The Rogue's Proposal (16 page)

“They do,” he said softly. He knew that firsthand.

She pressed a finger to his lips.

“But I’ve learned there are different kinds of rogues. There are those who behave
like that. There are those who pretend to be rogues but are really gentlemen at heart—”

He raised his brows in disbelief. “You believe I am one of them?”

“Not at all.” Her lips curled seductively. “You are the third kind.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“The true rogue. The man who lives by his own rules and refuses to be cowed.”

She said it with such pride, like that was the kind of man she admired above all.

“The kind of man who follows his heart, who takes risks.” She reached up and touched
his cheek.

He captured her wrist in his hand, pulling it down but keeping it firmly clasped in
his own. “And that’s me?”

“Mmm. Yes.”

“Stay here,” he ordered. He slipped out of bed and found his cravat lying over the
back of the chair, tucked underneath his trousers. He pulled it free and returned
to the bed.

She gazed at him, all innocent freshness, but her words belied her expression. “What
are you going to do with
that
, my lord?”

He grinned. “Hmm. I think you’re growing too cocky. And do you know what happens when
my woman grows too cocky?”

“Nooo…” She stretched out the word, her eyes riveted to the cravat dangling from his
hand.

He went onto the bed and on his knees beside her. Bending down close to her ear, he
whispered, “I teach her her place.”

“My place? Where’s my place, my lord?”

“Under me,” he growled. He captured her wrists and wrapped the cravat around them
in one full loop but not tying it.

“Do you like to be bound, Mrs. Curtis?” he asked, mimicking the question he’d asked
her on that first night in Bristol.

Her eyes flicked from her wrists, where he held the cravat, to his face. “I…I don’t
know,” she whispered. “I’ve never been bound.”

“But you need to be, don’t you?”

“I…” She swallowed. He studied her, trying to read her expression. Uncertainty or
anticipation? He wasn’t sure. He needed to be certain. “…don’t know,” she finished.

He bent down and kissed her, running his cravat loosely over her wrists so she’d feel
the rasp of the material against her skin.

“You’ll tell me if you’re scared. You’ll tell me if it hurts. You’ll tell me to stop,
if you need me to.”

“I will?” she breathed.

“Yes.”

“But I want you to go far,” she said shyly, blinking up at him.

After the last three days with her, he believed her. That tinge of fear still frayed
the edges of his consciousness—that worry that he’d do something to ruin everything.
But each time they made love, her enthusiasm and responsiveness shrank that fear.

He leaned down and licked the shell of her ear. “I’m going to take you hard, Em. Are
you ready to scream?”

He felt the tremor run through her body at his promise. And he gloried in it.

She didn’t answer. But then, he hadn’t expected her to. He ran his lips over her ear,
down her jaw and the silky slope of her neck. She tasted so damn good. She could make
him forget everything.

Rising back up onto his knees, he secured her wrists in front of her. He knotted the
cravat tightly, knowing it would make indentations in the lovely, soft flesh of her
wrists. He wanted to see those later. To have her bear his marks on her flesh.

“There.” He glanced up at her face. Her eyes were closed. “Keep your hands right there,
Em. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

She took a shaky breath. But she complied.

“Good,” he murmured in approval. She was compliant, hot, responsive.

His cock was pulsing with burning, demanding need.

Yanking up her nightgown, he pushed his hand between her legs without preamble. She
was wet already. He groaned.

He grabbed her wrists with his free hand and pulled them over her head, tugging her
nightgown up her body until her breasts were exposed. They beckoned him, so full and
soft, with puckered pink nipples begging for his mouth.

With one hand stroking between her legs and the other pinning her wrists above her
head, Luke bent down and suckled her sweet, taut nipples, one at a time. Licking,
nibbling, tasting. So soft, so good. He could lose himself in her breasts.

Vaguely, he heard her panting. “Luke,” she whispered. “Please, Luke.”

He continued making love to her soft flesh, pushing his thumb inside her tight channel.
She gasped with pleasure, thrusting her body against him.

“Shhh,” he told her. “Be still. Just feel, Em. That’s all I want you to do. Feel.”

