The Rogue's Proposal (22 page)

Her arms went around him, holding him tight. And finally, he could hear her. “No!
I’m not letting you go.”

He froze, because he was afraid he’d hurt her. He stood like a statue, except for
the deep-rooted shaking he couldn’t seem to contain.

She was behind him, her arms wrapped around his torso. She pressed her cheek against
his back, and he shuddered, because his burns hurt when she did that.

No. No, damn it, they didn’t hurt. That had happened long ago. They didn’t hurt anymore.
His mind was trying to fool him, taking a memory of something that had happened long
ago and turning it into something real.

He took a deep, shaky breath. The pain receded a little. He closed his eyes and breathed,
again and again, telling himself it wasn’t real.

Emma stroked his chest, whispered against his back, but he was too focused on trying
to twist his mind back into the present to hear her words.

They stood there for several minutes. Slowly, Luke’s breathing and pulse returned
to normal, and he returned to himself. When he felt like he had control over his mind
and body once more, he dropped his hands, which had been frozen on the buttons of
his falls.

It took another several minutes before he gently pried Emma’s hands off him. Then
he turned to look at her.

She gazed up at him, relief burning bright in her eyes. “Are you…are you all right?”

The red outlines of his fingers showed on her cheek. Something in his chest clenched
hard, and he closed his eyes in a long blink.

Slowly, he reached up, skimming his fingers over her face. “I…hurt you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I hit you.”

“You were dreaming, Luke. You were dreaming of something awful, and you thought I
was going to hurt you. I shouldn’t have touched you.”

“
I
shouldn’t have touched
you
.”

She looked up at him, cupping his face in her palms. “Listen to me. It is nothing.
I can’t even feel it.” Her expression softened. “But are you all right? You’re cold.”

Belatedly, he realized he’d begun to shiver.

“Come back to bed,” she coaxed.

He stepped out of her hands and wrenched his gaze to the bed.

“You’re staring at it like it’s going to bite,” she murmured. “It’s just a bed, Luke.
It’ll be all right. Come, let me warm you. Let me hold you.”

She was right. The damn bed was not going to bite him. Still, his steps were hesitant
as he forced his legs to move him to the bed. She undid the one button he’d buttoned
on his falls, then sat him down on the bed’s edge and pulled off his trousers the
rest of the way. “Lie down,” she commanded.

He blew out a breath and looked at her askance. But she just stared at him. So he
laid his body onto the bed. She tucked the covers up around him, then went to the
other side of the bed and slid in beside him. He turned to hold her as she nestled
against his body.

He pressed his face in her mussed hair and took a deep breath in. She smelled so good.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said gruffly. “I can tolerate most of the stupid, boorish
things I do…but I draw the line at hurting you…or any woman.”

“I know,” she said simply. “But you cannot—you mustn’t—blame yourself for what happened.
You weren’t yourself.”

He sighed, feeling marginally better. He knew he wouldn’t have done it on purpose.
But the fact he’d done it at all was another burn on his soul.

“You were afraid of something,” she continued in a whisper. “Was it
him
?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“I hate him,” she said with soft vehemence. “I hate him so much.”

“He’s dead, Em.”

“Yes, but not in your heart.”

He didn’t answer her.

“Have you had these nightmares all your life?” she asked a moment later.

“No. When I was a child, after he died. Then not until recently.”

“When did they start again?”

He knew the exact date. How could he not? “Last summer. It was the day I learned he
wasn’t my real father.” Somehow, the revelation had opened all the gates of his mind,
releasing those past painful memories, allowing them to flood back.

Emma pressed herself more tightly against him. “Can you sleep?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. Usually he didn’t bother to try after a nightmare
woke him. But last week he’d fallen asleep holding her after she’d come to him in
his armchair. Maybe he could do it again.

“Try,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s not your fault.”

He tried his damnedest to believe her. Yet a part of him rebelled, told him it was
all his fault, that everything was his fault. That he should leave her before it was
too late to save her, because the duke was right—he was inherently evil.

Eventually, he thrust that voice aside. She’d told him it wasn’t his fault, and to
his knowledge, Emma had never lied to him.

