A Kiss Before Dawn (12 page)

Peter had to stifle a groan.

“I'm done.” The voice came from behind him.

He turned to find her standing less than a foot away,
the blanket hugged about her, making her look small and helpless, like a child.

But she was no child.

Clearing his throat, he indicated the saddlebag with a jerk of his head. “Are you hungry? I have a half a loaf of bread with me that I snitched from the kitchen at Knighthaven. It isn't much and it's most likely a bit stale, but—”

“No, thank you.” As he watched her, one side of the blanket slid down, and he caught sight of a pale shoulder barely covered by the lacy strap of her chemise before Emily tugged the covering back up. “What about you? Don't you have another blanket?”

He forced his gaze away from her and tried not to pray for the blanket to slip again—just a little bit farther this time. “No. But I don't need one. I'll be fine.”

She nodded, then moved to drape her gown over the stool next to the fire to dry. Her movements were graceful and delicate, drawing his eyes back to her against his will, hypnotizing him.

Bloody hell, he should just hand her the pistol and let her put him out of his misery!

“You know, my reputation would be quite thoroughly compromised if anyone were to find us like this together.”

Her comment pulled his gaze to her face, but he couldn't quite read her expression in the dimness.

“I don't think you need to worry about anyone stumbling across us here. And I won't tell anyone if you won't.” Seeking to distract himself, he yanked off a
hunk of bread and took a bite as he stuck the rest of the loaf back in his saddlebag. “Hopefully, we won't be here for long.”

There came a small swish of sound, and he looked back up to find that she had crossed the room and stood once again at his side, staring down at him from under lowered lashes.

The silence lengthened, and just when he had started to believe she wasn't going to say anything, she spoke in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. “Why, Peter?”

Something in the way she said it sent a chill up his spine. “Why what?”

“Why did you leave Little Haverton the way you did four years ago?” She paused, then tightened her hold on her blanket and took another step toward him, her eyes blazing with resolution, as if she had no intention of being dissuaded from gaining an answer. “Why did you leave me?”

S
he'd made up her mind that she wasn't going to ask him, that she didn't want to hear what he might say in response. As she stood staring down at Peter, however, something beyond Emily's control seemed to drive her, forcing the question from her lips.

It might have been because Jenna's words had been swirling around inside her head the whole time they were visiting Fulberry Manor, replaying like a never-ending mantra until she was sure she would go mad. In spite of her worry about Jack and about Peter's investigation, she'd been unable to dismiss her friend's admonition from her thoughts.

“Doesn't 'e at least deserve the benefit of the doubt?”

Perhaps he did. Perhaps he'd truly had a good reason
for his departure from Oxfordshire. But she was tired of wondering. All she knew was that when he'd left, she'd lost not only the man she'd loved, but her best friend as well.

And she wanted to know why.

Maybe once she had the answer she could finally put it behind her.

For a long moment after she spoke, the only sound that could be heard was the pounding of the rain on the roof of the cottage. Peter seemed almost paralyzed, locked in place, as he returned her gaze with a carefully blank expression.

Then, rising to his feet, he brushed by her and strode over to the fireplace to stand with his back to the room, his stance rigid. “What can that possibly matter now?”

His distant tone roused her temper and she crossed the space between them, coming to a halt at his elbow and planting her hands on her hips in a belligerent manner. “It matters.”

When he didn't reply, merely continued to stare into the flames, she reached out and caught his arm, her fingers digging into his sleeve. “Peter, please.”

The desperation in her voice must have gotten through to him, for he finally turned to look at her. The firelight cast patterns of light and darkness over the hard angles of his face, giving him a vaguely saturnine appearance that sent a quiver throughout her body. Water dripped from the ends of his tawny, overlong hair, and Emily couldn't seem to help letting her eyes follow the trails of moisture as they slid down along the planes of his cheeks and the slope of his neck until they disap
peared into the collar of his shirt. A very damp shirt that molded to his wide shoulders and lean, muscled arms and chest, leaving little to the imagination.

Closing her eyes to shut out the disconcerting sight of him for a moment, she took a deep breath, attempting to rein in her chaotic emotions before she met his stare and tried to speak again. “I have a right to know.”

“I fail to see what difference it makes.”

“I need to know—” In spite of herself, Emily's voice broke and she had to struggle to push the rest of the words out through her constricted throat. “I need to know it wasn't because of me. That it wasn't my fault.”

