Along Came a Rogue (19 page)

“In a moment, Mother. I want to properly thank Grey for bringing Emily to us.” With a smile, and surprising strength for a man still convalescing, Thomas slapped his hand onto Grey's shoulder and turned him toward the stairs. “Come up to the billiards room. Have a drink with me before you go.”

A warning knotted in Grey's gut at Thomas's sudden cheerfulness. “I should be going—”

“I insist.” Thomas's smile deepened.

And so did the warning in his gut to flee. But there was no way out of it. It was time to pay the piper. He nodded and smiled grimly, knowing what was coming. “I'd love a whiskey.”

As Thomas slowly started up the stairs ahead of him and Mary Matteson led Emily into the drawing room, Grey caught a last glimpse of her as she raised her hand to swipe at her eyes. He halted. Emily was crying—Lord, how he hated when she cried! His hands fisted at his sides as he fought the urge to return to her, sweep her into his arms, carry her from the house, and then—

And then
nothing
. He was still going to Spain, and with all the planning for the baby's arrival and her sudden return to her family and society, Emily would soon forget him. It was the right ending for both of them.

But damnation, the right ending certainly hurt like hell.

He bit back a curse and spun on his heel to follow after Thomas, up the stairs and into the billiards room. Distracted by Emily's tears, he stepped into the room where the two men usually spent most of their time—

Thomas's fist plowed hard into his face. The force of the unexpected punch propelled him back against the wall.

“
Christ!
” He glared at Thomas, not even considering returning the punch. Because Thomas was so weak that a single push could send him sprawling onto the floor. And because he knew he deserved it. Instead, he met his friend's angry gaze and blew out a hard breath, arching a wry brow. “Feel better now?”

Thomas gave a curt nod even as he panted hard for breath after the exertion of the punch. “Much.”

Leaving Grey to rub his throbbing cheek, Thomas crossed to the liquor cabinet in the corner. He retrieved a bottle, splashed whiskey into two tumblers, then held one out in a belated peace offering.

Satisfied at the tenuous truce between them, Grey accepted the proffered glass. He couldn't help but notice the irony that this was the room where they'd always ended up on past evenings when he'd come to visit. And the same room filled with hard sticks perfect for beating him senseless should Thomas still carry a grudge about Emily that the punch hadn't satisfied.

“You're doing better since I left,” Grey commented as Thomas sank into one of the red leather chairs lining the wall. Choosing to stay out of punching distance, he leaned back against the billiards table, rubbed his cheek, and winced at the bruise already forming there at the corner of his eye. He muttered, “Obviously.”

“Strong enough to get out of bed now, but my side still hurts like hell.” His eyes—as sapphire blue as his sister's—stared at Grey over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. He shook his head with incredulous disbelief. “You and the brat, for God's sake…” There was more curiosity in Thomas's voice than anger, and Grey took that as a hopeful sign, despite the throbbing at his cheek. “What in the hell were you thinking?”

His fingers clenched against the rail of the billiards table as he stared down into the whiskey. He
hadn't
been thinking, that was the problem. When he was with Emily, she chased all rational, logical thought from his mind, and all he knew was the joy of being with her. She made him feel dashing, brave, strong…worthy of someone like her. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever known, inside and out.

But he answered simply, “I've never met another woman like her.” And as he took a gasping swallow of whiskey, he knew he never would again.

Grey glanced at his best friend, not surprised to find the look of a protective bulldog on his face, because he was certain he wore the same look on his. Emily was wrong to think that Thomas had ever stopping caring about her. The bruise he'd be sporting for the next week certainly proved that.

Thomas leveled his gaze on Grey. “Do you plan on marrying her?”

The unexpected question pierced him like an arrow to the heart.
Marry the brat?

He'd never thought of marriage as a possibility for his life. Marriage was a fine institution, perfectly noble for other men, but for him it had always meant the end of his freedom. Yet for once, the thought of domestication didn't terrify the daylights out of him. And he'd even considered it briefly that morning at the inn when he'd watched Emily sleeping in the bed they'd shared, dreading the moment when he would have to leave her.

