Along Came a Rogue (5 page)

She faced him, holding the gun expertly in the crook of her arm. “Thomas taught me how to shoot. He's a very good shot. The best, in fact.” She paused meaningfully, a warning in her voice. “Since my husband's death, I sleep with a loaded pistol next to my bed. And I never miss.”

His mouth twisted wryly. “You missed me earlier.”

“I hit a foot above your head, exactly where I aimed.” She tucked a golden curl behind her ear. “So please keep that in mind should you decide to try kidnapping me in the middle of the night.”

With a toss of her head, she opened the door and disappeared inside the house.

Grey stared after her, blowing out an aggravated breath. Where on earth had the adorable brat gone? How had this woman with the temperament of a she-devil and the body of a temptress taken her place, a stubborn minx who refused to leave her home without force and who had just threatened bodily harm to him should he attempt to try?

He rolled his eyes.
Good Lord.
What had he gotten himself into?

Emily leaned against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut as she struggled to calm both her racing heart and her swirling mind.

Captain Nathaniel Grey…
Impossible!

Yet here he was. The man she still remembered so vividly from his visit to Ivy Glen when she was sixteen…those chocolate eyes that crinkled when he laughed, that mouth that grinned so charmingly, and that thick, unruly blond hair curling at his neck. His body was broader now, the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders much more developed, but those eyes were the same. So were the chiseled lines of his handsome face.

Grey.
She could hardly believe it. Thomas had sent him to her after all these years, and he'd appeared like some dashing knight in shining armor. Yet as she fought back a sob of anguish, she knew she had no choice but to chase him away.

With grim resolve, she pushed herself away from the wall and hurried downstairs to the kitchen to find Yardley.

The woman had been with her for the past two years, arriving just after Andrew brought her to Snowden, when he decided the maid who had attended Emily since her debut was disrespectful to him and replaced her. Emily had been devastated. But the older woman was kind and gentle, and now Yardley was the only person in the world she trusted with her secrets.

“My lady.” Yardley nodded as Emily entered the kitchen, putting together a tray to take upstairs to the men.

“We're having guests for the night,” Emily told her unhappily.

Yardley's hand froze in midair as she placed a saucer on the tray. “Is that wise?”

“I don't believe we have a choice.” She frowned as she looked down at the shortbread on the tray. Five years ago, Grey had raved about Cook's cinnamon biscuits. If she had known he was coming, she would have made some for him. Yet perhaps it was better not to make him feel too welcome, not when her primary goal was to drive him away.

“And who are they, my lady?”

“Major Nathaniel Grey and his man.” Emily hesitated. How on earth did one describe Grey? “The major is…an old family friend.”

But he was far more than that. Even at sixteen, she'd realized how special Grey was. Dashing and kind, he possessed a fierce determination to carve out a brilliant career for himself, and a handsome presence that caught the ladies' attentions. With her, though, he'd simply captured her heart. Yet to her chagrin, he'd paid her no more mind than a piece of furniture…until that one afternoon in the garden.

“A family friend, eh?” The suspicious glance Yardley slid her as she placed a teacup onto the saucer told her that the woman didn't believe her.

“It's not what you think.” Yet she couldn't stop the blush of embarrassment heating her cheeks.

The last time she'd seen him, the
very
last time—heavens, she'd been so foolish! She'd asked him to give her a kissing lesson so she would know what to do with suitors…or some such silly nonsense she barely remembered now. Yet her manipulation worked, and he'd kissed her. It had been the most magical moment of her young life, until her parents stumbled upon them. Amid angry shouts and accusations, Grey left Ivy Glen, with Thomas riding away after him. And two days later, she was sent to boarding school, where her parents hoped to keep her away from “upstarts” like the captain.

“Major Grey served with my brother in the wars,” she explained with more pride than she had a right to feel. Even after suffering the consequences of what she'd done that day, she couldn't forget him and followed him the best she could through Thomas's letters—her heart soaring with his heroics, laughing at his antics, even crying when he'd been wounded. She'd been so upset, in fact, that she wrote to his parents to assure them that he had friends in her family, only for the letters to return undelivered. “I trust him.”
I think…

Yardley removed the water from the stove and poured it into the teapot, giving Emily a wary look. “Why do I suspect there's more you're not telling?”

