Along Came a Rogue (10 page)

She nodded, shivering violently. “So cold…”

“I know.” Slipping an arm around her to steady her, he led her to the fireplace and the heat of the fire, then he covered her hands with his, rubbing them to bring feeling back into her numb fingers. “But we're safe now, I promise.”

He raised her hands to his mouth and huffed a hot breath against them, feeling her shudder in response. She was stronger now, her skin warming slowly and the color returning to her cheeks. She was out of danger.

His chest lightened with relief. And this time, when he raised her hands to his lips, he tenderly kissed her fingertips in silent apology.

A knock sounded at the door.

“That must be Hedley,” he told her. “Stay here by the fire. I'll be right back.”

She nodded and raised her shaking hands to the heat of the flames. With a dubious look over his shoulder to check that she was still on her feet, he answered the door.

“Major.” Hedley nodded and handed over the bottle of whiskey, then glanced past him at Emily and lowered his voice. “How is she?”

Grimacing, he shook his head. “Not well. Where's that bath?”

“Right behind me.”

Grey stepped aside to let the maids into the room, who set down the small tub and filled it with hot water coming from the kitchen in a bucket brigade. He stood back and watched the sudden flurry of activity.
Good God.
When Hedley carried out orders, he did it well. So did the small fortune he was certain they'd paid for such attentive service. The parade of barmaids finished in just a matter of minutes. Hot stew and warm bread waited on the mantel, extra blankets lay spread over the bed, and the tub sat full and steaming.

The last maid out the door threw Grey a flirtatious smile and an inviting swing of her hips. He knew she would gladly provide very attentive service tonight, too. For the right price.

But his only concern was Emily and his two men. “Send someone to fetch Dalton and the team back here for the night, and leave the carriage until the morning,” he instructed Hedley. “We'll deal with it when we're dry and rested. You both deserve a good night's sleep.”

“Aye, Major.” He tugged at his hat brim in thanks that he wouldn't have to go back out into the storm. His eyes drifted to Emily. “An' the lass?”

“I'll get her settled and make certain she's safe.” He felt compelled to add, “Then find someplace downstairs to spend the night.”

“All th' other beds are gone. We'll be on benches, looks like.”

Grey nodded. “Still better than muddy ground in the middle of a battlefield, eh?”

“Aye,” he agreed, heartfelt. “That 'tis.”

“Save me a bench, will you? And see if the innkeeper has a wife or daughter with a dress and coat they'd be willing to sell.” Grey raked his gaze over the man's muddy clothes. “And a fresh set of clothes for you, too.”

“What 'bout you, Major?”

“Me? Barely caught a drop.” Even as he said that, water puddled around his boots. “I'll be fine.”

With a disbelieving arch of his brow, Hedley tugged at his hat again, then nodded toward Emily. “G' night, missus.”

“Good night.” Emily returned a jerky nod. “And Hedley,” she added, her voice shuddering as fiercely as the rest of her, “thank you.”

“'Twas nothin', ma'am.”

“You saved my life,” she whispered.

The sergeant's grizzled cheeks reddened. “'Tweren't no effort.”

Grey clenched his jaw at the way Emily sent Hedley a grateful smile. He'd saved her life, too—twice now, in fact—and the brat had yet to thank
him
. Then again, he thought with chagrin, Hedley also hadn't admitted that he wanted to ravish her and then leave her.

With a long sigh brought on by fatigue, cold, and immense frustration, he shoved Hedley out the door, then locked it tight in case anyone decided to try to take the rest of their money. He turned around. Emily stood before the fire where he'd left her, still shaking but less violently now, with her hands outstretched to the heat. She was going to be fine.

And now he desperately needed to get warm himself. He frowned at her as he crossed to a wooden chair in the corner and sat to remove his boots. “Better take off that robe, I think.”

“I can't.”

“Why not?” With a fierce pull, he tugged off the first boot, the leather clinging stubbornly to his wet foot. “You're wearing your night rail beneath, aren't you?”

“But it's wet, too.”

“It will dry faster without the robe over it.” He scowled in growing frustration, both with her and with the ruined state of his favorite pair of Hessians. He tipped over his boot and frowned as a stream of water poured out of it.

Dropping it to the floor, he made a mental note to make Thomas purchase him a new pair of Hoby's finest, then reached down for the other boot.

“All right,” she acquiesced hesitantly. “But that's all I'm wearing, just so you know.”

Damned stubborn woman.
She'd nearly died twice in two days, and she was worried about propriety? “Don't fret, brat.” He tugged off the other boot and glanced up at her. “You don't have anything I haven't seen be—”

The boot slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.

He stared at her, his lips parting in stunned surprise.

She stood in front of the fire wearing only the wet nightgown, turned sheer from the rain and clinging to her like a second skin, the robe in a pile of wet satin around her feet. In an instant, he took in the full length of her. Wet blond hair hanging down her back, nipples straining like dark pebbles through the white cotton, long legs stretching down from the triangle of curls between her thighs…

…and the small but distinct bump at her lower belly.

“Christ,” he whispered.

The brat was pregnant.