With a small whimper, she relaxed. He licked up the side of her breast, rubbed his
lips over the tight nub of her nipple. He thrust his thumb in and out of her, reveling
in the slick, hot clasp of her body.

But his body was making demands of its own, and they were growing more urgent by the
second. He pulled his hand away from her sex, giving it a light squeeze.

“Turn over,” he told her, his voice gruff.

She did as he told her, flipping onto her stomach without a word. Her immediate compliance
in bed always surprised him. When they weren’t naked, she was different—confident
and in charge. But then, when they weren’t naked, he was different, too. And he liked
her transformation. It suited his desires perfectly.

He looked down at her and swallowed. She lay before him like an offering, her hands
stretched overhead, bound by white linen. Her hair fanned in loose silken waves across
the pillow. Her head was turned to the side, and she faced him, gazing up at him with
complete trust in her gold-tinged eyes.

What the
devil
had he ever done to deserve such a look?

The way she offered herself was a precious gift, and unworthy as he was, he couldn’t
understand why she chose to give it. But what he did know was that he wanted to give
her a gift in return: the most pleasure he could possibly bestow.

Her back was smooth, her complexion a soft, uniform olive shade. There were two small
dimples above the cleft of her arse, and he bent down to press a kiss to each of them,
one at a time.

He lifted his head again, admiring the slope of her behind. Her curves were so generous.
Her breasts were large and firm, her hips narrow, her arse round and plump, her legs
long and well formed.

“You are so perfect,” he murmured.

“Luke,” she said on a sigh. He glanced at her face as she continued in a voice so
soft he had to strain to hear. “So are you.”

He closed his eyes. When such words came from her lips, he could almost believe.
Almost.

He trailed his hand down her spine, watching the shiver that chased it, and then he
palmed her cheek.

“Up on your knees,” he told her. “Keep your forearms on the bed.”

He helped her into the position, then studied her again. His hand wandered down to
his cock, and he gave it a few tugs, trying to give himself some relief as he studied
how her arse tilted in the air. Waiting. Ready for him. He glanced at her to find
her watching him ardently. Her gaze snagged his, and she licked her lips.

No more teasing. For her or for him. He needed her now.

He moved into position behind her, guided himself to her entrance. There was no preamble
this time. He thrust home in one hard push. She bucked, her spine curving.

Oh.
Yes.
She was on her knees, her bound arms in front of her, her head bowed. He bloody
loved
to see her like this.

He gripped her hips. Her skin was soft and warm under his. The curve of her supple
waist made perfect notches for his hands to hold her.

He thrust into her, her body caressing him in a silken glide.

“So good,” he told her. “You’re so tight and sweet around me.” At her low moan, he
added, “Yes, that’s right. Let me hear your pleasure.”

Soon, she began to buck and arch, her body slamming into his each time he pushed home.
That telltale clamping of her body around him told him she was going to come.

“Yes,” he encouraged. “You’re getting tighter.” He ground his teeth at the intensity,
trying to keep himself from exploding inside her. “You’re going to drive me mad, Em.”
He squeezed his fingers over her hips, directing her body’s movements against him.

Her breaths emerged in harsh “Ah! Ah! Ah!” sounds. Her back curved, then straightened.
Her forehead pressed into the bed. Her pelvis tilted back, allowing him the deepest
penetration possible.

And then her back arched and she threw her head back, and she came. Glorious pulses
of pleasure milking his cock.

Damn it. Damn it
, he thought to himself.
Wait. Wait, damn it.
He wanted to be inside her for the duration of her climax, but oh,
God
how he needed to come.

As soon as her tremors began to subside, he thrust hard into her, his fingers digging
into the soft flesh of her hips, his cock digging into the tight grip of her sex.

Once, twice, three times. And then he pulled out of her, wrapped one of his arms around
her while he braced his weight on the other, and shuddered out his release in the
cleft of her arse.

As his own tremors subsided, he collapsed to his side, clutching her against him.

With fumbling fingers, he untied her bonds. He blindly tossed aside the cravat, then
rubbed soothing fingers over the indentations it had left in her wrists.

“Mmm,” she said.