She bit her lip and divulged with embarrassment, “When I was a girl, I fancied him.”

Yardley paused as she set the teapot onto the tray.

“It's nothing to worry about now,” she insisted. She shrugged it away as the childish infatuation it was.

But it wasn't childish infatuation that had just made her curl her hands around his lapels and attempt to pull him closer, that had her pulse racing and her body tingling in the most intimate places—

Silently, she cursed herself. It wasn't Grey that made her behave like such a cake. It couldn't possibly be
him
. Certainly, she'd gotten over her fascination with him years ago.

No, it was all the changes she was going through. All the lonely and fear-filled nights she'd endured. All the responsibility for the farm sitting on her shoulders. For the past two years, she'd run the property in Andrew's absence, managed the tenants' leases, and somehow made certain the servants were paid. Then she had to bury her husband and pretend to mourn. No one could go through that and remain unaffected.

So when Grey appeared this afternoon, a kind face from her past offering to help her, it was natural that she should yearn to be comforted, consoled, protected—God help her, she wanted to be
wanted
. Of course, it hadn't helped that Grey had lain on top of her like that, the solid weight of him pressing down deliciously into her, or that the masculine scent of him filled her senses, the heat in his chocolate-brown eyes warming between her thighs…

Well, she thought with chagrin, perhaps she hadn't completely gotten over him, after all. While he'd certainly not given her a thought in five years.

She ignored the twinge of vexation in her chest as she admitted, “He never paid me any mind then, and he won't now.”

“Don't be so sure, my lady,” Yardley warned as she wrapped a towel around the pot to keep it warm.

No, that was the one thing about which Emily was certain. Clearly, Grey remembered that kiss only for the temporary rift it caused with Thomas and the lingering animosity between him and her parents. But she'd lived with its consequences every day since, in a life of isolation and abandonment that affected her even now…only to discover that he hadn't known any of the hell she'd suffered.

She'd never blamed Grey—well, perhaps she'd blamed him just a
little
bit. But truly, it had all been her fault, a childish stunt to capture the attention of a man with whom she'd been so infatuated that she hadn't considered the consequences. And yet, while she regretted manipulating him and certainly regretted getting caught, she'd never once regretted
kissing
him.

“Why are they here, then?” Yardley asked, reaching for the spoons.

“My family sent him.” Emily took a deep breath to steady herself and not let fresh tears fall at the thought of Thomas. “He came to tell me that my…” She choked out around the knot in her tightening throat, “My brother is alive.”

“Oh, my lady.” Her bottom lip quivered, and Emily suspected Yardley might just cry, too. “It's a miracle!”

She nodded slowly, then forced out with a smile, “Thomas has asked the major to escort me to London to see him.”

A teacup slipped from Yardley's hand and smashed against the stone floor. Emily startled, jumping back a step, her hand reaching to cover her belly.

“Oh no!” Yardley shook her head adamantly.

Emily knew she wasn't speaking of the broken cup. “Don't worry,” she reassured her. “I'm not going with him, and I've told him so.”

But her heart tore at not being able to sit at Thomas's side and hold his hand while he recovered. How much she so desperately wanted to do exactly that! But at what cost? To endanger her own life, the lives of her family, possibly even Grey—her father was a duke now, but even a duke and all his money wouldn't be able to stop someone determined to harm them. Her heart ached with grief and fear.
Dear God
, how would she ever bear it if anyone was hurt because of her?

Doubt darkened Yardley's face. “He doesn't seem like the type of man who gives up easily.”

No, he certainly wasn't that. In fact, she doubted Grey had ever waved a white flag of surrender in his life. “I'll find a way to convince him to leave.”

“How?”

“I don't know yet.” She lifted her hand to her mouth and worriedly chewed on her thumbnail. He had seemed so determined to keep his promise to Thomas, but she was just as determined to stay right where she was. “But I will.”