W
hen he didn't say anything, only stared at her from across the room, Emily swallowed. She now shook more from nervousness than the cold.

“Grey,” she said softly, folding one arm modestly over her breasts and the other protectively over her belly against the incredulous stare he leveled on her. “I couldn't tell you when we were at Snowden. I tried in the carriage, but…please understand.”

He straightened on the chair, his shoulders stiffening.

“I found out after Andrew died,” she continued uneasily. Her gaze lowered to the floor because she wasn't able to bear the stunned surprise on his face, the betrayal in his eyes. “That's why I couldn't tell anyone. When the letter arrived from Dunwich's attorney, then I knew—I
knew
I had to keep this baby a secret. I had to protect it however I could.”

As he rose slowly from the chair and approached, she drew a deep breath, but her shaking only grew worse.

He stopped in front of her, towering over her by almost a foot, yet she didn't raise her gaze to meet his, not wanting to see the cold accusation darkening his face. Instead, she trained her eyes on his chest, not daring to raise them. Whatever he thought of her for hiding this secret from him and putting his life at risk, she was certain that it wasn't charitable.

“If someone was willing to kill Andrew because he was the heir—if they knew I was carrying his child and possibly the next heir, then—” She choked on the words, unable to make herself utter her worst fears aloud. “I love this baby, Grey, more than I've ever loved anything in my life. I know that sounds silly. It's barely a bump, really, and not even visible with my clothes on. But I wanted this baby with every ounce of my heart and soul.” Even now her chest burned with the same fierce love and determination to be a mother as when the baby was conceived. “And I will do anything to protect it.
Anything.
”

Slowly, he placed his large hand over hers as it rested against her belly, the small bump nearly hidden beneath his outstretched fingers. “Me, too,” he assured her.

Her breath hitched as her eyes flew up to his face.
Dear Lord
, had he really just said…“Pardon?”

His eyes never lifted from their joined hands. “I swore to protect you, Emily.” Each quiet word blossomed inside her like a spring rose. “And this baby is part of you.”

Warmth radiated through her from his palm down to the tips of her toes. Goodness, she hadn't expected
that
! She'd anticipated yelling and cursing, threats of telling her family and the Crenshaws…even returning her straight back to the burned-down house to leave her there amid the smoldering timbers and ashes.

Oh, he was furious with her, despite his outward appearance of calm; she could see in his dark eyes the anger and betrayal that she'd kept this from him, this secret of all secrets. But for some reason she couldn't fathom, he kept his anger in check. For the moment anyway. And that, at least, was a hopeful sign. The first one she'd had in months.

“Is that it, then?” he asked pointedly, this time unable to keep the hint of angry accusation from his voice. “Anything else you're keeping from me?”

She was unprepared for the overwhelming relief that cascaded through her at finally being able to share news of the baby with him, and she shook her head, unable to speak around the knot in her throat.

“Good,” he murmured. Slowly, he reached for the neckline of the nightgown plastered to her skin. “Then let's get you undressed and warm.”

She gasped, her hands flying up to stop his. “Grey, you can't!”

“In addition to protecting you, I also promised to take care of you.” His deep voice softened, yet the resolve lacing through it told her that he'd brook no argument. “So let me take care of you tonight.”

With a hesitant nod, she dropped her hands away. She held her breath, not daring to breathe as he unfastened the handful of buttons, then slowly peeled the wet material down her body and off, until she stood naked and trembling in front of him. Oddly, she felt no shame, not even when he lifted her into his arms and carried her across the room to the bathtub. After all, she'd just entrusted him with the biggest secret of her life, and she didn't think it was possible to be any more exposed, any more vulnerable than by admitting she was with child.

He lowered her gently into the warm water of the waiting tub, and she sank into its steamy heat up to her breasts. Sliding down beneath the water with a grateful sigh, she felt her skin prickle as the heat soaked into her and warmed away the bitter cold.

He frowned down at her, a new concern furrowing his brow. “Earlier, at Snowden—you said you were ill…the baby?” Each word came awkward and slow.

She smiled at that. Her fearless hero was befuddled by a simple pregnancy. “Yes, in the mornings. Yardley says it's common when a woman's increasing.”

As if relieved that he had nothing more to worry about than that, he nodded and stepped back. She watched, mesmerized, as he unbuttoned his wet waistcoat and removed it, hanging it over the wooden chair. His shirt lay plastered over his chest, outlining each hard, well-defined muscle beneath.

He paused as he pulled his shirt free from his trousers. “A baby and illness on top of Crenshaw's murder and fleeing servants.” Surprised admiration tinged his voice. “You dealt with all that alone?”

“I had Yardley.” She smiled in gratitude at the maid's devotion to her. “I don't think I could have survived without her.”

His deep voice purred huskily, “And I think you're much braver than you believe.”

Her eyes darted up toward his at the quiet compliment. But he'd already lifted his shirt over his head, leaving her to rake her gaze shamelessly over his bare chest and the muscles in his shoulders, the sculpted ridges of his abdomen, the dusting of golden hair that led down beneath the lean waist of his trousers—

Oh my!
She averted her eyes, thanking God that the hot water hid the flush in her cheeks. She
was
a proper lady, after all.

