Along Came a Rogue

by Anna Harrington

  Her hand covered his as it rested on the cushion between them, and gave his fingers a small squeeze that shot straight through him. He shifted uncomfortably. The aching returned to his cock in full force.

  “You’re a good friend to him,” she said quietly.

  When she didn’t pull her hand away, he dared to stroke his thumb along hers, and his gut tightened when he elicited a soft tremble from her in response.

  “So,” she whispered a bit breathlessly, which pleased him immensely, “are you happy?”

  He smiled at her question. No one had ever asked him that before, and it would have been an odd question coming from anyone but Emily. She’d always been perceptive, those blue eyes undoubtedly noticing far more than she let on.

  “I’m very happy with my life.” Since he was currently sharing a brandy with a beautiful woman who didn’t realize that her dressing robe had gaped and given him a tantalizing view of the swell of her breast— “Exactly as it is.”

  As if reading his mind and the wicked thoughts swirling there, she drew her hand away. He resisted the urge to grab after it like some green boy chasing his first woman.

  “Thomas never wrote much about his time in the army, at least not about anything important,” she told him, her fingers pulling at the hem of her robe. It fell open around her legs and revealed just the tips of her bare toes beneath, but he wished it would open further so he could see exactly how long those legs of hers had become. “He told stories about all the trouble you two got into, what Spain looks like…Sometimes he complained about the food or the weather, but he never mentioned the fighting.”

  “Real heroes seldom talk about what they do in battle.” In his experience, it was the men who saw very little action who told the most stories, their tales always exaggerated and usually lies. Most likely it was because men who had truly seen the fires of battle never wanted to experience them again, not even as memories.

  “Thomas was a hero, then?” she asked quietly.

  “The bravest of the Scarlet Scoundrels,” he assured her. Then he couldn’t resist adding with a grin, “Except for me, of course.”

  But this time she didn’t laugh at his teasing. Instead, she kept her eyes lowered as she twisted her fingers in the folds of her robe. “What happened to him, Grey?”

  She meant the robbery, of course, but the solemnity in her voice made him wonder if she didn’t mean something more. “He was walking in Mayfair,” he began reluctantly. Her brother should have been the one to share this with her, but if he wanted to convince her to leave with him tomorrow, then he knew he had to tell her the grisly details tonight. “He’d been to Strathmore House, and on his way home, he was stopped by a footpad.”

  Her hand trembled, so he reached slowly to enfold it beneath his. He half expected her to pull away again, but she didn’t move except to draw a deep breath to steady herself.

  “The man shot him.” When he felt her flinch, he tightened his hold on her hand. “The bullet entered his side, right here.” He tapped his left side with his free hand. “He lost a lot of blood, so much that he didn’t wake for nearly three days, and when he did, he was feverish, delirious…None of the doctors thought he would live.” In a low voice, he admitted guiltily, “Neither did I.”

  Her fingers tightened gently around his to reassure and comfort, as if she knew he shared her pain.

  “Thomas wants to see you.” He squeezed her hand. “Whatever’s come between you two, you need to put it aside. For him.”

  For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t respond, only stared at him in the flickering shadows of the dying firelight. Then she stood and slipped her hand from his as she walked away.

  * * *

  Emily stared down into the fire, this time not finding the energy to stir the flames. She was trembling again, not from the grief of knowing how Thomas had been hurt but from the agony of not being able to see him. And she wanted to—oh God, how much she wanted that! But she couldn’t see him, not when her presence might very well endanger his life.

  She inhaled deeply. Grey was waiting for her to explain. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her back, just as she could still feel the tingling in her fingers where he’d held them. Just holding his hand had given her more comfort than she’d felt since her wedding, and when the warmth and strength of him flowed into her, she’d almost let herself believe that everything could be all right again.

  If she’d felt that much comfort from merely holding his hand, then how soothing would it be to be held in his arms, kissed, touched—

  “Emily,” his deep voice murmured at her shoulder, sending a warm pulse down her spine.

  She gasped. He’d moved so silently she hadn’t heard him approach.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice thick with concern. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t,” she assured him. But he did. Just his presence here upset her, tearing her between lying to keep him safe and wanting desperately to confide in him, between wanting him to leave and wanting him to wrap his arms around her to hold her close.

  Now, with his body near enough to heat her back, every inch of her hummed with long-forgotten need to be wanted as a woman. And with the way his head hung low over her shoulder and his lips poised close to her ear, his ragged breath warm against her cheek—could it be possible that Grey wanted her, too?

  She could barely dare to believe that, yet the pulsing inside her was simply too electric, too thrilling to be wrong. Her body knew instinctively what his wanted. But would he act on his desire? If she simply leaned back, bringing her body against his hard chest, would the gentleman in him set her away, or would the rake wrap his arms around her, remove her clothes to reveal her to the firelight—

  No. Tears of frustration and torment dampened her lashes because she so desperately wanted what she could never have.

  “Come with me to London,” he cajoled, his fingers touching hers as her hand dangled at her side.

  Anguish sliced at her heart as the enormity of what she was refusing crashed through her—the opportunity to be at her brother’s side, the chance to be in Grey’s arms. Squeezing her eyes shut, she choked out, “I—I can’t.”

