The Rogue's Proposal

by Jennifer Haymore

  Luke ran as fast as he could. Twigs and gravel crunched under his feet. He was near the stream at Ironwood Park, trying to reach the forest, where he could find a place to hide under the cover of the trees.

  But it was no use. Fingers encircled his arm in thick, powerful bands, pulling him back. And he looked into the angry, twisted face of his father. He smelled the sherry on his father’s breath and winced. He hated the smell of sherry.

  “How dare you run from me?” Papa growled.

  Luke didn’t answer. He was too afraid to answer.

  The duke moved even closer, his sharp green eyes seeming to dive into Luke’s soul. “Look at you. You’ll never hide your true ugliness, Lukas, your inherent malevolent nature. So stop bothering to try. You’ll never be anything like your brother. You will never inherit, because you aren’t worthy. Do you hear me? You will never be worthy. Never.”

  Why? Luke always wanted to ask. Why do you hate me so much? What have I done?

  But he knew what he’d done. He existed. His very existence disgusted his father.

  The duke sighed, and Luke winced. He knew what was coming. “Turn around. If you refuse to banish the evil yourself, then I’ll need to beat it out of you.”

  “No, Papa,” Luke whimpered, but his voice was so small compared to the booming, overpowering voice of his father.

  The duke shoved him to the ground, jerked his shirt up, raised the riding crop. Luke curled up in a ball on the ground, but the crop was whistling through the air, coming down to slice at his skin…

  Luke’s body surged up to a seated position. He bent forward, gasping. His back stung from the blow. Was he bleeding? He twisted his body, trying to see.

  Gradually, he realized he was in bed. He wore his shirt, and it was damp from sweat, not from blood. And Emma stirred beside him.

  “What is it?” she murmured. “What’s wrong, Luke? Are you all right?”

  Blast. He was shaking, he realized. Trembling from a childish fear of a man who’d been dead for twenty years.

  He can’t get to you now.

  But his self-reassurance fell on deaf ears, as it always did.

  “Luke?”

  “Ah,” he said shakily. He couldn’t…stop…shaking. What was his problem? “Yes.”

  She was more awake now. She rose to a sitting position beside him, laid her hand on his shoulder. He tried not to flinch away. His skin felt raw. Like his flesh had just been beaten to ribbons, even though he knew it was just a dream. He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t.

  “You’re shaking.”

  “I’m all right,” he growled. Lying, of course.

  “No. You’re not all right.” Her voice was calm. Soothing. But something about it… Pity. He couldn’t do this right now. He’d shared so much with Emma—so much more than he had with any other person. But there were places he couldn’t go, and this was one of them.

  He stumbled out of bed, trying to remember where he’d put his trousers and his coat, fumbling around until he found them in the darkness.

  “What are you doing?” Now she was beginning to sound alarmed.

  “I need to go for a walk.”

  “Luke, it’s the middle of the night. It’s all right…”

  He struggled with the legs of his trousers, which he’d found on the floor. “No,” he pushed out through his closing throat. “I need to walk. I’ll be back. Later.”

  “Luke, don’t run away. Stay with me.”

  His trousers weren’t buttoned properly, but he could hardly drag air into his lungs. He had to get out of here. He grabbed his coat from the peg where it had been hanging, took the key from the lock, then opened the door and went out into the corridor. He struggled to get the key into the lock—his hands shook violently—but finally he locked the door. He knew Emma hated being locked in, but if he couldn’t do anything else, he’d take some steps—however weak and meaningless—to keep her safe.

  Then he slumped against the door, closing his eyes, clenching his fist around the key. He could breathe a little better out here in the darkened corridor.

  He ran a rough hand through his hair, his fingers still shaking.

  This was all an illusion, he realized. What he was doing with Emma. It was a teasing taste of heaven, but it wasn’t real. Sooner or later he would need to run from his demons again, only to be grabbed, reminded of his failings, and beaten into the dust.