“Does that mean you do like being bound, Mrs. Curtis? Because I’ve asked you several
times now, and you’ve yet to respond.”

“Mmm,” she repeated. And then, a few moments later, she added in her low, sultry voice,
“Yes, Luke. I like being bound. I like it very, very much.”

O
ver the next few days, Luke made very good use of his cravat. And her stockings. And
the two yards of soft cotton rope he’d purchased at one of the stalls on the town’s
market day.

Emma really did like to be bound, he discovered. And he very much enjoyed tying her
up. He bound her wrists. Her ankles. He tied her to a chair and had his wicked way
with her. He secured her to the bedposts, spread for his pleasure—and hers. He wished
there was more furniture to experiment with, but alas, this was a simple country inn.

And she cried out his name. She screamed in ecstasy. She came more times than he could
count. And not once did she ask him to stop. He was fairly certain she never even
came close, even when her legs and arms were bound in intricate knots, precluding
her from moving at all.

Emma bound was a compelling erotic picture. It awed him. He’d bound women before.
Some women hated it—more than one had called him a bastard afterward. Some did seem
to enjoy it, but none to the extent Emma did. She seemed to revel in it; her skin
grew so sensitive that the merest touch sent her to shuddering and the softest stroke
made her come.

He’d never been more sexually sated. He’d never felt calmer. Those sharp edges within
him, the ones that seemed to scrape incessantly at him, had dulled to a low throb.

And yet, on their final night in Berwick-upon-Tweed, the plague of nightmares returned.

He’d fallen asleep after another bout of vigorous bed sport and had slept soundly
for several hours. Then it began.

Luke ran as fast as he could. Twigs and gravel crunched under his feet. He was near
the stream at Ironwood Park, trying to reach the forest, where he could find a place
to hide under the cover of the trees.

But it was no use. Fingers encircled his arm in thick, powerful bands, pulling him
back. And he looked into the angry, twisted face of his father. He smelled the sherry
on his father’s breath and winced. He hated the smell of sherry.

“How dare you run from me?” Papa growled.

Luke didn’t answer. He was too afraid to answer.

The duke moved even closer, his sharp green eyes seeming to dive into Luke’s soul.
“Look at you. You’ll never hide your true ugliness, Lukas, your inherent malevolent
nature. So stop bothering to try. You’ll never be anything like your brother. You
will never inherit, because you aren’t worthy. Do you hear me? You will never be worthy.
Never
.”

Why?
Luke always wanted to ask.
Why do you hate me so much? What have I done?

But he knew what he’d done. He existed. His very existence disgusted his father.

The duke sighed, and Luke winced. He knew what was coming. “Turn around. If you refuse
to banish the evil yourself, then I’ll need to beat it out of you.”

“No, Papa,” Luke whimpered, but his voice was so small compared to the booming, overpowering
voice of his father.

The duke shoved him to the ground, jerked his shirt up, raised the riding crop. Luke
curled up in a ball on the ground, but the crop was whistling through the air, coming
down to slice at his skin…

Luke’s body surged up to a seated position. He bent forward, gasping. His back stung
from the blow. Was he bleeding? He twisted his body, trying to see.

Gradually, he realized he was in bed. He wore his shirt, and it was damp from sweat,
not from blood. And Emma stirred beside him.

“What is it?” she murmured. “What’s wrong, Luke? Are you all right?”

Blast. He was shaking, he realized. Trembling from a childish fear of a man who’d
been dead for twenty years.

He can’t get to you now.

But his self-reassurance fell on deaf ears, as it always did.

“Luke?”

“Ah,” he said shakily. He couldn’t…stop…shaking. What was his problem? “Yes.”

She was more awake now. She rose to a sitting position beside him, laid her hand on
his shoulder. He tried not to flinch away. His skin felt raw. Like his flesh had just
been beaten to ribbons, even though he knew it was just a dream. He wasn’t hurt. He
wasn’t
.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m all right,” he growled. Lying, of course.

“No. You’re not all right.” Her voice was calm. Soothing. But something about it…
Pity
. He couldn’t do this right now. He’d shared so much with Emma—so much more than he
had with any other person. But there were places he couldn’t go, and this was one
of them.

