The Redemption of a Rogue

by Jess Michaels

  While he sat down in the chair before her, Diana looked back at Imogen with a knowing smile. “Bring the candle a bit closer if you would, my dear.”

  She did so, and when Diana unwrapped the field dressing, Imogen winced. “Oh, Oscar. It looks terrible. You must be in so much pain.”

  He glanced down. There was a decidedly ugly hole that went in one side of his arm and out the other. He moved it slightly and a slash of pain rushed through him, but not the kind that indicated broken bones. He was lucky at that.

  “It’s not comfortable,” he admitted as dismissively as he could manage so as not to worry Imogen even more. “But I’ve felt worse.”

  Diana fussed with the wound a moment, using the light as she cleaned it with a fluid that made the injury sting. She looked up at him. “This isn’t going to be comfortable.”

  “It hasn’t been so far,” Oscar grumbled.

  She laughed as a response. “My husband will like you. He groused when I took care of him a long time ago, as well. You can compare notes later about what a dreadful fiend I am.”

  “Judging from the way the man looked at you after the gunfire, I would assume he doesn’t think that of you at all,” Oscar said.

  She smiled as she brought out a needle and heavy thread and swiftly stitched the wound on either side of his arm. Then she placed a soothing salve on both and carefully rewrapped it, this time with a bandage rather than the bloody cravat she tossed into her kit to be destroyed.

  “I’ll leave some materials here,” Diana said as she tied off the wound with an expert flair. “Along with written instructions. Imogen, you’ll need to apply more of that salve and rewrap it tomorrow morning. Then I’ll look at it again tomorrow when Lucas…er, Willowby…and I return to speak to you tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon?” Imogen repeated. “Oh, Your Grace—”

  “Diana,” Diana interrupted gently.

  “Diana, surely you must have something to tell us later tonight. Or tomorrow morning.”

  Diana stepped away from him and reached out, grasping both of Imogen’s hands gently. Oscar watched as Imogen’s shoulders relaxed a little. The duchess was a balm herself. A healer in spirit, as well as body.

  “Imogen, I know you’ve had a very long day. A long few weeks. And you’re anxious for an answer. But you must allow Lucas and me to have time to pursue everything we’ve discovered today.” Diana glanced back at Oscar. “Speaking of which, you said you knew who attacked us at your club. Would you mind sharing that information? It will very likely fill in some blanks in our knowledge.”

  Imogen stepped away from her and moved a little closer to Oscar. He held out a hand and she took it, her fingers lacing through his and seeking comfort.

  “You may not believe me,” she whispered. “But it was the Earl of Roddenbury who was with the body I saw. He admitted he killed that poor girl, whoever she was. And it didn’t sound like it was the first time he’d…he’d hurt someone.”

  Diana’s eyes squeezed shut. “Roddenbury. Of course. We’d had some suspicions about him, but…well, this confirms it.” She let out her breath slowly. “He has a great deal of power—it will be complicated. But I’ll pass this information on to Lucas. We’ll all talk about it tomorrow, once he and I have had a chance to discuss this update with each other and with Mr. Barber and Mr. Huntington. They’ve been invaluable resources since they began their search for you and our purposes crossed paths.”

  There was something in her tone, in her face, that made Oscar’s worries about her fade, at least a little. “We have no choice,” he said, but with no heat to his tone. “I suppose we must trust you.”

  “You must,” Diana agreed with another of those warming smiles. “And now I’ll go and join my husband so we may eventually prove to you that trust is well placed. Tonight try to relax, try to enjoy the very good food the cook here will provide.” She moved forward and smiled at them both. “Try to take care of one another. Today was a terrifying experience for both of you. Don’t discount its effect.”

  “Thank you again, for your help,” Imogen said.

  “Yes. Thank you,” Oscar said, a little reluctantly but certainly less so than a few moments earlier. There was something about this woman that couldn’t help but put a person at ease.

  “Of course. Now please don’t get up. I’ll show myself out and see you tomorrow.”

  She slipped away, leaving them alone together. Oscar glanced at Imogen as he grabbed his bloody shirt and put one arm through. He struggled with his injured arm, and she stepped up, helping him slide it up the sleeve. He left it unbuttoned for a moment and looked up at her from his seated position. When her gaze darted away, he wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her closer.

  She settled down into his lap and sighed as she smoothed her fingers over his face. In that moment there was only her in the whole world. He didn’t want or need anything else but those amber eyes holding his, those slender fingers touching him, the feel of her backside in his lap.

  He knew that shouldn’t be all he needed. But it was.

  “Do you want to tell me why you’ve struggled to look at me since the club?” he asked.

  She stiffened a little, but didn’t pull away. Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. “I ruined everything,” she said softly.

  His brow wrinkled. “And how did you do that? Were you the one shooting from below? If so, that is a wicked feat, because I seem to recall dragging you under me.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “You’re being glib, but we both know the role I’ve played in this. I’ve brought down hell on you, Oscar, since the moment you met me.”

  “Imogen—”

  She shook her head and continued, “For weeks I’ve invaded your house and thrown off your schedule. You’ve been very kind and never mentioned it to me, but I know I’ve been an unwelcome burden.”