  And he had brought Emma into this mad world of his. He was destined to disappoint her, ultimately hurt her. It was inevitable. He always hurt the people he cared about. Like his mother. Like Trent.

  He straightened on unsteady legs and made his way downstairs. He wished the tavern was open, but it was too late—or too early, he supposed. There would be no drink to help him soften those cutting edges tonight.

  He walked down the corridor of the silent inn and burst outside into the misty street. A thin layer of snow whitened the street. Winter was definitely on its way.

  At least it had stopped raining.

  * * *

  Emma couldn’t sleep after Luke left. She lay there for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling. Wondering what he’d dreamed about. He wouldn’t tell her. Should she try to pry it out of him, or should she let it go?

  Let it go, she decided. Luke had divulged certain secrets to her, but only when he had been ready to do so. If he ever wanted to tell her about his nightmares, it would have to be on his terms.

  But she wanted so badly to know. To help him. She hated feeling so helpless. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but it was impossible. As dawn turned the world to a dull gray around her, she stared at the ceiling, at the crack running across it that grew clearer, deeper, longer as the sun shed its light on the world.

  By the time Luke returned, Emma had bathed and dressed and was gazing out the window. When she heard the door open, she turned to watch him enter.

  He hesitated on the threshold. “Did you get any more sleep?”

  “No.”

  He winced. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  A humorless laugh rasped out of him. “Oh, yes, it is.”

  She gave him a small smile. “It’s all right. I’ll sleep tonight.”

  She was always assuring him that it was all right. But was it? She wasn’t so certain right now.

  He came up to her, put his arms around her, drew her close. She slipped her arms around him, too, and pressed her lips to his neck just above his collar. His skin was cool. He’d been outside. She inhaled deeply, loving his salty scent.

  “Em,” he said softly. That was all.

  They stood there for a minute, holding each other. Then, gently, he pulled away. “It snowed last night.”

  “I saw,” she said. “At least it’s not raining.”

  “The roads will be bad, but we should try to get some miles behind us today.”

  “Yes.” Their days here had been nothing short of exquisite—Luke had showed her erotic pleasure she’d secretly fantasized about, but he’d given her much more than she’d ever dreamed possible. He was rough in bed, but tender at the same time. Loving and attentive. A rogue who took her to the edge, then thrust her over again and again.

  She’d loved every moment they’d spent here, but those stolen moments had been necessary due to the weather. Finding Roger Morton was still the priority. They needed to hurry to London, locate the man, and hopefully find the answers to all their questions about Henry and the dowager duchess.

  Then what would happen?

  She was trying not to think of that. She still had the gun in the bottom of her satchel. The rain hadn’t ruined it, thankfully—the boot had ended up keeping their luggage dry, after all.

  Luke still hadn’t discovered her gun. That was for the best. After their conversation last night, she knew that if he found out about it, he would take it away.

  An hour later they’d eaten breakfast and were once again on the road—the now-muddy, pitted road, with melting patches of snow
on its edges—bound for London.

  Luke was quieter than usual this morning. Emma knew the reason why—his nightmare—but she was loath to broach the subject after mulling it over in her head all morning.

  They traveled slowly, much slower than their usual speed. Emma understood the roads were bad, but after hours of plodding along at a snail’s pace, she thought she just might crawl out of her skin.

  “Can’t we go a little faster?” she begged.

  Luke didn’t remove his focus from the road. “No.”

  She sighed as he negotiated around a muddy puddle, remembering how reckless she’d thought he’d been for purchasing this curricle in the beginning. In truth, he’d been a conscientious and careful driver from the start.

  “At this rate, we’ll arrive in London sometime in January.”

  He shrugged. “Better alive in London in January than dead in Northumberland in October.”

  Well, she couldn’t argue with that. So she sat back and studied the scenery as they began to climb a steady incline. The forest was thick here, encroaching on the road on both sides. Red-and-gold-leafed sycamores, green pines. Fallen leaves in stunning autumn browns, reds, oranges, and golds blanketed the ground, and the snow, though melting, showed through in patches of white on the leaves, tucked in shady corners of tree trunks and on the ridged edges of the road.