Peter's visage suddenly seemed to pale in the dimness of the cottage and his jaw went slack, his expression one of honest astonishment. “Because of you? No!” Reaching up, he caught hold of her hand on his arm and twined his fingers through hers, his grip warm and gentle—and unexpected. “Is that what you've thought all this time?”

“What else was I to think? I make a fool of myself by trying to stir your jealousy, we come close to…to making love, and the next morning you're gone without a word and everything has changed between us. I must have done
something
wrong for you to react in such a way. Or perhaps—” She paused, fighting the tears that suddenly blurred her vision. “Or perhaps you never cared for me at all and our relationship was nothing but a lie.”

“Emily, you mustn't believe that.” He bowed his head, and she was certain she heard him give a low groan before he dropped her hand and began to pace in front of
her. “I will always cherish the memories of our friendship. No one ever believed in me the way you did.”

“Then why…?”

“Damn it, how do I explain?” He pushed his fingers back through his hair in a frustrated motion, and when he met her eyes, his own were gleaming with a ferocity that startled her. “It was never
you,
Emily. It was us. Together.”

“I don't understand.”

Catching her hand again, he led her over to the stool and moved aside her damp gown before urging her to seat herself. Then he hunkered down next to her, propping his elbows on his knees. At first, he said nothing, then he heaved a breath and raked his free hand through his hair once more. “This isn't easy for me to talk about. I never planned on…But you…Bloody ever-lastin' 'ell!”

The fervor in his voice, his slippage into Cockney, was enough to tell Emily just how much this topic of conversation disturbed him. Before, she might have changed the subject, given up on prying the reason for his defection from him. But after her conversation with Jenna today, she had to know. She couldn't just forget about it and go on the way she had been. She was tired of feeling hurt and angry. It was well past time for her to learn to get on with her life without memories of what might have been to weigh her down.

Tightening her grip on Peter's hand, she wound her fingers through his and gave a slight squeeze. “Please go on. I have to know.”

He looked down at her hand in his, and even in the
dark she could see a flash of something like pain in his eyes. “I've never told you—or anyone—much about my past. It's not something I like to be reminded of, so I don't speak of it.”

It was true. Even after all these years, Emily knew little of Peter's background other than that his mother had been a prostitute and he'd lived most of his childhood on the streets of London. Whenever she'd been brave enough to ask him about it before, he'd brushed her questions aside, so she'd finally stopped asking.

“My mum…well, it's no secret she was a doxy,” he went on, his firmly chiseled mouth twisting into a scowl. “She also…hated me. See, I was a reminder of what she did for a living, and she couldn't stomach it. She had no idea who my father was. He could have been any one of a hundred men, and the fact that she'd slipped up once and wound up with an unwanted child as a result stuck in her craw. When it came to me, she was quick with the back of her hand and a harsh word, and I was pretty much left to fend for myself.”

He paused for a moment before looking up to meet Emily's gaze. “I experienced the worst of life before I'd even turned seven, Em. I lived in a whorehouse, and the dregs of society wandered in and out of its doors every day. My God, I had to sleep in the same room where my mum serviced her customers. Curled up in my corner, night after night, listening to those sounds…”

At the bleakness in his expression, Emily let out a small cry and leaned toward him, aching to comfort him in some way, but he evaded her touch by letting go of her hand and getting to his feet. He moved to stand
before the fire once again, his profile cast in grim shadow by the flames.

“And that's not the worst of it. When I was seven, she finally got tired of providing a roof over my head. Never mind that I'd been feeding and caring for myself by picking pockets for longer than I could remember, that I rarely troubled her for a thing or even spoke to her. She wanted me gone, so she kicked me out onto the streets.”

Emily stifled a gasp. She couldn't imagine a mother caring so little for her own child that she would cast him to the wolves without a second thought. But apparently Peter's mother had done so. Dear heavens, the woman must have been a monster! “Oh, Peter—”

But he kept talking, almost as if he hadn't heard her voice. He was too lost in his memories of the past. “And once I was on those streets, life didn't get any easier. I lived among murderers, thieves, the worst sort of criminals one can imagine.” He looked back at her over his shoulder. “That's the sort of background I come from. I had to become one of them to survive, and until I found the Rag-Tag Bunch, I lived like an animal.”

He took a step toward her. “That's why I left. What was happening between us…” He shook his head. “It was wrong, and I couldn't let it continue. You deserved better than a former guttersnipe who didn't even know what his father's name was. I knew I had to leave, to put distance between us, before something occurred that we would both regret.”