He stumbled out of bed, trying to remember where he’d put his trousers and his coat,
fumbling around until he found them in the darkness.

“What are you doing?” Now she was beginning to sound alarmed.

“I need to go for a walk.”

“Luke, it’s the middle of the night. It’s all right…”

He struggled with the legs of his trousers, which he’d found on the floor. “No,” he
pushed out through his closing throat. “I need to walk. I’ll be back. Later.”

“Luke, don’t run away. Stay with me.”

His trousers weren’t buttoned properly, but he could hardly drag air into his lungs.
He had to get out of here. He grabbed his coat from the peg where it had been hanging,
took the key from the lock, then opened the door and went out into the corridor. He
struggled to get the key into the lock—his hands shook violently—but finally he locked
the door. He knew Emma hated being locked in, but if he couldn’t do anything else,
he’d take some steps—however weak and meaningless—to keep her safe.

Then he slumped against the door, closing his eyes, clenching his fist around the
key. He could breathe a little better out here in the darkened corridor.

He ran a rough hand through his hair, his fingers still shaking.

This was all an illusion, he realized. What he was doing with Emma. It was a teasing
taste of heaven, but it wasn’t real. Sooner or later he would need to run from his
demons again, only to be grabbed, reminded of his failings, and beaten into the dust.

And he had brought Emma into this mad world of his. He was destined to disappoint
her, ultimately hurt her. It was inevitable. He always hurt the people he cared about.
Like his mother. Like Trent.

He straightened on unsteady legs and made his way downstairs. He wished the tavern
was open, but it was too late—or too early, he supposed. There would be no drink to
help him soften those cutting edges tonight.

He walked down the corridor of the silent inn and burst outside into the misty street.
A thin layer of snow whitened the street. Winter was definitely on its way.

At least it had stopped raining.

Emma couldn’t sleep after Luke left. She lay there for what felt like hours, staring
at the ceiling. Wondering what he’d dreamed about. He wouldn’t tell her. Should she
try to pry it out of him, or should she let it go?

Let it go, she decided. Luke had divulged certain secrets to her, but only when he
had been ready to do so. If he ever wanted to tell her about his nightmares, it would
have to be on his terms.

But she wanted so badly to know. To help him. She hated feeling so helpless. She closed
her eyes and tried to sleep, but it was impossible. As dawn turned the world to a
dull gray around her, she stared at the ceiling, at the crack running across it that
grew clearer, deeper, longer as the sun shed its light on the world.

By the time Luke returned, Emma had bathed and dressed and was gazing out the window.
When she heard the door open, she turned to watch him enter.

He hesitated on the threshold. “Did you get any more sleep?”

“No.”

He winced. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

A humorless laugh rasped out of him. “Oh, yes, it is.”

She gave him a small smile. “It’s all right. I’ll sleep tonight.”

She was always assuring him that it was all right. But was it? She wasn’t so certain
right now.

He came up to her, put his arms around her, drew her close. She slipped her arms around
him, too, and pressed her lips to his neck just above his collar. His skin was cool.
He’d been outside. She inhaled deeply, loving his salty scent.

“Em,” he said softly. That was all.

They stood there for a minute, holding each other. Then, gently, he pulled away. “It
snowed last night.”

“I saw,” she said. “At least it’s not raining.”

“The roads will be bad, but we should try to get some miles behind us today.”

“Yes.” Their days here had been nothing short of exquisite—Luke had showed her erotic
pleasure she’d secretly fantasized about, but he’d given her much more than she’d
ever dreamed possible. He was rough in bed, but tender at the same time. Loving and
attentive. A rogue who took her to the edge, then thrust her over again and again.

She’d loved every moment they’d spent here, but those stolen moments had been necessary
due to the weather. Finding Roger Morton was still the priority. They needed to hurry
to London, locate the man, and hopefully find the answers to all their questions about
Henry and the dowager duchess.

Then what would happen?

She was trying not to think of that. She still had the gun in the bottom of her satchel.
The rain hadn’t ruined it, thankfully—the boot had ended up keeping their luggage
dry, after all.