  They topped the rise. The road here began to descend in a sharp grade, curving sharply under the canopy of an exceptionally large and heavily leafed sycamore whose golden and red leaves had clung tenaciously to its branches. Just off to the right, Emma saw water—a pond, perhaps, its surface placid and edged with snow and weeds.

  The sycamore shadowed the road here, and a thin layer of snow blanketed the next several feet. The strip of dirt stretching out before them appeared even, but the rocky movement told Emma that was an illusion caused by the uniformity of the snowfall.

  Suddenly, they dipped into a large patch of slush, and the carriage jerked wildly. The earth seemed to grab at the wheel on Emma’s side. The horses kept straining forward but clinging fingers of mud and water and snow held the curricle back.

  Crack! The carriage buckled, the motion catapulting her from the carriage and sending her flying through the air. She scrambled desperately to hold on to something, but the seat had been ripped out from under her. She reached out for Luke, but he was gone, too. Wood cracked and splintered all around her. And then, a sudden, sharp pain shot through her ankle and up her leg. She tumbled headfirst through ice-cold water. Her hand sank into mud. Something struck her cheek.

  For a brief second, everything was perfectly still. Perfectly quiet.

  And then the excruciating pressure came off her ankle and arms closed around her and hauled her out of the water.

  “Emma!” The voice was loud. Anguished. Close.

  She was laid on a soft bed of leaves.

  “Emma, are you all right? Speak to me, please.” Hands closed over her shoulders, shook her slightly, and she smiled.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. Luke was bent over her, his expression wild. As he saw her eyes open, he bent down and gathered her close against his chest. “My God,” he breathed. “Thank God. I thought…thought…I’d lost you.”

  She shook her head, confused. And then sensation returned to her body in a rush. Wetness seeped through her cloak and all the layers of garments beneath it. Her ankle burned with pain. And it felt like there was a cold, wet weight on her face.

  She reached up in curiosity and found a mud-laden leaf stuck to her cheek. She pushed it away. Luke still held her, muttering apologies as he kissed her hair.

  “What…what happened?” she managed when she found her voice.

  “We hit a patch of snow—or that’s what it looked like. It was clearly some kind of ditch filled with water, though. The mud trapped the wheel on your side, and the axle failed. Look.”

  Pulling away slightly, Luke helped her to a seated position, then turned toward the road. She followed his gaze. The horses seemed fine—they stood on the road placidly, nuzzling at weeds along its edge. But the carriage—their curricle—was in pieces, its major parts on the road and one wheel near their feet. “Oh, no,” she breathed.

  “You were propelled out of the carriage and into the water…” Luke paused, swallowed. His voice shook when he went on. “You landed headfirst. And then you were so still, I thought you’d hit your head…I thought you’d…”

  “I’m all right,” she reassured him. Her wits were returning, and trying to think beyond the frigid cold, she assessed herself. Her head felt fine. Her body, too. Well, except for her foot.

  “Are you…were you hurt?” she asked him, running a hand over his cheek.

  “No. I leapt after you. Landed on my feet. There’s not a damn scratch on me.” His lips twisted bitterly. “Of course.”

  She made a tsking noise. “Stop that. Are you wishing you’d been hurt?”

  “If it meant you weren’t, then yes,” he said without hesitation.

  “I’m not hurt.”

  He released a slow, audible breath. “Are you really all right?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated, then added, “But I think something happened to my foot.”

  He moved to her feet. “Which one?”

  “The right.”

  Slowly, he removed her sodden shoe. Every touch near her ankle was excruciating. His fingers ran gently over the surface of where it hurt the most. “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “That damn wheel fell on you. I had to get it off before I could pull you from the water. It must have crushed your foot.”

  His gaze moved from her ankle to her face, his expression hard. “You’re chilled to the bone. You need dry clothes. Then we need to find you a doctor.”