With that truth soothing him, he fell back to sleep.

Morton didn’t return to his rooms in Wapping until a week later, when a messenger
came to Luke’s house saying he’d seen Morton arrive just before noon. He was in his
office, the boy said, working.

Luke and Emma locked eyes. Today was the day. Luke would learn what had happened to
his mother. Emma would learn what had happened to her father’s money.

This might get complicated, Luke knew. He might have contemplated going to Trent or
his brother Sam, but after that scene with Grindlow, Luke was determined to manage
this on his own. While Emma was upstairs fetching her cloak, Luke went into his study
and readied his pistol.

He didn’t intend to use it, of course. To kill Morton would be to bury whatever secrets
the man kept. But it might prove to be a useful tool of intimidation.

The hackney ride was tense, both Luke and Emma hardly speaking. It was a forty-minute
drive in good traffic conditions, but at this hour on a Tuesday, it took over an hour.

By the time they arrived, Luke saw that a tiny bead of sweat had appeared on Emma’s
forehead, though it was frosty outside. Gently, he brushed it off, then gave her a
reassuring smile.

He needed to succeed today. For Emma. If he was able to reestablish her father’s fortune,
perhaps it would make up for some of the hell he’d put her through. Perhaps it would
prove to her—and to himself—that he was worthy of her.

He almost laughed at himself for having that thought. He couldn’t comprehend ever
thinking of himself as worthy of Emma.

They went upstairs, Luke helping to bear some of Emma’s weight even though she said
her ankle was almost completely healed. And then they hesitated at the closed door.
He took a breath, looked at her.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she murmured.

He rapped on the door. Silence. He knocked again, this time harder, and heard a muffled,
“Just a moment.”

Standing beside Emma, he waited. Finally, the door opened.

Emma gasped, the sound drawing the gaze of the man who was standing there. Roger Morton
was dark-haired and dark-eyed and of average height, just as he’d been described by
various people to Luke. He was wearing a white shirt and a simple black waistcoat
with black cloth buttons.

He saw Emma. His eyes widened. The blood drained from his face.

“Emma?” Morton choked out. He blinked rapidly. His eyes flickered to and fro, as if
he was looking for an escape route.

How did Morton know Emma? Luke glanced at her, but she seemed frozen, as still and
cold as an ice statue.

“Bloody hell,” Morton muttered. Then he thrust forward, out the door, pushing between
Luke and Emma and then sprinting down the corridor.

Luke turned to race after him, Emma on his heels, bellowing, “Stop! Come back!”

Then he heard her cry out in pain. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that she had
fallen. Saw that tears streamed down her face. He rushed back to her.

“No, no!” she cried. “Go after him, Luke. Stop him!”

Luke hesitated for a moment. But she kept shouting at him to go, so he did. He spun
around and ran down the stairs where Morton had disappeared seconds ago.

On the ground floor, he saw Morton exiting the warehouse, the white of his sleeves
stark among all the pedestrians in their dark coats. Luke raced after him, bursting
out into the chill of the street seconds later.

There, he came to a grinding halt. The street was crowded with both pedestrians and
vehicles. Luke turned slowly, looking first up the street, then across the street
and down it.

He saw no men wearing just a waistcoat. It was too crowded. Morton had melted into
the crowd.

Luke clenched his fists. “Damn it,” he cursed, causing a passing older woman to look
at him askance.

His steps heavy, he returned upstairs. He hadn’t expected Morton to run like that.
Hell, the man was guiltier than he’d thought.

Why had he recognized Emma? Emma didn’t know him. Perhaps Curtis had pointed her out
to Morton without Emma knowing.

He hurried toward her. She was standing upright but balancing precariously on one
foot, and he knew she’d reinjured her ankle. Damn it again. This had really not gone
how he’d intended.

“You…didn’t…catch…him?” It seemed like each of her words was emitted with a gasp of
pain.

“No.”

She blanched, gazed off in the direction where Morton had run.

“It’s all right. Morton will need to return here eventually. Next time we’ll be more
prepared. How’s your ankle?” he asked as he approached her.

She stared at him, seemingly not understanding what he’d said.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, suddenly very concerned.

