Along Came a Rogue (17 page)

He rubbed harder against her as he thrust steadily beneath her. “Come with me—now, love!”

She shattered, crying out his name into the darkness.

His hand clamped down hard over her mound to keep her pressed tightly against him, and he shuddered with a groan as he released himself. She gasped at the raw sensation of his hot seed flowing deep inside her, and a new sob tore from her throat at the exquisite intimacy of this moment.

“Emily,” he whispered, his voice now shaking as much as his body as he slowly withdrew from her. He shifted her onto her side and pulled her against him to fold himself around her. His feverish body lay covered with sweat, his hair damp against his forehead as he nuzzled the back of her neck. “My beautiful Emily…you are perfect.”

As he held her tenderly in his arms, she blinked away the tears that now fell not in pleasure but wretched sadness. She wasn't perfect, far from it, because she'd committed the ultimate sin of falling in love. And when they reached London tomorrow, how on earth would she ever be able to let him go?

Grey pulled Emily closer in the darkness. The room had grown cold as the fire died, but he hadn't wanted to leave the bed in order to add more coal. Instead, he pulled the quilts higher around her neck and tucked her into the hollow between his shoulder and chest to keep her warm.

She placed a kiss on his chest, and the small contact made his cock flex with desire. Again. He was far from satiated, his body still craving hers, but if he had his way, she'd be too sore and stiff in the morning to even walk let alone ride the remaining distance to London.

But their time together was short, growing shorter with each passing minute, and he didn't want to waste a moment of it. So he tipped her face up and gently but thoroughly worshipped her mouth with his until she trembled.

With a sigh, she nuzzled her cheek against his chest, her fingertips sketching little shapes against his abdomen beneath the quilt. “I never knew being with a man could be like this.” Her lips tickled against his skin. “You are amazing, Grey.”

His chest swelled. A man could get used to hearing such things, especially coming from a beautiful creature like Emily, whose naked body was soft, warm, supple…Between his thighs, his cock came alert, and he knew he would have her again. And soon. But for now, he simply wanted to hold her.

“When I'm with you,” she confessed, her forefinger tracing along the ridges of his stomach, “it feels like I'm exploding from the inside out…but in a good way.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “You must think me an utter nodcock for saying that.”

“Not at all.” Because he felt the same way. Yet something about her words struck him as odd, and he frowned. “Brat, have you never”—he felt a bit silly using her word to describe the pleasures of orgasm, but he didn't want to embarrass her by being cruder—“
exploded
before?”

“No.” Her face lowered in the darkness so he couldn't see whatever emotions played there, but her fingers shyly froze for just a beat before continuing their gentle exploration of his body. “I think it's only because of you.”

Yes, a man could certainly get used to hearing such things.

She shrugged. “You give me enough time to enjoy it.”

Enough time?
Giving a woman time to find her pleasure required only restraint. Of course, some men were incapable of holding back their release—for God's sake, he found it difficult himself to hold back when he was inside Emily. But even men who were incapable of prolonging sex until the woman reached her own climax could bring her pleasure in other ways afterward. Unless the man was so selfish that he cared for nothing but his own pleasure.

His gut tightened with self-recrimination. Until Emily, he had been one of those men.

But the little minx had changed him, in ways he could never have fathomed. He enjoyed her company, her laughter and smiles, all those amusing stories she told and the way she teased him. During the past few days, she had become a trusted friend in whom he could confide secrets he'd never been able to tell even Edward and Thomas.

And in bed, he cared more about her satisfaction than his own. He took exquisite joy in hearing her soft mewlings of desire and in feeling her body quiver with satiated pleasure, and nothing made his own climax sweeter than knowing how much she enjoyed it herself. Never had he felt that way with any woman before, just as he'd never wanted to remain in a woman's bed afterward. He'd always wanted to flee as soon as he could scramble back into his clothes.
If
he'd bothered to take them off in the first place. Inexplicably, though, with Emily, fleeing was the last urge he felt.