Yardley lowered her voice. “Are you going to tell him about your husband?”

“No,” Emily answered firmly. “And neither can you. Not one word, not to anyone.”

Yardley bent down to sweep up the broken cup. “You can trust me.”

At the hurt tone in her voice, Emily immediately felt guilty and murmured apologetically, “I know.” But sometimes she wished there was someone else she could confide in and trust besides Yardley. Ironically, someone exactly like Nathaniel Grey.

No.
Not even he could know her secrets. Because then he would tell her family, and if her family knew, they would come for her to return her to London themselves, and then it would only be a matter of time until
all
their lives were endangered.

“We're going on to Glasgow, just as we planned,” she said quietly. But her chest tightened painfully as she realized that meant she couldn't see Thomas when he needed her most, that she might never see her brother ever again.

As if sensing her doubt, Yardley smiled reassuringly at her. “My sister will be right glad to have us with her. New place, new life…you'll be safe there. No one will think to come looking for you there.”

Emily nodded, but she didn't feel reassured. They would have to leave soon; she wouldn't be able to delay much longer. But lately, as the time drew closer, the dread inside her grew until she thought she might not be able to bear it.

Her shoulders slumped. She was suddenly tired, the energy vanishing from her limbs as a headache pulsed at her temples. Usually at this time of the afternoon she lay down for a nap, partly because she always tired after lunch, but mostly because she was seldom able to sleep well at night. Today, with the surprise of seeing Grey again, the fatigue swept over her in a wave.

Yardley frowned, placing a motherly hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right? You don't look well.”

“I'm just tired.” She was so
very
tired, in fact. Tired of struggling on her own and not being able to turn to her family for help, tired of being so isolated and alone with only Yardley to confide in, tired of being frightened all the time…“I think I'll go up to my room and lie down. Would you take the tea things into the drawing room for the men and give my apologies to Major Grey? They'll need rooms as well, and please ask Phipps to stable their horses.”

“Aye, my lady. I'll take care of everything.”

Emily smiled wearily. “I know you will.”

Yardley nodded over her shoulder at her as she lifted the tray and carried it from the kitchen. “I always do.”

W
ith a muttered curse, Grey gave up all hope of sleeping and rolled out of bed. He couldn't get Emily out of his head.

He grabbed his trousers from the chair and yanked them on. The sweet girl he'd remembered from Ivy Glen was gone, and in her place was a harridan who claimed she was too ill to travel. A delay was possible, he supposed, if she'd been especially distraught over her husband's death. But she certainly wasn't behaving like a grieving widow. And after the way she'd begged off his company this afternoon and evening, he suspected that her bouts of illness were more convenience than convalescence.

Still, he considered as he tugged his shirt over his head, people changed—he certainly had—and he hadn't seen her in five years. His only information about her during that time had been whatever news Thomas thought to share, and Grey didn't dare ask for more. He heaved out a breath as he sat on the chair and reached for his boots. The brat had certainly grown up. The stick with braids had matured into her long legs and golden hair, into those big blue eyes. And he could have sworn she smelled of cinnamon.

Not that it mattered how good she smelled, or looked, or felt—she was completely untouchable. Since his return to England, he'd made a specialty of bedding society widows. They knew how to separate sex from love and posed no threat to his freedom, and rarely were there complications. But
this
widow was an endless complication.

He blew out a harsh breath. He'd been too long without a woman beneath him, that was all. With everything that had happened during the past few weeks, sex had been the last thing on his mind, so naturally, he should feel aroused when he was around a beautiful woman.

That was it. Had to be. Because the alternative, that he actually found the brat desirable, was unthinkable.

He didn't bother buttoning his waistcoat or tucking in his shirt before heading downstairs to find a bottle of liquor to help him sleep. There was no need to finish dressing. After all, no one would see him. The few remaining servants were asleep upstairs, undoubtedly Emily would claim illness all through tomorrow morning and well into the afternoon in order to avoid him, and in his room next door, Hedley snored loudly enough to wake the dead.