But marriage, even to Emily, would be impossible.

She wasn't wrong when she'd acknowledged how different they were. Within days, she'd be welcomed back into the bosom of society, invited to lavish dinners and soirees, and feted as the center of attention in drawing rooms across Mayfair. His reputation, both as an army officer and a rake, would only interfere with that.

Further, he was due in Spain. Past due, in fact, and he was already wearing Bathurst's patience thin with his delays. He couldn't let this opportunity pass by when it was everything he'd spent his life working to achieve. If he proved himself in Spain, he could expect another promotion and reassignment, this time perhaps back in London at Whitehall itself, an administrative role instead of fieldwork. And with that, he would reach the pinnacle of his career.

Choosing Emily meant having to give up those dreams, and he couldn't bring himself to do that, especially when he had no guarantee that she'd choose him in return. He'd seen how much she'd enjoyed being with him, and he'd felt the way she'd given herself so completely when she lay naked in his arms. But he'd also seen the panic on her face when Lady Gantry saw them together at the inn. Emily might need him now, but what would she do when the immediate need disappeared? Or if the baby she delivered was a boy, born into a marquessate? Which would she choose then—her proper position in society or the rake she couldn't be seen with in public?

Need was a far cry from love. If choosing Emily meant giving up the War Office when she might yet choose society over him, then need simply wasn't enough.

“No, I cannot marry her,” he admitted soberly. “And she knows that.”

“Then I suggest you two keep your hands to yourselves from now on.” Thomas swirled the whiskey in his glass, the force of his warning masked by a trace of sarcasm as he added, “It's damnably dull having this same conversation with you every five years.”

With a chagrined grimace, Grey took his words to heart. Thomas might have been joking, but the underlying message was wholly serious. “At least this time you didn't threaten to shoot me.”

He dryly arched a brow. “I knew I'd forgotten something.”

And at that, Grey knew his friendship with Thomas was still intact, if slightly fractured, although how he'd managed not to find himself at the end of Thomas's pistol this time he hadn't a clue. Unless that was because of the other truth he also knew—that Thomas loved Emily and would never do anything to hurt her, including hurting
him
with anything more than a punch. Even the past two years apart hadn't dulled the special bond between them. Grey only hoped she realized that, as well as how much she could trust her brother. Because the niggling instinct in his gut that had kept him alive as a soldier and a spy told him that the worst was yet to come.

Grey set down his empty glass and pushed himself away from the billiards table. “You need to talk to Emily. She has quite a bit to share with you.”

Thomas rose carefully to his feet, his hand over his side. “About what?”

Grey shook his head. “She has to be the one to tell you.” And hopefully, resolve the rift between them. “And I've lingered here too long as it is. I need to check in at Whitehall, now that I'm back.”

“You're still leaving for Spain, then?” Thomas's face darkened at the possibility.

Grey hated seeing that look after all Thomas had gone through, but leaving was for the best. Emily had her brother again, and he had his new position waiting for him. He nodded. “Within the fortnight.”

“Stay, Grey,” Thomas urged quietly, placing a brotherly hand on his shoulder. “Just a few weeks more.” Then he added a bit grudgingly, and Grey knew it cost him a great deal to say it, “In case she needs you.”

A hard tug pulled from deep in his chest, and rashly, he yielded to it. “All right,” he agreed soberly, hoping he hadn't just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Although after seeing Emily appear so utterly desolate and wretched when he left her, how could he have done otherwise? But the War Office certainly wouldn't like this new delay, and as Thomas walked him slowly downstairs, he was already trying to think up a new excuse for Bathurst.

As they reached the foyer, Jensen opened the front door, and the Duke of Chatham strode into the house. He handed his coat, hat, and gloves to the footman.

His eyes landed on Grey, then slid dismissingly away to his son. “Where's your sister?”

“Chatham?” Mary Matteson scurried into the foyer, with Emily treading more slowly behind. The duchess saw her husband's face, and her smile faded. “What's wrong?”

