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.
“And who are you these days, Grey?” Her eyes shined mischievously. “A gentleman or a rake?”
“Both,” he answered earnestly. And she should be grateful for that. Because tonight, the gentleman was keeping the rake at bay.
Her laughter faded. Her face grew serious, and she hesitated before saying quietly, “Thomas wrote that you’d been wounded.”
His gut tightened, unprepared for that swift change in conversation. “Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Are you sure you want to know?” He held her gaze, and to her credit, she didn’t avert her eyes. “That’s not usually a story society ladies want to hear.”
She shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not an ordinary society lady, I suppose.”
No, you’re certainly not. And he couldn’t help but wonder exactly how extraordinary she was, how far from the expectations of propriety she’d be willing to stray. With him.
Slowly, he reached over to pat the seat cushion beside him.
But she didn’t accept the invitation and only continued to watch him warily through lowered lashes, as if unable to decide how far she could trust him.
“Sit down, Emily,” he ordered softly. “There’s nothing scandalous about two old friends enjoying a quiet conversation.”
Clearly, though, she didn’t believe that, her eyes sweeping from her dressing robe to the door, back from the door to his half-undressed appearance as he lounged on the settee…When she didn’t move, a stab of unexpected disappointment pierced him that the brat should prove so ordinary after all.
Then, surprising him, she agreed. “I suppose not.” Tentatively, she sat down next to him, curling her legs beneath her. Her small surrender pleased him far more than he had a right to feel. “Two old friends,” she repeated with a smile.
Oh, he was certainly feeling friendly, all right. But not trusting himself to respond to that without giving her cause to slap him, he said nothing and raised the glass to his lips.
“What happened to you in Spain?” she prompted after a moment. “How were you hurt?”
This certainly wasn’t what he wanted to talk about tonight with a half-dressed, beautiful woman sitting next to him. Yet the serious expression on her face told him it was important to her. So, inexplicably, it became important to him. “We were charging the end of a cannon line,” he began. He watched the golden liquid with a frown as he swirled it thoughtfully. “We’d made it across the field when I looked down and saw the hole in my breeches, the blood…I knew I’d been hit. The ball had cut through my thigh.” Two inches lower, and it would have taken his knee. Two feet higher, his life.
“You didn’t know until you saw it?” Confusion darkened her face. “Didn’t you feel it?”
He took a large swig of brandy. “No.”
Men in battle often didn’t know they’d been shot until they saw the wound or lost too much blood to fight on. They were distracted by the noise and action, by the adrenaline pulsing through their muscles, and by a single-minded focus on killing in order to stay alive.
But how could he explain all that to a gently bred lady? He shouldn’t be talking about this with her in the first place. Although it was surely safer than what he’d wanted to share with her, he supposed…a detailed explanation of how he wanted to peel away her clothes, lay her bare body in front of the fire, stroke between her thighs until she moaned with pleasure—
He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “We were in the middle of battle,” he said simply, not trusting himself at that moment to say anything more.
His answer seemed to satisfy her, though, because she nodded solemnly as if she understood. And perhaps she did. She’d already known immense grief in her young life, maturing her far beyond other women her age.
Slowly, he held the glass of brandy toward her, daring her to go a step further in proving just how extraordinary she was by sharing the drink with him. The only other women who’d ever done such a thing were those like Lady Roquefort—society women who considered him little more than a titillating way to disrupt the monotony of their lives.
Not Emily. She was there because she wanted to be with him. And he liked it. More than he should have. But never before had he experienced having a soft woman in whom to confide the hard details of his life, never before had he experienced the lure of a woman who understood him so well.
She lowered her eyes to the glass. “I don’t think…”
“It’s your brandy, after all,” he tempted.
She hesitated, then acquiesced. “Just a small sip.”
With a deep breath, her decision made, she carefully took the glass from his hand and placed her lips to the rim where his had just been. He watched the soft undulation of her elegant throat as she swallowed, the small movement ca
scading through him.
He went hard. Sweet Lucifer. Thank God he’d been enough of a cad not to tuck in his shirt or he would have embarrassed them both. The shy teenage girl had grown into an alluring woman. And not just physically. Everything about Emily drew him, right down to her soft laughs and haughty little sniffs.
Good Lord, she was seducing him, and she didn’t even realize it.
She handed back the glass. “Was Thomas with you when it happened?”
“Yes,” he answered quietly, turning his focus back to the war, which dampened the throbbing at his crotch as effectively as if he’d rolled in snow. “He took me behind the lines and made certain the surgeons tended to the wound.”
He’d done far more than that, in fact. When Grey had lost consciousness from the pain caused by the surgeons digging into his thigh after the ball, Thomas stood fast, pistol in hand, and refused to let the bloody leeches amputate his leg.
He took a large swallow of brandy, wishing it could have been something much stronger, and murmured, “He saved my life.”
A comfortable silence fell between them, and he was glad for it. There was no need to go further into the gruesomeness he’d experienced during the war. It was in the past. Except for an ugly scar that would never disappear and a slight limp when he’d been riding too long, there was hardly any mark that he’d taken a bullet that changed the direction of his life, sweeping him from Spain back to England.
“I heard you became an agent after that,” she said quietly. “And a good one.”
His lips curled with pride at her small compliment. “I’d like to think so. In fact,” he admitted, feeling an irresistible urge to share his good news with her, “I’ve been offered a new position on the Continent, an important one. I’ll be overseeing operations in southern Spain.” He paused. “I should have left already, but I delayed because of Thomas.”
And because of you. Which was another reason he had to convince her to leave tomorrow. He’d already angered Lord Bathurst, Secretary of War and the Colonies, by delaying these past few weeks since the shooting. He doubted he could delay much longer and still receive his promotion.
Along Came a Rogue Page 5