But as he passed the upstairs sitting room, he saw light falling softly beneath the closed door. So…someone was awake after all.

He opened the door silently.

Emily sat reading a book on the settee near the small fire. In her lavender satin robe, with her bare feet tucked beneath her and her golden hair falling freely in thick waves around her shoulders, she resembled the carefree young woman he'd known five years ago. Except that a second, more lingering look revealed the truth. Before him sat an experienced and challenging woman with a sensuous and very kissable mouth, long legs perfect for wrapping around a man's waist, and full curves that could provide hours of delightful distraction. And he was achingly aware of every delectable, tempting inch of her.

And
that
, he grudgingly admitted to himself, was the real reason he couldn't get her out of his head tonight. Because for a brief moment in the garden when he'd been lying on top of her and she'd been wiggling beneath him, he'd wanted to be buried inside her.

As if feeling the heat of his gaze, she looked up with a soft gasp and froze. The same horrible fear he saw in her that afternoon gripped her pretty face for just an instant before she realized it was him. Then the fear melted into uncertainty, and she bit her bottom lip indecisively for just a moment before finally sending him a faint smile.

Well. She didn't seem happy to see him, but at least she wasn't firing a gun at him. A decided improvement. And with this woman, he'd gladly take whatever victories he could get.

He leaned against the doorjamb, not daring to step inside the room. “You're awake, Mrs. Crenshaw.”

“So are you.” She closed the book and set it aside, sliding her legs off the settee as she sat up and unwittingly giving him a fleeting glimpse of smooth, shapely calves.

“Couldn't sleep.” He cleared his throat and forced his eyes away from her legs. “Thought I'd look for a whiskey.” Although the sight of her was much more intoxicating.

She hesitated, then offered, “Would brandy do?”

His stomach churned at the thought of the stuff, and if he had a lick of sense in his brain, he'd have been running back to his room as fast as he could to get away from the temptation of her. Yet he nodded, knowing the drink would buy him time with her. Alone. “Nicely, thank you.”

She rose gracefully from the settee. The last remnants of the awkward girl he remembered vanished beneath the smooth swing of her womanly hips as she crossed to the cabinet in the corner, then bent over and gave him such an inviting view of her round derriere that he inhaled sharply through clenched teeth.

She withdrew a crystal decanter and tumbler and splashed the golden liquid into the glass. With a look of challenge, she held it out to him and waited for him to come to her to claim it.

His lips twitched wryly at the irony that the woman who refused to leave her home was once again holding her ground. And that a strong drink was now the least of what he wanted to claim from her tonight.

Unable to resist her siren song, he stepped inside and closed the door, then slowly crossed the room to her.

“I'm glad we have this chance to talk,” she told him.

“Are you?” He didn't believe her for a second.

She gave a jerky nod. “I just—I just wanted to say that what happened—at Ivy Glen—” she began haltingly, her embarrassed voice as soft as the crackling fire beside her. “I don't blame you. It was completely my fault, and I apologize for all the problems it caused.” She held out the tumbler in a peace offering. “Truce?”

His lips curled in relief as he took the glass. “Truce.”

She was watching him, waiting expectantly, so he forced himself to take a sip. Surprisingly, the brandy went down smoothly.

He nodded toward the decanter. “You keep brandy in your sitting room?” The brat was one surprise after another.

“I have trouble sleeping. Sometimes, a glass helps.”

“Like tonight?” He frowned, concern tightening his chest. Perhaps she hadn't been feigning illness after all. “Are you unwell?”

“I'm better, thank you.” She folded her hands demurely in front of her. “But I was quite fatigued earlier.”

“Yes, I suppose you were.” He took another swallow, finding a forgotten taste for brandy, before adding wryly, “After all that shooting.”

She nodded. “Nothing tires out a lady quite like hunting.”

He choked.

As he struggled to fight back the coughs, he slid a glance at her and caught her eyes gleaming mischievously at his expense. For the first time since he arrived at her doorstep, he saw something in those blue depths besides fear and anger. And it was nice.
Very
nice.

“Thank God you didn't go for the kill,” he muttered.