“L-Luke…”

“Lean on me,” he murmured, sliding his arm around her. She was stiff as a board.

“Y-you don’t understand,” she whispered.

All his senses went on high alert. Her tone was…odd. “What is it?”

“Luke,” she breathed. “That wasn’t Roger Morton. That was Henry Curtis. My…husband.”

E
mma allowed Luke to carry her. She sat in the hackney on the ride home unspeaking,
unfeeling, stiff as an automaton.

She was completely numb.

When they reached Luke’s house, he lifted her out of the carriage and held her against
him. Baldwin opened the door, impassive as ever.

“Mrs. Curtis has reinjured her ankle,” Luke snapped at him. “Summon a doctor right
away.”

That was completely unnecessary, but she couldn’t even bring herself to tell him that.

Henry…Henry was alive. Despite believing he’d had a hand in the loss of her father’s
fortune, she’d mourned him for a year. But he’d never been dead. She’d despised Roger
Morton for murdering her husband, but Henry had been alive all along.

Unless there had never been a Henry at all. Or there had never been a Roger Morton.
Could they be one and the same?

In any case, she wasn’t a widow. Her husband hadn’t died. She remembered the sermon
at St. Anne’s two Sundays ago on the seventh commandment. She’d been living in sin
with Luke, but now that sin was much more poignant.

Adulterer.

Luke carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed. He took off his coat—the pockets
of which she knew contained papers taken from Morton’s—
Henry’s
—office. The door had still been open, and Luke had done a quick search of the place
before they’d left, finding a small satchel that contained soiled men’s clothing and
the sheaf of papers.

After depositing his coat over the back of one of the armchairs, Luke returned to
her. He untied the string of her cape, gently slid it from under her, and set it aside.

He didn’t speak, and for that she was glad. She couldn’t talk—not to him or to anyone
right now.

He went to work on her boot, gently removing it and then rolling down her stocking
and taking it off. She watched him numbly.

Setting her stocking aside, he looked up at her. “Is it very painful?”

She shook her head.

“Good.” He went to sit on the edge of the bed closer to her. “That was your husband?”
he asked softly.

She opened her mouth to speak. No words would emerge. She nodded.

Luke’s chest rose and fell. He was silent, perhaps having similar thoughts to hers.
Finally he said, “They never found Curtis’s body, then?”

She shook her head. They had dragged the Avon downriver of where Henry had last been
seen, to no avail. That was common, the authorities had told her. By then, the body
could have traveled all the way to the Bristol Channel.

“God, Em.” His voice was low. Heavy with the enormity of this revelation. “He counterfeited
his own death so he could steal your father’s money.”

And never have to see her again. Never again be forced to play at the false marriage
she had so naïvely thrown herself into.

Suddenly, she felt so heavy. Heavy enough to sink deep into this bed, so deep she’d
never have the fortitude to climb out.

“He truly must have despised me,” she said, her voice raspy. “And…and he’s my husband.
Till death us do part
…It was all a lie. He lied to me from the beginning. Even his death was a lie. I mourned
him. What…what kind of man does that to a person?” She blinked hard, staving off the
tears that pressed behind her eyes.

Luke shook his head as if he, too, couldn’t fathom it. “A very sick bastard,” he said
softly.

She dissolved. It came suddenly, her tight muscles melting, her chest loosening and
setting her pent-up emotions free. And she bent her head. Tears crested her bottom
lids and rolled down her face, and she began to sob in great heaving gulps.

She cried for her lost innocence. Because she’d been a stupid, naïve fool. Because,
thanks to her, Jane had not been able to have her second Season in London. Because
her father and Jane had collected the last scrapings of their money to buy her a half-mourning
dress that now held no meaning whatsoever. She cried for all the loss she’d put her
family through since she’d met Henry Curtis.

And she cried for Luke. For the loss of his mother, the only person who’d tried to
understand him. She cried for the demons he struggled with every day. She cried for
his lack of belief in himself.

She loved him so much. So much more than she’d ever loved the man who was her husband.

He gathered her against him and rocked her, murmuring soothing, comforting things
into her hair.