  “Why not?” His hands brushed up her arms now, heating her skin as if the sleeves of her robe didn’t exist.

  “Because I…I haven’t been feeling well.” His caresses made it difficult to think, and damn him, he knew it, too! “I need a few more weeks, Grey, please.”

  “If I come back for you then,” he asked quietly, his lips so close to her ear that they brushed her earlobe with each word, “you’ll return with me?”

  “Yes.” Another lie. Because when he returned, she’d be gone.

  He took her shoulders and faced her toward him, and his eyes turned hard as they leveled on hers. “Brat, you are trying my patience.”

  Her lips parted in stunned surprise as the heat he’d flamed between them vanished. “What do you—”

  “You’re beautiful when you lie.” He arched a brow. “But you’re still lying.”

  She desperately shook her head. “Grey, please—”

  His hands tightened around her arms. “Are you in trouble?”

  She fought back a gasp. Oh God, he knew…somehow, Grey knew! And for a heartbeat, she wanted to admit the truth to him and put an end to the lonely nightmare her life had become. But she couldn’t.

  “No,” she lied, the single word barely above a whisper.

  The hard flicker in his eyes told her he didn’t believe her. In that instant, she had a glimpse of the War Office agent he was, suspicious and wary, catching every detail.

  Then he softened, and she glimpsed the man beneath the agent, who gazed on her with concern. He asked gently, “Are you in danger, Emily?” As she stepped back to escape his grasp, he pursued her and cupped her face in both his hands. “Let me help you.”

  A knot of emotion tightened her throat at the strength and support Grey offered. And God help her, she wanted to
take it. She wanted to crawl into his arms, to somehow bury herself inside him and finally be safe—

  She groaned softly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “If you didn’t want me at Snowden Hall,” he countered, crooking a half grin, “then you should have aimed lower with your gun.”

  She didn’t laugh at his teasing. Instead, she fisted her hands helplessly at her sides to keep from reaching for him. “That’s not what I meant.”

  He frowned. “Then what exactly did you mean?”

  She shook her head, futilely attempting to chase away both the fear and the arousal blossoming inside her. She should never have allowed him into the room with her tonight, or offered him a drink, or let him ever get this close. While she wore nothing more than her robe and thin night rail beneath, Grey stood there in the firelight half-dressed himself, with his shirt collar hanging open wide and revealing the place where his neck and shoulder met. That place where she found herself longing to place her lips…

  Madness! She would have laughed at herself if frustration weren’t grinding razor-sharp inside her.

  “I meant—” She swallowed hard. “That you should leave tomorrow. I insist.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, and the determined gesture frustrated her to infuriation. “I am not leaving unless you—”

  “Stubborn man!” she snapped and stalked away.

  His brow arched as he countered evenly, “Stubborn woman.”

  In exasperation, she pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead, not knowing how to feel about him—if she should be furious, disappointed, aroused—or if she should grab her pistol and start shooting at him. Again.

  “Why won’t you just leave?” she half demanded, half begged.

  “I will,” he answered earnestly. “As soon as you tell me the truth.”

  She threw up her hands in aggravation. “I have told you—”

  A metal click sounded softly at the door, and the words strangled in her throat. She froze, sudden terror ripping the air from her lungs.

  But Grey only frowned, staring at her in bewilderment. He hadn’t heard it. But she knew the sound of fear—she’d lived with it for the past five months, and it slithered through her like a sickening poison.

  “Grey,” she whispered, so low that his name was nothing more than a terrified breath, “I think someone’s trying—”

  An explosion boomed through the house, the sound of shattering glass lost beneath her scream.

  Chapter Four

  Grey rushed to the door and pulled on the handle—locked. Behind him, he heard Emily gasp as she fought back a second scream.

  “Where’s the key?” he asked evenly, forcing his voice to stay calm for her sake.

  “I don’t have one—not in here—I never lock it—”

  “Someone just did. Hedley!” He pounded his fist against the wooden panel. “Hedley, wake up!”

  The commotion in the house grew louder around them. More crashes, more shattering glass, followed by the panicked sounds of running feet and muffled shouts.

  “Stay back!” Grey ordered. Retreating a stride, he lunged forward and slammed his shoulder against the door. Then again. And again. But it didn’t budge.

  “Grey, stop!” Emily rushed forward, her hand on his arm to pull him back. “Stop—you’ll hurt yourself!”

  “I have to get us out of here.” He pounded at the door with his fist. “Hedley!”

  Then he saw it—the first tendrils of gray smoke curling beneath the door. From the tightening of her fingers on his arm, he knew Emily saw it, too.

  “The house is on fire,” she whispered, her face white with fear. “They’re burning it down around us.”

  “The hell they will!” he growled.

  He broke free of her grasp and ran to the window, tossed it open, and leaned over the sill, hoping for any kind of escape route. But there was no ledge connecting their room to the one beside them, and a two-story drop to the ground waited below. They were trapped. Jump from the window and die, or burn alive inside the room.

  “Major!” From the opposite side of the door, Hedley pulled frantically at the handle, but the lock wouldn’t give. “It won’t open!”