Luke still hadn’t discovered her gun. That was for the best. After their conversation
last night, she knew that if he found out about it, he would take it away.

An hour later they’d eaten breakfast and were once again on the road—the now-muddy,
pitted road, with melting patches of snow on its edges—bound for London.

Luke was quieter than usual this morning. Emma knew the reason why—his nightmare—but
she was loath to broach the subject after mulling it over in her head all morning.

They traveled slowly, much slower than their usual speed. Emma understood the roads
were bad, but after hours of plodding along at a snail’s pace, she thought she just
might crawl out of her skin.

“Can’t we go a little faster?” she begged.

Luke didn’t remove his focus from the road. “No.”

She sighed as he negotiated around a muddy puddle, remembering how reckless she’d
thought he’d been for purchasing this curricle in the beginning. In truth, he’d been
a conscientious and careful driver from the start.

“At this rate, we’ll arrive in London sometime in January.”

He shrugged. “Better alive in London in January than dead in Northumberland in October.”

Well, she couldn’t argue with that. So she sat back and studied the scenery as they
began to climb a steady incline. The forest was thick here, encroaching on the road
on both sides. Red-and-gold-leafed sycamores, green pines. Fallen leaves in stunning
autumn browns, reds, oranges, and golds blanketed the ground, and the snow, though
melting, showed through in patches of white on the leaves, tucked in shady corners
of tree trunks and on the ridged edges of the road.

They topped the rise. The road here began to descend in a sharp grade, curving sharply
under the canopy of an exceptionally large and heavily leafed sycamore whose golden
and red leaves had clung tenaciously to its branches. Just off to the right, Emma
saw water—a pond, perhaps, its surface placid and edged with snow and weeds.

The sycamore shadowed the road here, and a thin layer of snow blanketed the next several
feet. The strip of dirt stretching out before them appeared even, but the rocky movement
told Emma that was an illusion caused by the uniformity of the snowfall.

Suddenly, they dipped into a large patch of slush, and the carriage jerked wildly.
The earth seemed to grab at the wheel on Emma’s side. The horses kept straining forward
but clinging fingers of mud and water and snow held the curricle back.

Crack!
The carriage buckled, the motion catapulting her from the carriage and sending her
flying through the air. She scrambled desperately to hold on to something, but the
seat had been ripped out from under her. She reached out for Luke, but he was gone,
too. Wood cracked and splintered all around her. And then, a sudden, sharp pain shot
through her ankle and up her leg. She tumbled headfirst through ice-cold water. Her
hand sank into mud. Something struck her cheek.

For a brief second, everything was perfectly still. Perfectly quiet.

And then the excruciating pressure came off her ankle and arms closed around her and
hauled her out of the water.

“Emma!” The voice was loud. Anguished. Close.

She was laid on a soft bed of leaves.

“Emma, are you all right? Speak to me, please.” Hands closed over her shoulders, shook
her slightly, and she smiled.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Luke was bent over her, his expression wild. As he saw
her eyes open, he bent down and gathered her close against his chest. “My God,” he
breathed. “Thank God. I thought…thought…I’d lost you.”

She shook her head, confused. And then sensation returned to her body in a rush. Wetness
seeped through her cloak and all the layers of garments beneath it. Her ankle burned
with pain. And it felt like there was a cold, wet weight on her face.

She reached up in curiosity and found a mud-laden leaf stuck to her cheek. She pushed
it away. Luke still held her, muttering apologies as he kissed her hair.

“What…what happened?” she managed when she found her voice.

“We hit a patch of snow—or that’s what it looked like. It was clearly some kind of
ditch filled with water, though. The mud trapped the wheel on your side, and the axle
failed. Look.”

Pulling away slightly, Luke helped her to a seated position, then turned toward the
road. She followed his gaze. The horses seemed fine—they stood on the road placidly,
nuzzling at weeds along its edge. But the carriage—their curricle—was in pieces, its
major parts on the road and one wheel near their feet. “Oh, no,” she breathed.

“You were propelled out of the carriage and into the water…” Luke paused, swallowed.
His voice shook when he went on. “You landed headfirst. And then you were so still,
I thought you’d hit your head…I thought you’d…”