Then her very improper eyes slid slowly back to him, to steal a very unladylike peek at his physique. And what a wonderful figure it was, too. Tall and lean with every muscle hard and well defined across his chest, broad shoulders that narrowed to his waist, muscular arms…When he turned around to throw the shirt over the chair with the waistcoat, the view from the back was just as fine. Muscles rippled across his back as he reached down to toss another log into the already blazing fire.

Stripped down to only his damp trousers—for a moment, Emily wondered if he planned to remove even those, given her own naked state—he picked up the soap from the washbasin and carried it over to the tub, knelt beside her, and began to lather the soap in the bathwater.

Her breath choked. He planned to…
wash
her?

She swallowed nervously even as the idea tempted her so much that her thighs clenched. “You don't have to—”

“Lean up,” he commanded gently.

She hesitated. No one had
ever
washed her before, certainly not a man. Yet knowing she had no choice but to do as he ordered, and not wanting another argument, especially when they were finally getting along, she fought back her uneasiness, closed her eyes, and leaned forward. Besides, it was only a bath. He most likely washed his horse once a week.

When his hands touched her shoulders and spread the soap across her bare skin in slow, soft caresses—
oh, lucky, lucky horse!

She bit back a soft moan of pleasure. Everywhere his fingers brushed over her skin, heat radiated and chased away the last of the cold until she pulsed hot and tingling, the ache of the chill replaced by a far more electric one. As his hands slipped lower to languidly roam up and down her spine, a contradiction of sensations skittered through her. The slippery-smooth soap beneath his rough hands, not washing so much as massaging, the soothing warmth of the water against the exciting caresses of his fingers—she trembled.

“Are you cold?” he asked, mistaking the reason for her shiver, and poured warm water down her back. “Better?”

“Oh yes,” she sighed in a long exhalation, no longer bothering to hide her enjoyment. Her head sagged forward, and with his thumbs, he massaged the back of her neck and rubbed out the tension. Oh, this was nice…
very
nice.

He took her shoulders and eased her back against the tub, then reached for her arms to leisurely wash each one. Despite the heat of the steam drifting up from the water, she shivered as his soapy hands rubbed down her arm to her hand, then tantalizingly along each finger.

“You're barely showing at all now, but you wouldn't have been able to hide the baby much longer.” He gently lowered her left arm into the water and reached for the right, then started all over with the delightfully slippery caresses. Everywhere he touched, goose bumps dotted across her skin in his wake. “If someone was watching you, they'd have soon known.”

Her soft admission came as a breathless sigh. “I had a plan.”

“Of course, you did,” he murmured.

She thought she heard a touch of amused admiration in his voice, but all logical thought was driven from her mind at the wickedly scandalous feel of his hands slipping down under the water to reach for her leg, to begin the sweet torture of washing down her thigh and calf to her foot. She bit her tongue to keep back another soft sigh of pleasure, not wanting him to think her a complete wanton for enjoying a simple bath this much. But that was
exactly
how she felt, and she liked it immensely.

“Yardley has a sister in Glasgow who owns a dress shop. I was planning to go there, change my name—” She caught her breath when he ran his fingers between her toes. Oh, how much she liked that! If he kept that up…She licked her lips and forced out, “She was going to take care of me until the baby arrived. If it was a girl, I would have gone back to London to be with my family.”

“But if it was a boy,” he murmured, his hands moving to her other leg, his fingers gently kneading along her calf to her knee, “he'd be the heir to a marquessate.”

“Then we'd have stayed in Scotland, and no one would ever have known.”

His hands paused in their caresses. “You would have denied him his birthright?”

“Yes.” If it meant saving her son's life, she would have done exactly that. This baby meant the world to her, and she would sacrifice everything to keep him safe.

“You would have had to live a lifetime of secrets,” he mumbled. “Could you have done that?”

“You have.” She opened her eyes to find him staring at her, his chocolate-brown depths warm and arousing in the firelight. “Your entire life has been a lie.”

Grey froze, his heart stopping for a fearful beat. His hand stilled against her body beneath the water.

What she implied was impossible for her to know.
Impossible.
He'd covered his tracks too well over the years for anyone to figure out the truth. Not even Edward Westover and Thomas Matteson. And especially not some society chit living in Yorkshire whom he hadn't seen in five years.

Yet somehow, she knew. In the stormy blue pools of her eyes, as she waited patiently for him to let down his pretenses so they could truly be themselves with each other, he could see the truth. But there was no judgment on her face, no disdain, no pity—he thanked God for that, because he didn't think he'd have been able to bear any condemnation for the way he'd chosen to live his life. Not from her. For some reason he couldn't name, what Emily thought of him mattered.

He sat back on his heels, drawing his hand out of the water. “I'm just an army officer. No secret there.”

“Perhaps not,” she said quietly. “But what were you before?”

“Younger,” he quipped. Ignoring the sudden tightening of unease in his chest, he curled his lips into a half grin, the smile he used whenever he wanted to get his way with a woman.