But what kind of husband was Andrew Crenshaw if she'd never enjoyed herself with him? Emily enjoyed sex; the past few days—and nights—had certainly proven that. Had Crenshaw been so selfish and cared so little for his wife that he'd never attempted to coax her to finish, not once?

He kept his voice gentle as he dared to ask, “Emily, how was your marriage?”

She stiffened. Instantly, her happiness vanished.

Dread filled his chest.
Good God.
What did that man do to her? He pressed, “Emily?”

When she hesitated, he suspected she wouldn't tell him. They'd shared a physical union, but he had no other claims on her, nor ever would. There was no reason for her to reveal this part of her past to him.

But then she whispered, “It was a good marriage match for me at the time.”

Grey said nothing, not moving a single muscle for fear she might stop.

“Father hadn't inherited the title yet when the contract was made—truly, no one ever thought he would.” Her fingers began to move again in slow circles over his chest, but he suspected she wasn't aware she was doing it. “I was merely the daughter of an East India Company official, and Andrew was as high as I dared reach. But he came from a distinguished family and seemingly had enough money to keep us comfortable.”

“You knew him before you married?” Not such an odd question to put to her, given the arranged marriages between society sons and daughters.

She nodded, her cheek rubbing against his chest. “He courted me.” A wistful smile pulled at her lips at the memory. “He brought me posies, took me driving in the park and on picnics, paid me all kinds of attention and flattery…It was nice.
He
was nice.”

His gut clenched, and he steeled himself as he asked, “Did you love him?”

“No,” she breathed, the single word bringing him an immense relief he didn't deserve to feel. “But I'd thought—I'd
hoped
—that love would come in time.”

“What did Thomas think of the match?” Grey vaguely remembered that Thomas had gotten leave to travel to England for the wedding, but when he returned, he said little about it.

“He didn't trust Andrew. He was suspicious of him from the beginning, thought him a fortune hunter and a scoundrel. Mama and Papa didn't believe him, neither did I. He wanted me to break off the engagement, but I couldn't. My parents wanted the marriage, and Andrew seemed like a good man. He even told me that he loved me.” Her lips twisted ruefully. “I thought Thomas was just being an overly protective brother.”

Grey's chest sank like lead. “That was why you and Thomas had your falling-out, wasn't it?”

She nodded, not raising her eyes. “We had a terrible row, right there in the vestibule of the church on my wedding day, when he asked me one last time to call off the wedding. But I couldn't—the church was filled, everyone was waiting. To call it off then…” She drew a deep, shaking breath. “I was in tears as I took my vows.”

He placed a kiss on the top of her head, his heart breaking for her. “Emily, I'm so sorry.”

“But Thomas was right after all,” she whispered.

“He usually is when it comes to reading people.” Her brother had a peculiar gift for it, in fact, one that made him very effective both within the War Office and at bedding women. Certainly, he would have been able to see right through Crenshaw, even if Emily and their parents hadn't.

She nodded and whispered so softly that he barely heard her, “Although for once I wish he'd been wrong.”

“What happened?” he asked gently, preparing himself for the worst to come.

“Andrew and I left for Yorkshire right after the wedding. That afternoon, in fact. He said he needed to get back to the farm, that he preferred to oversee it himself rather than keep an agent. I didn't want to leave London so soon. It was my first season after being away at school, and I wanted to rent a house in Mayfair to enjoy it. But he insisted.” Her fingers combed absently at the hair sprinkled across his chest. “I found out later that we didn't leave London so much as flee his creditors, his gambling debts, the unpaid rent…”

Grey stared down at her, expecting to see a fury on her face that matched the one boiling inside him. Instead, he saw the resignation of someone who had lived with heartbreak for far too long and no longer possessed the emotional strength to waste on anger.

“Most of my dowry went to pay off his debts, and a month into our marriage, Andrew took the rest with him when he left for York, where he continued to gamble and drink and…” Her voice trailed off.