  “There’s a key downstairs in the kitchen,” Emily cried out.

  “Forget the key,” Grey ordered. “Go fetch an ax from the stable and chop the damned door down!”

  “Aye, Major!”

  As Hedley’s footsteps pounded away, Emily grabbed his hand. Her fingers laced tightly through his as if she were afraid she’d lose him if she let go. “But the key is downstairs.”

  “Brat.” He cupped her face in his free hand to hold her still while he explained as calmly as he could given the chaos unfolding around them, “Whoever is doing this locked us into the room so we couldn’t get out before they set the place on fire. They would have thought to take the key from the kitchen so no one could unlock us.”

  She choked out a terrified sob.

  “But Hedley will get us out, count on it,” he reassured her, although he didn’t feel all that certain himself. “And I will protect you. Do you trust me?”

  Sucking in a shaking breath, she nodded jerkily. “With my life.”

  “Good.” Her soft admission stirred a warmth deep inside his chest. Later he would let himself wonder what that meant, but now— “Help me find a way out of this room.”

  He snatched up the iron fireplace poker and began to pound it against the door handle, hoping to break it free so he could ram the poker inside and twist open the lock. Smoke billowed beneath the door now, the smell acrid and pungent as the wood panels grew warm to the touch.

  “Could you shoot the lock open?” she asked desperately.

  “If I had my gun.” But he’d left it in his room, not thinking he’d need a weapon inside a sleeping house.

  He twisted the poker against the handle, trying to force open the lock as he pried at it, all the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining with brute force. But it didn’t give. With a curse, he raised the poker to strike the door again.

  She waved a gun in front of his face. “Here!”

  “What the hell—” He drew back in surprise and stared. A dueling pistol with pearl-inlay handle and acid-etched barrel, elegantly beautiful, and wholly impractical. And so old he wondered if it would even fire.

  “Be careful,” she warned, “it’s loaded.”

  He blinked. “You keep a loaded pistol in your sitting room?”

  “Of course.”

  For a heartbeat he stared at her incredulously. Then, grinning broadly, he murmured appreciatively, “Good girl.” He gestured toward the settee. “Get behind that.”

  She did as ordered, and standing at an angle to the door, he raised the pistol and fired. The ball hit the lock and shattered it, the metal pieces falling away. Dropping the spent pistol, he kicked hard at the door, and this time, it broke open with a splintering pop.

  With a snarling whoosh, smoke and heat poured into the room. Rolling flames curled across the ceiling.

  “Emily!” he shouted over the noise of the burning building, calling her to come to him.

  But she was frozen in fear, her eyes wide as they stared at the flames. Even from across the room, he could see her shaking violently.

  He rushed to her, grabbed her hand, and pulled her toward the door. When she saw the flames engulfing the hallway, she screamed and jerked back with terror. His grip tightened around her wrist so she wouldn’t be able to pull away, so tightly that he was certain he bruised her. But he refused to let go.

  “Come on—we’ve got to go. Now!” He dragged her into the hallway and straight into the raw heat of the fire.

  Forcing her to crouch low beneath the billowing smoke, he pulled her along behind him as he half crawled down the hallway toward the stairs, moving as quickly as he could beneath the lowering wall of smoke. But she could barely walk and still shook violently with fear, and she coughed and gasped as she struggled to breathe in the th
ick smoke.

  As they reached the stairs, Hedley raced up toward them. A damp cloth was tied around his mouth and nose, an ax gripped in his hands. When he saw Emily, he grabbed for her arm.

  “I’ve got her,” Grey yelled. “Get the others out of the house!”

  “They’re all outside.”

  “Then get yourself out!”

  “I’m not leavin’ you, Major.”

  “Go! Get to the stable and hitch up the team. Quickly! We’ll be right after you.”

  With a worried frown, Hedley nodded and turned to hurry down the stairs and back through the burning house. A good soldier, Hedley would never disobey orders, and Grey was counting on that. He needed to get Emily far away from here as quickly as possible.

  “Come on, brat,” he coaxed. He slipped his arm around her waist to help her down the stairs, their way nearly black with smoke and lit only by bright flashes of searing flame.

  But she was too overcome to follow, and her legs crumpled beneath her. He scooped her into his arms as she fell, her body frighteningly lifeless, her arms unable to cling to him as he cradled her against his chest.

  Slipping his hand behind her head to press her face against his shoulder and protect her from the heat and swirling billows of smoke, he carefully descended the stairs, then carried her through the house and out the front door into the cold night.

  Around them, everything was confusion and panic. The two male servants had given up on the house, letting it burn to the ground in favor of attempting to dump water on the outbuildings and save whatever they could of the farm. A sobbing Yardley huddled by the garden wall, staring incredulously at the flames now engulfing the roof and spreading down to the ground floor, unable to believe the terrible sight before her. The night sky was alive with flames and sparks, and all of it glowed like the fires of hell.

  Forcing back the panic that pulsed through him, Grey laid Emily down on the damp grass. Her body slumped helplessly onto the ground. She coughed violently to clear the smoke from her lungs and inhale fresh air.