Emily looked up and saw Grey, her eyes widening with surprise to see him still there. Taking the distraction of her father's entrance to slip away, she moved to stand between him and Thomas.

Grey's chest panged painfully for her, hating to see her looking so alone, even when surrounded by family. He didn't know much about her relationship with her parents, but he knew they'd never been close, a rift that his kissing lesson from five years ago certainly hadn't helped. Yet he surreptitiously brushed his fingers against hers as her hand dangled at her side, to reassure her as much as possible.

“Emily, there you are.” Her father turned to her, and Grey felt her stiffen next to him as her hand jerked away from his. “I've just heard the news and came as quickly as I could to tell you, since it directly affects your dower at Snowden Hall.”

“What news?” she half whispered, holding her breath.

“Word was announced on the floor of the Lords this afternoon.” Her father's face turned grim. “The Marquess of Dunwich is dead.”

The words echoed through Emily, her body flashing numb as the room pitched around her. The familiar metallic taste returned to her mouth, the numbness behind her knees, the uncontrollable shaking in her hands…all the signs of suffocating fear rushed back in a drowning flood.
Dear God, no
—it was happening again!

And she'd unwittingly placed her baby right in the heart of the lion's den.

Terror churned inside her. As soon as her pregnancy was revealed, all of London would know, and she would never be safe. The murderers would come after her again—
oh God, not my baby!
Her breath ripped from her lungs, leaving her gasping for air and her head spinning with panic. The world plunged away beneath her.

“Emily!” Grey's strong arms swept around her as her legs buckled, catching her as she fell.

He lifted her off her feet and gathered her against his chest. With the strength to do nothing more than cling to him, she buried her face against his shoulder, her hand protectively folded over her belly. Over the innocent baby she loved more than life itself.

“No,” she whispered over and over between sobs, “please, God, no…”

“What's wrong?” Mary Matteson demanded with an accusing glare at Grey, then laid a hand against her daughter's cheek as she cried inconsolably. “Emily—Emily, dear, why are you crying? You barely knew the man.”

“Give her air,” Grey ordered sharply, his deep voice edged with worry, as he turned her away from her mother. When Thomas pressed in with concern, his pale face drawn, Grey explained reluctantly, “She's with child.”

Her mother beamed with happiness. “A baby?” Then a beat later she realized its significance and gasped. “An heir!”

Her father's stunned eyes darted to Emily's hand as it lay over her belly, then he took his wife's arm and gently led her back. “Major Grey is right, Mary. She needs space and calm.”

Thomas stood beside them, saying nothing. With one arm wrapped tightly around Grey's neck and the other still guarding her baby, Emily closed her eyes, unable to bear the bewildered look of betrayal on Thomas's face for not telling him before now.

“Grey,” she whispered, his name a breathless plea.

“She's overwrought,” he told them, protecting her once again. “Give her time to rest, and then she can explain. Where is her room?”

“Bring her this way,” Thomas ordered without hesitation, then started quickly up the stairs, grimacing in pain at the effort. “Mother, have Jensen bring up a tea tray.”

The duchess nodded and hurried away.

“I'll send for Dr. Brandon,” the duke offered helpfully.

“Thank you.” For just a beat, Grey met the man's eyes, for once united in their concern for her. Then he carried her upstairs.

Thomas led them to the second floor and down the hall to the bedrooms in the west wing, then pushed open one of the doors and stepped back. As Grey carried her inside, Thomas leaned against the doorway like a tired sentinel, standing guard but giving them privacy.

Grey gently placed her on the bed and reached for her hand as he sat beside her. Her face was ashen, her body trembling, but at least she had stopped sobbing and was breathing steadily now.

He frowned down at her as deep concern pinched his gut. “Well, that was quite a homecoming,” he muttered, brushing a golden curl away from her cheek.

“You should experience a Matteson family holiday sometime,” she assured him with a weak attempt at a smile, despite a hitch in her voice. “One could confuse it for a stay at Bedlam.”