She sighed regretfully. “Next time.”

And then, seemingly despite herself, she laughed—not much of one, to be honest. A truncated and nervous little bubble, but still a laugh. And he was damned happy to hear it.

He studied her over the rim of the glass. She wasn't classically beautiful, certainly not the kind of striking woman who usually drew his attention, and despite her natural grace, she lacked the urbanity he found so alluring in society women. But her face was arrestingly pretty, and combined with her challenging willfulness, which had kept him on alert since he arrived, and her curvaceous body, which had kept him half-hard, she intrigued him more than any woman he could remember in ages. If ever.

“Tell me,” he asked, wanting to know more about the woman she'd become, “do you still sketch?”

Her breath hitched. “Pardon?”

“You sketched at Ivy Glen.” He moved to sit on the settee uninvited, kicking his long legs out in front of him and foolishly settling into the conversation while she wisely—if frustratingly—held her ground on the far side of the room. “Do you still draw?”

“Not since I married.” She stared at him in wonder. “You remember that?”

“Of course, I do. You carried that sketchbook with you everywhere you went.”

“That was when I still dreamed of being a famous artist. I wanted to paint pictures to hang in museums and palaces.” She glanced down shyly at the belt of the robe tied loosely around her waist. A faint smile played at her lips. “I didn't think you'd remember anything about me.”

“Of course, I do,” he repeated, this time in a low murmur. “Why does that surprise you?”

“Because you didn't—” She censored herself and said instead, “Because it was a very long time ago.”

He puzzled, wondering what she'd originally planned to say. But she turned away from him to grasp the fireplace poker and stir up the coals until the flames caught and brightened the room around them.

A playful tone entered her voice. “And because you were an army captain, and I was just Thomas's annoying little sister.”

His lips curled. Yes, she had been that, all right.

She hesitated, then admitted, “To be honest, I never thought I'd see you again.”

“Nor I you.” But he was glad he had. Not only was he enjoying her company now that a truce had been established, but he also suspected she needed him far more than she let on. “You know, Thomas told me stories about when you two were children and all the trouble you caused together.”

“It was always his fault.” At that, she set the poker aside and smiled conspiratorially at him. “
I
was perfectly innocent in everything.”

“Of course,” he agreed with mock earnestness. He swirled the brandy in the glass and asked casually, “So what happened that you two aren't close anymore?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her body stiffen, her smile fade. Pained regret flashed over her face, then disappeared beneath a forced smile. “I got married.” She shrugged the question away. “A woman leaves her family and looks to her husband for support and love.”

My God
, she was the world's worst liar. “But you two were so attached—”

“I heard stories about you, too,” she interrupted, and none too smoothly, but he let her, even knowing full well how she'd purposefully changed topics. Apparently, she wasn't good at subterfuge, either. “About your activities in Spain. All kinds of stories.”

“All kinds?” He grimaced, remembering his exploits off the battlefield, the drunken fights in the local taverns, the relentless pursuit of the local wenches.

“
All
kinds,” she repeated pointedly, slowly approaching him.

“Good Lord,” he muttered in embarrassment and gulped down the rest of the brandy.

With another laugh—this one more relaxed than the first—she took the glass from him and refilled it. She arched a disapproving brow at him over her shoulder. “Did you and Thomas really shave a goat?”

“That goat had it coming. He devoured a perfectly good pair of boots,” he defended shamelessly, although in retrospect, perhaps leaving the beast bald hadn't been the best of reparations. “Besides, it was Thomas's fault.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” Her eyes sparkled disbelievingly. “And the incidents with the hay cart, the casks of wine, the flamenco dancers—”

“Lies, all of it,” he warned as he accepted the fresh glass, this time making her come to him. “Don't believe a word. I was always a perfect gentleman.”

Clucking her tongue softly, she shook her head. “What a shame, then. The image I had of you in my head as a rake has been shattered. I'll never think of you the same way again.”

“Good.” He blew out a hard breath.

She laughed, and his chest filled with warmth. He could easily get used to that sound…soft and soothing, like falling rain.