  “Not unwelcome,” he insisted.

  “And today,” she continued, not even acknowledging what he’d said. “Today your club was ruined because of me. The physical damage and the fact that it was…shot up in public. I know that will hurt you.”

  He ducked his head because there was no arguing that. Certainly there might be repercussions if his members decided they didn’t want to be linked to such notoriety. And he’d spent a lifetime building the reputation of the place. Yet he couldn’t manage to care about it in this moment.

  “Plus, there is the bonus horror that because of me you were forced to come in contact with two of your siblings.” She sighed. “I know you didn’t want that. But I swear to you, I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

  He pressed a finger to her lips, stopping her from talking for a moment. “First off, I realize you didn’t know. In that initial moment when I turned and saw Nicholas and Selina standing there in my parlor, I…”

  He trailed off as he thought of that startling moment. He’d been angry to see them, even if neither of them had ever done anything to him directly. He’d been thrilled to see them, too. He might have banned them all from his life, but he’d still followed them. He still…cared in some way, even if he didn’t want to do that.

  A weakness, surely.

  “They were both very kind,” she said softly. “And Aurora has loved Nicholas her whole life. I knew that, though I didn’t know his connection to Roseford.”

  “He looked happy with her,” Oscar mused. “And he has suffered greatly, so I cannot be anything but happy for him. But this is a change of the subject. You said that you destroyed everything, but do you know what I thought when those bullets started to fly?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  He cupped her neck, letting his thumb trace the fluttering line of her pulse. “All I thought about was protecting you. And when I got up and looked at the carnage, all I could think was how lucky I was that you weren’t injured.”

  “But you were,” she said, pointing at the bloody shirt and the bandaged arm beneath it. “All because of me.”


  “Not because of you,” he insisted. “Great God, Imogen. This is because of Roddenbury and this Maggie woman. This is because of their horrible plan. None of this is your fault. I don’t blame you. I couldn’t blame you because I—”

  He stopped himself. Staring up at her, seeing her lower lip tremble, her gaze hold his, feeling her whole and safe in his arms, it had forced a thought into his mind. One he had very nearly spoken without deliberation into the consequences.

  He loved her.

  Looking up at her, that fact was perfectly clear. Not even surprising, despite all his attempts to keep himself from surrendering to such a dangerous emotion. Despite all his attempts to distance himself from her in any way beyond the physical. She had never allowed that, finding her way over and under and through all the barriers he’d erected. Wedging herself firmly in his heart.

  He had never let himself love someone like this. And now it terrified him. He wanted to push it away. But not her away.

  “You what?” she whispered.

  He leaned up, drawing her down at the same time, and kissed her. She shifted in his lap, and he groaned at the way that little wiggle woke up a body that should have been happily sleeping after the trying events of the day. But she did that to him. Regularly.

  “I want you,” he said, pulling his lips away just far enough that he could talk. It wasn’t a lie, even if it wasn’t the thought that had filled his mind. “I need you.”

  She nodded, brushing her nose along the side of his as she did so. “You need me? I need you. You were shot, you could have died and—” Her breath hitched and she kissed him again, deeper this time, her fingers pressing against his jawline. “I need you.”

  They stood together and he grasped her hand, leading her from the room to find one of the bedchambers. But as they walked up the stairs together, fingers laced, he fought against the desire in his chest. Not just to make love to her. But to allow himself to love her for all the rest of his days.

  He would have to restrain himself if he didn’t want to lose control of this entire situation.

  Chapter 22

  There were two bedchambers upstairs, both made up for guests. The first was smaller than the other, and Imogen had frowned at the narrow bed. But the second…well, it was obviously the master, made for exactly every fantasy she wished to play out with this man she loved and had nearly lost.

  The big bed faced a large window. Its curtain was drawn back and late afternoon sunlight filtered in, casting a golden glow on the turned-back sheets on the bed.

  He closed the door behind them after they entered and turned the key to lock it. He leaned back, his shirt still fluttered open to give her a peek-a-boo glimpse at his chest, and her heart throbbed with love and desire in a potent mix.

  For a moment, she saw the emotion in his eyes, on his face. His own fear at what they had gone through, at what they had nearly lost. But he shook them away. He hardened his expression, his face darkened to that look of pure desire, command, control. She shivered, for she knew what it would bring to her body and soul when he touched her in this state. She knew he would take her pleasure, demand even more until she was weak and mewling his name.

  Only now she saw that act for what it was. Not just a way to pleasure, but to distance. He didn’t want to feel the pang of fear or loss. He didn’t want to experience any connection they’d built or mourn the lack of connection he had to his siblings.

  He was using desire and dominance to keep all that at bay.

  He came across the room toward her, stripping his shirt away with every step. His arms wrapped around her, hard and heavy and his mouth claimed hers. She lifted into him, her body craving him even as her heart screamed out for more. More than pleasure. More than orgasms and lust. More than protection given out of a sense of obligation.

  She wanted his heart.