Bed whores
, Grey finished silently, a bitter taste forming in his mouth. She must have been devastated to be a bride unwanted by her husband. The betrayal she must have felt, how utterly destroyed to know he'd lied about loving her—if the bastard wasn't already dead, Grey would have killed him himself.

“I rarely saw him after that,” she admitted with chagrin, “unless he needed money or a place to hide from his creditors.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “Even then I thought I might still be able to turn my marriage around, make it work, but it only got worse. Truly, if Andrew hadn't been killed when he was, most likely he would have ended up in debtor's prison.”

His gut ached for her. “You could have told your family. They would have helped you.”

She smiled sadly. “My father had just inherited a duchy. How would it have looked to society if his daughter returned as a failed wife?”

The pain in her voice was heart-wrenching, and he couldn't help but tighten his arms around her. Nor could he argue with her, knowing her parents as well as he did. Firsthand experience had taught him how much position and influence meant to them.

“You could have told Thomas,” he said quietly, tucking a silky strand of hair behind her ear. “Your brother would always help you, you know that.”

She shook her head. “I couldn't. At first, I didn't want him to know. I was still hoping that Andrew would come back, that we might yet be able to make a loving home. So I pretended everything was fine.” She paused and drew a deep breath. “Thomas rode all the way to Yorkshire when he left the army, did you know that? Just to see me.”

He shook his head. He hadn't known. Thomas had never mentioned it. Not once.

“I think he suspected…But I was too proud to admit I'd made such a terrible mistake. So I lied and said that Andrew was only away for a few days. I told Thomas to stop worrying about me, that I was married now and that it was my husband's responsibility to take care of me. Not his. And that he needed to leave me alone.” Her voice ached with desolation as she admitted tearfully, “He rode away, and I haven't seen him since.”

“You will—tomorrow,” he reassured her.

“But I sent him away…” A look of grief marred her beautiful face so wretchedly that his breath ripped from his lungs. “How can he ever forgive me for that?”

He pulled her closer, briefly closing his eyes at the pain. “He loves you, Emily. He'll forgive everything.”

She nodded silently, but he wasn't certain she believed him.

He traced his fingertips across her bare back beneath the quilt as another question pricked at his gut. “But you're carrying Crenshaw's child.” If there was one thing about which he was certain, it was that Emily would never cuckold her husband, no matter how lonely she was. “He must have come back to you,” he said with great tenderness, choosing his words carefully, “and into your bed.”

Her hand covered her belly protectively. She turned away but not before he saw her face darken with shame. “Because I tricked him,” she confessed in a whisper.

Grey kept his expression stoic, not allowing himself to reveal any expression of pity for her. Quietly and tenderly, without a trace of judgment, he asked, “How?”

She took several rapid breaths, as if forcing the air into her lungs could fend off the pain of the memory. “I wanted a family so much that I was willing to do whatever I had to. I convinced Andrew that my father would increase my dowry if we had children. It was the only way I could get him to return. I'd tracked my courses so I knew what days were best for getting with a child, and…” Her voice trailed off guiltily. “And two months later, I was increasing, and my husband was dead.”

Grey knew the rest, how she hid the pregnancy from everyone and resolved to run away. If he had arrived just one week later, she would have already disappeared, most likely hiding herself so well that no one would have been able to find her. Not even him. To think how close he came to never having this chance to be with her…He lowered his head and scattered gentle kisses across her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids—she trembled, and the vulnerability he felt in her sliced into his heart.

“Emily.” He nuzzled her neck, willing her to open her eyes and look at him so he could reassure them both that she would heal and be stronger than before. “You did nothing wrong in your marriage or in creating this baby.” He took her chin and tipped up her face. “Look at me.”

Her eyes opened slowly, the blue depths watery in the shadows.

Even in the short time they'd spent together, he'd come to know this woman better than any other person in his life. He knew what made her happy, what made her laugh and cry, just as he knew exactly what she needed to hear at that moment to drive away her fears. “This baby is a precious gift, the one good thing that came out of your marriage. You deserve to have this child and its love. And you are going to be a wonderful mother.”