Had Henry ever been so loving? So kind?
No. Never.

That horrid truth just made her cry harder.

She didn’t know how long it lasted, but eventually the well of tears ran dry. She
had nothing left. So she just lay, still and limp, while Luke held her and dried her
eyes and wiped her nose.

“It’s getting late,” he murmured.

She blinked, glanced around the room, realizing for the first time that dusk had fallen
and the room was growing dark. She’d cried for hours, and he hadn’t left her side
for one second.

And suddenly she was embarrassed. Heat suffused her cheeks, and she scrambled to a
seated position, wincing at the pain that shot through her ankle. “I’m sorry,” she
murmured.

“Shhh,” he said. He pushed a lock of hair that had fallen from its pin behind her
ear. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Are you hungry?”

She wanted to say no—how could she manage food? Her stomach felt like a brick had
taken up residence inside it. But she was sure Luke must be hungry, so she gave him
a faint nod.

“All right. And the doctor is here—”

“Oh no!” she gasped, then cringed. God knew how long he’d been waiting for her to
finish falling apart. “When did he arrive?”

Luke shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

She was appalled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We were otherwise occupied, Em,” he said softly. “Come. We’ll see him now.”

He carried her to the drawing room where the doctor awaited them. Pronouncing her
ankle resprained, he wrapped it and commanded her to keep it level with her body at
all times for the next three days. No walking at all for three days, and when she
did walk after that, she must use her cane at all times for at least a month. And
no traipsing up and down stairs during that entire time.

“Can one of your men carry her?” the doctor had asked Luke. “Because if not, I suggest
you make arrangements for her to remain downstairs for the month.”

“I’ll carry her,” Luke said mildly.

When the doctor left, dinner was served in the dining room. It was a quiet affair,
and Emma moved around the food on her plate, managing only a few tiny bites. Luke
noticed—she saw him glance at her plate multiple times—but he didn’t comment. She
was thankful for that.

After dinner, they went to the drawing room. He made no mention of leaving her to
go out. But as the hour drew nearer to go to bed, her anxiety increased.

Finally, she looked up at him. He was reading a book on horticulture. When he’d first
started reading it yesterday, she’d found it so endearing that she’d teased him about
it. He’d given her an arch look. “I happen to be quite fond of horticulture,” he’d
said, and she’d laughed.

Now she swallowed hard. “Luke?”

He glanced up from the book. “Hmm?”

“You know…I can’t…sleep in your bed tonight, don’t you?”

He stared at her. Then he closed the book and very slowly set it aside. “Do you plan
to return to your husband? Do you plan to resume marital relations with him?”

The thought made her stomach lurch. “No.”

“Then you can sleep with me tonight.”

“No. I can’t. I really can’t.” She’d made a vow to Henry Curtis. Even having some
idea of what he was, she couldn’t bring herself to willfully break it. She looked
down at her lap where her hands were twisting together. “I’m sorry.”

“Is this it, then?” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“Are we finished, Emma?”

She opened her mouth to say yes, but the word wouldn’t come out. She looked back down
at her lap. “Don’t make me answer that.”

He released a harsh breath.

“Please…give me time. I just found out that I’m still a married woman. That I’ve been…”
Her voice trailed off.

“I don’t want to give you time,” Luke said darkly. “I want to take you to bed and
make love to you for so long and so hard that you forget all this and realize that
you’re mine. That you’ve been mine ever since that first night in Bristol.”

She closed her eyes. Because a very, very large part of her wanted that, too. But…she
couldn’t. She shook her head.

“Stubborn woman,” he murmured. “Very well. I’ll give you time, because I know you’re
confused right now. But I’m not a patient man. And if I see that you’re suffering,
it’s going to be very difficult for me to stay away.”

She gave him a wavery smile.

She loved this man
so
much
. Why had she only realized it now?

Now…when she couldn’t even tell him.

He sighed. “I’ve something to tell you. I’d hoped we’d have things resolved by tomorrow,
but evidently not. And now I have to leave London for a few days.”

She gazed at him, bewildered. “Leave London?”

“I need to be in Worcester by Friday.”

