breathing changed, and she hummed
a little on her exhales, making little
Mmm
sounds as her body moved against his hand.

Everything about this woman was so beautiful.

He lifted her leg with one hand and with the other guided his cock into her.

She gave a soft moan as he slid home.

He pressed his lips to the back of her head. “Am I hurting you?”

“Luke,” she moaned. He’d stilled within her, and she wiggled her hips in frenetic
movements, mimicking the thrusting action. “More.”

“Shhh, Em. Be still. I’ll give you what you want.”

She quieted instantly, and he thrust in and out of her in long, deep, slow drags.
She was burning hot. A wet glove that closed around him in a tight fist that made
him clench his teeth so his breath hissed out from between them.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, clutching her tight against him. Her body molded
perfectly to his in this position. His lower stomach touched her round arse each time
he pushed deeply into her.

He buried his nose in her hair, smelling that delicious lavender-tinged feminine scent
of hers. His eyes sank shut, and he pressed his lips to the back of her head.

There was nothing like being inside Emma. Being close to her this way. It was a feeling
as close to perfection as he’d ever come.

She was making little whimpering noises now. God, he loved the sounds that she made.
He loved that she was vocal. He loved that she showed him her reaction to him by the
noises she made as well as by the movements of her body.

So—
thrust
—damn—
thrust
—responsive.

She was tightening around him. So tight. She was going to squeeze him to oblivion.
To heaven.

“Emma,” he murmured into her hair, releasing a husky word with every thrust, “my sweet.
My angel.”

Her groans were drawing out, becoming longer, more pronounced. He crossed his arm
over her chest, reveling in the heavy, soft feel of her breast against his forearm.

He was going to come soon. Spirals of pleasure wrapped around the base of his spine,
tugging from his cock all the way through him, tightening.
Hell.
The pleasure. It would destroy him. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips and nose
into the thick fall of her hair again, finding the back of her neck with his tongue
and pressing little licking kisses there.

She was moving now, her body undulating, her muscles tautening under his arm and against
his chest and stomach.

Holy hell. Was she going to come? Again? He’d done so little to prepare her…

And she did. With a harsh gasp, she clamped over him, her body rigid, and then squeezing
him in rhythmic pulses that drove him mad. He wanted to come, too. He needed to. He
wanted to pour himself deep, deep inside her. But he wouldn’t—
couldn’t
—risk her that way.

He clenched his teeth and willed himself to see her through it this time. His arm
remained wrapped around her tightly. He nipped her neck, whispering encouraging words
to her. “Yes, Em, that’s it. Come for me. Hell, that feels so good. Yes. Yessss…”

Ever so slowly, her muscles relaxed, going limp against him. The contractions of her
sex slowed, then abated. But he kept up his rhythm throughout, and now he sped up,
thrusting into her hard and fast. She was open to him, accepting, taking everything
he had to give.

Her hand closed over the forearm clasped around her, a simple but meaningful gesture.
It was a gesture of oneness, of acceptance. To him, it meant everything. He thrust
furiously. The pleasure built and tightened, and then he yanked himself out of her
just in time, dragging her hard against him.

When it was over, he stayed there. He liked how her arse cheeks cradled his cock.
She was so soft and feminine, yet strong and courageous at the same time.

As he drifted back to sleep, he thought that perhaps it wasn’t so impossible for him
to love after all.

They were able to get an early start the next day, but ominous clouds had rolled in
and gathered over the Pentland Hills. Luke pushed the horses because he had a bad
feeling about the weather, and indeed, it began to rain at about noon. It started
as a slow drizzle, but two hours later, it had turned into a downpour. The road had
grown muddy, and Luke had had to slow the horses significantly, negotiating them around
puddles and areas of deep mud.

As Luke had climbed into the curricle this morning, he’d hesitated, his gaze scanning
over it. The poor vehicle had seen better days. It had already been well used and
a touch shabby when Luke had purchased it in Bristol. Now it was mud-caked and scratched,
its cushion torn in at least three places. Still, those defects were cosmetic. Every
day he checked its shaft, axle, undercarriage, and wheels thoroughly before driving,
and all of those parts appeared intact and strong. Despite its currently less-than-elegant
appearance, it had proved to be a sturdy vehicle.

He glanced at Emma. She’d been right—although they’d raised the hood at the first
hint of rain, they were both soaked through. He hoped the boot hadn’t sprung a leak,
otherwise all their luggage would be soaked, too.

Clumps of wet copper-brown hair hung down from her bonnet strings, and she wiped a
stream of water from her cheek with the back of her hand. Feeling his eyes on her,
she turned to him.

He’d half expected her to be angry and sullen at this uncomfortable turn of events,
but she grinned at him.

“Wet,” she said, her voice raised above the patter of rain on the hood.

“Extremely,” he agreed. He sighed. “We’re going to have to stop for the day, I think.
The road is too muddy.” The last thing he wanted was to drive the curricle into a
mud bank.

“Yes. That would probably be a good idea. Those poor horses.”

He glanced at the beasts—they had been in fine form this morning but were now bedraggled
and miserable-looking.

This had not been the plan—they had just crossed over the border into England. He’d
intended to cover another thirty miles or so. “Do you know of an inn?”

She shook her head. “And I daren’t take out
Paterson’s
Itinerary
now. I’ll ruin it and then we’ll never find our way to London.”

He chuckled. Of course that wasn’t true. Almost all roads led to London, and even
if they chanced upon one that didn’t, there were always villages, towns, houses, farms.
People to ask.

He’d learned, on their travels so far, that Emma disliked asking people for help in
that way. She’d much prefer to manage their course on her own.