  “Out here? I think our first dilemma is what to do about the carriage.”

  Luke ground his teeth. Then he reached down and scooped her into his arms as if she were a child. “Luke! I’m too heavy. I can walk.”

  “No.” He tugged her tighter against him and rose to his feet with surprisingly little effort. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he climbed the embankment and stepped onto the road. He turned slowly, keeping her snug against him. “There’s nowhere for you to sit. Can you stand on one foot for a few moments?”

  “Of course,” she told him.

  Ever so gently, he set her down, and even though her heart was still beating with fear and shock, and even though pain wound through the bottom of her leg, she felt a quickening in her womb.

  He felt it, too. When her feet touched the ground, he looked down at her with a heated gaze. “I want you so damn much right now.”

  Then take me, she wanted to say. Right here in the middle of the road. But she shivered instead. Even though it was a shiver of need, he took it as a chill, and after ensuring she was steady, he stepped away.

  She looked down at the rocky, wet ground, acknowledging that it would have probably been highly uncomfortable to make love to Luke right here. Sometimes, practicality ruled.

  She watched Luke rummage around in the boot, drawing dry clothes out. He returned with her extra chemise and a petticoat. “We’ll start with these. Stand still.”

  She stood as he removed her dripping, heavy silk cloak. She nearly cried when he drew it off and she saw that it was caked with mud and leaves. “Do you think it’s ruined?”

  “No,” he said softly. He went behind her, not allowing her to move, and worked on the buttons of her dress—she’d been wearing the white muslin. It, too, was dirty, wet, and mud-splashed.

  The dress came off, followed by her petticoat. And, half naked in the middle of a thoroughfare in Northumberland, she began to shiver uncontrollably. She’d never been so cold.

  Luke saw—she couldn’t have hid it from him—and his jaw tightened. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s just…chilly.”

  “It all needs to come off,” he said darkly. “You’re soaked. If anyone drives by in the next five minute
s—” He glanced up and down the road as if willing all nearby vehicles to halt where they were until Emma was decent again.

  And then he went to work. Balancing on her one good foot, she helped him unlace her stays, then lift the chemise over her body.

  His eyes flickered over her when she was naked, but then he saw her shivering, her hands wrapped around her chest. A muscle jerked in his jaw again, and he tugged the dry chemise on over her.

  “No stays,” he snapped. “They’re too wet.” She didn’t have an extra set of stays anyhow.

  “All right.”

  He helped her into her petticoat in silence, his movements efficient but gentle. Then he buttoned her into her black-and-white half-mourning dress.

  No vehicles passed by. Which was rare, since the road had been relatively crowded earlier—all the farmers and travelers making their way north or south after the days of rainy weather.

  Now that she was fully dressed, she’d expected to warm up. But the cold had settled into her bones, and she couldn’t stop shaking.

  He removed his coat and laid it over her shoulders, murmuring, “It’s only damp on the outside.”

  He was right. The inside was warm and smelled of him. She wrapped it tight about her as he went to the carriage—what was left of it—and fetched the blanket they’d had since Bristol.

  He laid that on her shoulders over his coat and then pulled her close. He rubbed her back briskly, trying to infuse warmth, but his gaze went to the curricle.

  “Someone should be by soon. We’ll have him take us to the closest doctor.”

  “Really,” she told him, “I don’t think it’s so bad. Just a bruise.”

  He scowled at her. “A bruise you cannot stand on? I don’t think so.”

  They went to the carriage, Luke supporting most of her weight as she hobbled over the muddy ground. Emma leaned against the one still-standing wheel while Luke unhitched the horses.

  Before he finished, they heard the clomping of hooves coming from ahead. Emma watched as a coach and four with a driver on the front seat and another man seated at the rear came into view. They’d been moving at a very fast pace—compared, at least, to the speed Luke and Emma had been traveling at earlier—but the driver slowed the horses as soon as he saw the wreckage scattered across the road.