  His tongue drove into her, and for a moment that deeper yearning faded. He would take her and it would soften the edges of the fear today. She could surrender to his demands and both of them could remain in the comfort zone of sexual connection.

  He pressed her back against the edge of the bed and then caught her hips, spinning her so her back was to him, so she was bent partly over. He stripped her dress open with one hand, tracing the path of the parted buttons with his lips and searing a heated path through her thin chemise beneath. When he tugged and brought both down to flutter at her feet, she gripped the coverlet tighter and found herself spreading her legs, offering him exactly what he wished to take.

  He made a little growl behind her, possessive, animalistic. She peeked over her shoulder at him and watched as he shucked his trousers away. The hard curve of his cock told her how much he wanted her. But the brief expression of desperation that crossed his face when he looked at her reminded her he also wanted something else. He wanted to build a wall, even if it was with pleasure.

  But she loved him, so she couldn’t let him. She wouldn’t. When he curled his body around hers, she slowly turned beneath him, facing him and meeting his eyes evenly. He had the same stern, focused, heated expression as he’d ever had when he looked at her. The one that turned her knees to jelly and made her hands shake with desire.

  But she saw something different now. In those dark eyes she saw pain. He was having a harder and harder time hiding it from her. She reached up to touch his face as she saw it, smoothing her fingers along his harsh jawline, hands tickled by his beard.

  “Don’t,” he growled, and his mouth found hers. He pushed her hands away, inching her back on the bed, flattening her wrists against the mattress.

  She didn’t seek escape. In fact, the heavy weight of him holding her down, stealing her control, was arousing in ways she couldn’t have put into words. This man was built for pleasure, certainly. Built to give her pleasure, even as he never asked for anything in return.

  She wanted to give it. But he wasn’t allowing that as he held her down, so instead she tilted her head. Their lips were inches apart as he pushed her legs open and positioned himself at her entrance. He drove into her in one long thrust and she caught his mouth at the same time. He took and she gentled her kiss in return. She sucked on his tongue, she explored as he plundered.

  And just as she’d hoped, her tenderness changed him. Slowly, he eased his drive, softened above her. His grip on her wrists loosened, his fingers came into her hair instead and he let out a low, quiet moan. Of pleasure or pain, of all of it mixed, she couldn’t be certain. All she could do was swallow it down, as if she could dissolve it as he passed it to her.

  He pulled back, staring down at her in the quiet of the room. He was fighting. Fighting the hardness, fighting the way he’d trained himself never to let someone close again. She knew why. But it didn’t matter. That was the past.

  “No,” he whispered, that desperation lacing his tone just as it had relaxed his expression.

  She ignored him and lifted against him from beneath. Gentle, pulsing movements that made her pleasure mount but also set a pace much different than any other time he’d made love to her.

  “Imogen,” he whispered, her name a plea and a demand all at once. He thrust hard again, and she gasped as she lifted to meet him. Then she cupped his backside with both hands and ground him against her in a smooth, gentle circle.

  She came from the friction of his pelvis against hers. He watched her as she jolted beneath him, fingers smoothing over his back as she whimpered his name again and again.

  “Please,” she murmured as the ripples of undeniable pleasure faded.

  He caught her mouth and kissed her again, deeper, longer, softer. He caught her hips and they moved together, rising and falling in a patient, gentle rhythm. There was no more fight, no more dominance, there was nothing left but her and him and everything between them that remained unsaid.

  If he had been good at commanding her experience, at drawing her passion from her, he was even better at just…loving her. He lifted her all the way onto the bed, rolling to his back
, guiding her thrusts with a hand on her hips as the other one cupped her head and angled her for a kiss that seemed to merge their souls.

  They weren’t two bodies warring for release. They were one person in that moment, and when she jerked against him this time, he pushed her on her back and ground her through the crisis. And then he pulled away and the heat of him splashed against her stomach as he moaned her name into the quiet of the room.

  He rolled onto his side, back to her when it was over. She followed tucking herself around him as she smoothed her hands over him, across his chest, through his hair. She traced the area of his arm around his bandage and kissed his shoulder, tasting the salt of him on her lips.

  His breath shuddered out, so soft and so painful that her heart broke for him. He pivoted to look at her, their faces inches apart. His brow furrowed low as he let a finger drag across her jawline, her lips, around the shape of her ear. She shivered at the intimacy of that.

  But then he frowned, and she knew he would take it all away despite her fight to make him give it.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  She shut her eyes. She didn’t need an explanation of what he meant by can’t. They both knew what he meant.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “I can’t love you, Imogen,” he declared as he pushed away from her. He sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders rolled forward in defeat. “If I can love you, I can lose you. And I’m not doing that again.”

  He got up and gathered his clothing from the floor, piling it in his arms without putting any of it on. As she watched him, she shook her head and sat up. She’d been drawn in by this man, intrigued by him, connected to him, felt guilty for what she’d cost him. But in the weeks they had spent together she had never felt angry with him. Until that moment.

  “You coward,” she whispered.

  He jerked his head up and glared at her. “What did you call me?”

  “A coward,” she repeated. “Today I almost lost you, Oscar. So what does that mean? Can you say it? Can you face it?”