Stunned, Emily clasped her hands together in her lap and studied every inch of his features, trying to read his
thoughts by sheer force of will. “And you made this decision without even talking to me about it?”

“What was there to talk about? My mind was made up. I had to do what was best for you.” A muscle tightened in his jaw. “Damn it, Emily, you know nothing could have come of it! The two of us together? The princess and the pickpocket? The daughter of an earl and the son of a harlot? What would society have said?”

He was right. Deep down she knew he was right. But it didn't lessen the pain. Nor did it make her any less angry that he had made the decision to sever their relationship without giving her any say in the matter.

Clutching her blanket about her, she lunged to her feet and crossed the room to his side, her temper seething just beneath the surface like a cauldron ready to boil over. She raised her chin and glared up at him. “Did you truly think I was that shallow? That your background mattered to me?”

“I knew it didn't matter to you, Em. That's why I had to make the decision for both of us. When we were children it wasn't so vital, but whether we wished it so or not, my background
did
matter. It
does
matter. And we can't let ourselves forget that again.”

Emily's fury rose up, choking her. “You have no idea what it did to me when you left. I thought we loved each other, and when you were suddenly gone without a word…” She swallowed and blinked, once again feeling tears dangerously close. “I thought none of it had meant anything to you.”

“I'm sorry for whatever pain I caused you. But you must see it was the right decision?”

“What I see is that you took it upon yourself to decide what was best for me when you had no right!”

Peter's face darkened. “Bloody hell, Em, you didn't hear the talk, the speculation going on around us. You were oblivious, but I wasn't. Every time I went into the village, I heard people whispering about the earl letting his sister run loose about the countryside with that worthless London ‘street trash.' They said I would ruin you.
Ruin you
. And they were right, weren't they?” His tone turned bitter. “I almost did. I almost rutted with you up against a tree like you were a common dockside whore.”

Emily didn't bother to reprimand him for his crudity. She was too busy recovering from his revelation. So that was why he had distanced himself from her in those final days before he'd left Willow Park! “I can't believe it. You let a few words of idle gossip drive a wedge between us, chase you away?”

“It was more than idle gossip. And it wasn't just that. It was the way I almost took you that last night. It reminded me of who—and what—I was. I knew if we had ever truly tried to make a go of it together, sooner or later you would have realized what a mistake you'd made. I decided to save us both the heartache and trouble.”

“How dare you presume to judge how I would have felt? I didn't need your protection and I didn't ask for it.” Emily glared at him. “But perhaps it wasn't me you feared for so much as yourself!”

Their eyes locked and held in challenge.

Emily wasn't certain which of them moved first. But
the next thing she knew, they were in each other's arms, and Peter's lips descended on her own.

 

The taste of her was like the sweetest of aphrodisiacs, the feel of her in his arms like his fondest dream come true.

With a gruff moan, Peter reached up a hand and speared his fingers through Emily's wet hair, tilting her head back for easier access as he thoroughly ravished her mouth. Her rounded curves fit against him to perfection, almost as if they were made for each other.

In some dim corner of his mind, he knew kissing her was a mistake. After last night, he had promised himself this would never happen again, but for once his lust had overcome his determination to do what was right. Lady Emily Knight had always been his Achilles' heel and it seemed she always would be.

Skimming his tongue over the velvety surface of her lips, he savored the sound of her soft sigh before lifting his head to bury his nose in the fragrant curls at her temple. Her arms slid upward to twine around his neck, and the feel of her delicate fingers sifting through the hair at his nape sent a shiver racing up his spine.

“My angel,” he said huskly, closing his eyes for a fleeting moment, letting the ecstasy of her touch wash over him in waves. “Emily, my sweet, sweet angel…”

Peter brought his hands away from her face and let them glide down her body, passing over her shoulders, brushing down her arms, briefly resting on her slender
waist before delving inside her shielding blanket to palm her bottom. He lifted her against himself, fitting her to the bold jut of his arousal.

At the contact, she gave a wavering cry and rocked her hips, the movement like a match to the flame of Peter's already rampant desire. With a deep growl, he turned with her in his arms to press her back against the wall of the cottage and took her lips once again in a devastating exchange.

Emily gasped and arched against him, the movement dislodging her blanket and sending it sliding down to pool on the dirt floor at her feet.

“Peter,” she whispered once he released her mouth, her nails digging into his back through the lawn of his shirt, “Peter, please, I want…”

But she didn't finish the sentence. Instead, she gazed up at him in the dimness, her haunting purple eyes cloudy with passion and conveying an all too eloquent plea for him to continue.