She tensed. “Why?”

“For the same reason I needed to be in Worcester last month when we were there.”

So here it was again. His mysterious task in Worcester.

“And this is necessary? Now? When we know Roger—Henry—is nearby?”

He flinched but he recovered quickly. “I made a promise, Em. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” she said bitterly, “I understand promises. Far too well.”

“True enough. I meant you might not be able to understand this particular situation
until you see it firsthand.”

“You’re not going to tell me why? You’re going to continue to tease me with this mystery?”

He was silent for a moment. “Sorry, I don’t mean to tease you. I was hoping you’d
come with me,” he said softly.

“Do you mean come with you to Worcester and stay at the inn and worry and have all
kinds of wild thoughts about what you might be doing?”

He blinked. “Is that what happened last time?”

She nodded.

“Well. No. I was thinking this time I’d take you with me so you can see for yourself.”

Three mornings later, they rode up to a tall, sweeping, wrought-iron gate. The journey
out here had taken two long days. Emma still couldn’t walk, so Luke carried her everywhere.

Both of them were out of sorts. Not being able to touch him was driving her mad. And
she hadn’t touched him—well, except when she’d fallen asleep in the carriage and woken
with her head in his lap and his arm wrapped possessively around her. She’d insisted
upon them taking different rooms in their lodgings, and this time he’d ground his
teeth but had granted her request.

He still hadn’t told her what this visit to Worcester was all about. He’d been surprisingly
tight-lipped, maintaining that she needed to see for herself—that he couldn’t adequately
explain it to her until they arrived.

They’d spent much of the two-day journey mulling over the papers Luke had taken from
Henry’s office. Now that Emma had calmed down from the initial shock of seeing Henry
alive, she was more focused than ever on finding him and seeing him brought to justice.

The papers from the office consisted of letters and various agreements. There were
documents regarding a transaction of property, the purchase of a new carriage, a bill
of sale and delivery instructions for a race horse, drawing room furniture, a fine
Persian rug.

There was no mention of a Henry Curtis; the few papers that were signed all bore the
name Roger Morton. Which led Emma to believe that Henry Curtis might have been a false
identity from the beginning. Roger Morton
was
Henry Curtis.

Oh, how he had fooled her.

“But where is he keeping all these things he has purchased with my father’s money?”
Emma had mused after reading yet another receipt.

“We need to find his true place of residence,” Luke said, “because clearly he’s not
keeping any of it in Wapping.” After a moment of silence, he asked her, “Where did
he live when he was courting you?”

“He lived near my father’s house…his lodgings were…” She thought hard, trying to remember.
“I believe they were in Percy Street?” She shrugged. “But he’s long gone from there.
When we married, he gave up his rooms to move to Bristol.”

“Yes, but we should question the landlord, and perhaps the neighbors. They might have
insight.”

The letters were mostly related to gambling debts and business settlements, all containing
names of people Morton knew and who might have information about his whereabouts.

By the evening they arrived in Worcester, they’d developed a plan. They already had
someone watching Morton’s offices. If he returned, they’d be better prepared next
time. Luke would call on his brother Sam—he was still too furious with the duke—for
help. Sam, Luke said, had been a soldier and was used to dealing with men like Roger
Morton.

And, Luke had told her darkly, next time he wouldn’t risk her safety by bringing her
to Wapping. Next time she was to stay home.

Emma knew it was useless to argue. Further, she was beset by feelings of incompetence.
She’d brought her pistol with her to Wapping last time, and after she’d fallen, she’d
fumbled in her cloak for it, but by the time she’d grasped it in her hand, both her
husband and Luke were long gone.

While Luke and Sam waited for Morton to return to Wapping, they’d systematically go
through the names in his correspondence, finding the people mentioned and then questioning
them.

Luke and Emma slept at the inn in Worcester they’d stayed in last month. Emma was
in the room adjacent to Luke’s, and as she prepared for bed, she heard the creak of
his door opening.

She gripped the table. No…maybe he wasn’t going down to the tavern. Maybe he was coming
to see her to wish her a good night…or…Well, she couldn’t think of another reason
for him to leave his room.