“All right,” he said mildly, and he continued to drive. Soon they entered the bustling
little town of Berwick-upon-Tweed. Luke drew the horses to a stop at the first person
he saw, a man huddled in an oil-slicked coat, and asked where he might find the nearest
lodgings. The man directed him to the King’s Arms two minutes away.

When he started the horses again, he slid a glance toward Emma. “See, now that wasn’t
so difficult, was it?”

She made a little growly noise, and he laughed. “Are you pouting, Mrs. Curtis?”

She gave him a very dry look. “I do not pout, Lord Lukas. Surely we could have found
the inn on our own. Look”—she gestured at the stone building where they’d stopped—“we
are already here.”

And so they were. They performed the tasks they’d become accustomed to over the days—Emma
directing the luggage while Luke dealt with stabling the horses.

They planned to stay in Berwick-upon-Tweed for one night. What they didn’t know then
was that the rain wouldn’t let up for five days.

Five cold, wet, long days.

Five glorious days, in a small inn in a small town, with nothing for Luke to do except
keep Emma occupied…in bed.

On the third morning, she woke, slipped her nightgown over her naked body, and padded
to the window, crossing her arms over her chest and shivering a little.

Luke gazed at her, focused on the curve of her bottom through the thin fabric.

She cracked open the curtain and stared outside, sighing heartily. “It’s pouring,
and the sky is a most uniform, most dreary color.”

“Gray?” he supplied helpfully.

She sighed again. “Yes. Gray.” She turned to him. “What are we going to do?”

He gave her a wicked smile. “I’ve some ideas.”

“You don’t think we should push forward?”

He sobered. “No. Too dangerous.” For the horses, the carriage, and for her health.
As much as he wanted—needed—to find Morton and his mother, he didn’t want to repeat
her getting soaked through again. He wouldn’t risk her getting ill.

When had Emma Curtis’s well-being become his primary concern? He wondered this vaguely
as she approached the bed and sat on its edge.

He laid his hand on her thigh. After so long forcing himself not to touch her, now
he couldn’t seem to get enough of touching her.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured.

Her teeth closed over her lower lip. “I feel like…like I should be doing something.
Something that will help us find Morton.”

“There’s nothing to do. Not here. Not now.”

Her brow furrowed. “How long do you think it will be before the rain stops?”

He shrugged, tugged her onto the bed. She allowed him to arrange her limbs into a
comfortable position, then he said, “I’ve waited six months to find my mother. You’ve
waited a year to find Morton. As much as I want to find her, I know by now that a
few rainy days won’t make a difference in the grand scheme.”

She sighed and turned to face him. “You’re right.”

He traced the edge of her face with his fingertips, pushing away the hair that had
fallen over her cheek. “Are you still so eager to kill him?”

“Morton?” Her lips firmed, and he saw the shadows pass behind her eyes. “Yes. Perhaps
even more so now.”

“Do you mean that literally?” he asked softly. “Would you hold a pistol to his head
and pull on the trigger?”

“Y—”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Murder, Emma. Are you truly capable of it, or is
it your anger speaking?”

Her breath whispered over his finger as she exhaled, and her eyes sank shut. He could
tell she was picturing in her mind what it would actually be like to murder a man,
because she shuddered. “He destroyed my family.”

“Yes.”

“I want him to suffer for what he’s done. I want him to pay. But…” She opened her
eyes and looked at him, her golden gaze flat in the dim gray light. “I don’t know
if I could really kill him.”

He slid his arm over her stomach. “I don’t want you risking yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s dangerous. He’s a murderer and a thief. I won’t have you recklessly putting
yourself into danger for that man.”

“I—”

He tightened his hand around her waist, holding her protectively. “I won’t risk you,
Em.” In that moment, Luke knew that if Morton threatened Emma’s safety in any way,
he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the man himself.

She sighed, and they lay in silence for a long moment. He let his hand trail up and
down the curve of her waist.

“Can you sleep?” she eventually murmured.

Coming out of the haze of desire that touching her had evoked, he blinked at her,
then chuckled. “Sleep? Did you really think I had sleep on my mind?”

Her expression relaxed. “Well…I wasn’t sure…”

“Be sure,” he said softly. “If there have been more than a few hours since the last
time I had you, having you again will always be what’s foremost on my mind.”

“That’s nonsense,” she murmured. “It is new for us both now. But it won’t always be
like this.”

“Why not?” he asked her. He couldn’t even conceive of growing tired of this woman.

“It never is.”

“How can you know that?”

She gave him a half-smile. “I suppose I don’t. But I thought that was the way of it.
Especially for men like you.”

“Men like me?”

“Rakes. Scoundrels. Rogues.” The words emerged in that low, whisky-smooth voice of
hers that stroked along his nerves. That was one thing he’d never get enough of, for
certain: her voice.

“Is that what you think I am? A rogue?”

“I know that’s what you are. I’ve known that from the moment you looked at me over
that glass of ale.”

“But you know me better now. Your opinion hasn’t changed?”

“My opinion of you has changed in many respects, but in that one, no. In fact, I do
believe you are more of a rogue than I originally thought.”

“If I’m not mistaken, you seem pleased by that.”

She laughed softly. As always, his body responded to that sound.

“I suppose I am pleased by it.” Her eyes flashed at him in a wicked glint. “My lord.”

“Why?” he asked her.

The slightest tinge of pink infused her cheeks. “You know why.”

“Perhaps. But I want to hear it.”

She licked her lips, the action so erotic his breath caught. “Very well,” she said
in that soft, rasping voice. She was silent for a moment, then said, “I thought rogues
were men who took what they wanted from the world with no regard for the people they
hurt.”