Naughty in Nottinghamshire 02 - The Rogue Returns (29 page)

“Enjoy your—”

But she was already standing up, and he moved quickly to wrap a towel around her. She stepped out of the tub onto the warm hearth.

Helen dried before the fire and Roane took the quickest, most thorough bath she’d ever seen. Then he set out his shaving supplies, and she, warmed by the bath and the fire, lay down on the bed to wait.

She must have dozed, for when she next opened her eyes Roane stood over the bed, watching her. He had pulled on breeches but not a shirt. He was clean-shaven, his hair slicked back. Her eyes traced the hollows of his cheeks and the jut of his chin. The hard shape of his lips and the place where his dimple would be when he smiled.

He looked like an aristocrat. Like a handsome as sin, sun-kissed and muscled, golden-haired and bright-eyed son of an earl.

She stared at him a long time, drinking in the sight of him, memorizing the planes and hollows of his face. In another world, a world of her dreams where risk and suffering did not exist, she would have him.

She would love him.

A weight settled over her, making it hard to draw breath. She never imagined this would be so painful. She felt so full and so empty at once, like a strong wind whistling through a tunnel.

His gaze held hers, and she did not hide.

“Tell me now and I’ll go.” His voice was thick as velvet.

She knew what he was asking. She would take this one last night for herself. “Stay.”

His hands clenched at his sides. “Are you certain?”

“It was inevitable.” She reached her arms up to him. No matter what tomorrow would bring, they had this moment. They had each other.

He fell to her side and buried his face in her hair. He was shaking. Not his hands, not his breath. But under his skin, deep in his soul, she could feel him shaking.

A wave of nervousness washed over her, but she was not turning back. Let the storm come. Let the thunder crash and the rains fall. Let her stand naked and trembling in the face of turmoil. She was going to throw her head back and laugh in the wind.

Tomorrow, she would bundle herself away again. Tomorrow, she would pin her hair and lace her corset and return to her responsibilities in London.

Helen let her towel fall away and he was there, his skin brushing over her skin. Her nerves fired everywhere. The front of her body was alive with the feeling of him. His warm skin. The hair on his chest and belly. The shape of his muscle.

Everything became a fevered rush. She slid her hands over his chest, from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips, and tried to push down the waistband of his breeches.

He lifted himself onto one elbow and quickly unbuttoned the falls. Together, they pushed his breeches down to a bundle by their feet.

Skin. There was only skin. And hands. And lips. And the hard jut of his arousal.

She was ready for him. She’d been ready for days. Her hands eager, she found his hardness and stroked him as he’d taught her to.

His breath was choppy in her ear and she squeezed him and she was on her back and he was at her entrance, straining over her. He truly was shaking now, his arms framing her shoulder as he gazed down into her eyes.

She pressed her hips up against him.

“Shh, we’ve time, buttercup.”

“I don’t want to wait.” She was panting like a wild animal in pain. If they slowed down she might fall to pieces and then he would stop.

He slid into her and paused when she gasped. She burrowed her head into his shoulder,

tears burning behind her eyelids.

“I’ve hurt you.” Regret deepened his voice and he started to pull out.

Helen stayed his motion with a hand on his hip. She lifted her pelvis up to him again, taking him another inch inside herself. It was beyond wonderful, the sense of being filled with him. It was not pleasurable, not now, but it was beautiful.

She would never forget him, ever. She would hold him inside herself for all her days. No one could take that from her.

“Stay with me,” she whispered.

He kissed her eyes, her temple, her jaw, then claimed her mouth. He drew out, then pressed in as deep as he could. He moaned and the sound sent a thrill up her spine.

He pulled her knee up against him and started to move. Pleasure spiked through her. This. This is what she wanted.

They built a tempo, working together, thrusting and lifting, breathing each other’s breath. He lowered a hand between their bodies and touched her in that bundle of nerves. He kissed her nipple and she was crashing over the edge. Clinging to him. Bursting apart with such force it made her afraid. But his arms were around her and she let herself go.

Then he was gnashing his teeth and pulling out to spill his seed.

They ended where they had begun. His face was buried in her hair and he was shaking. But instead of laughing into the wind, she was weeping.

How would she ever gather herself back together when she was so broken apart? She was a fool to think she could just walk away. A fool to think she could stay.

“I love you, Helen.”

She glanced up at him, stunned.

“I’ve loved you since that day I threw your reticule into the pond.” Roane kissed the tracks of her tears, then lifted himself onto his elbows and smiled down at her, his brown eyes warm. “And you had horse sweat on your skirts and I thought for certain you would turn back to London. But you didn’t. You were like a queen, a broken, angry, dirty queen, and God help me, I fell in love with you.”

She wanted to laugh. Anything. Instead, she gasped with ugly fear.

Roane was a wonderful man, a man who deserved to be loved, and cared for, and cherished. But she couldn’t reply. She was no longer surviving a storm; she’d been swept into the river. She was whirling downstream, unable to reach solid land.

He loved her?

She trusted him. She would place her life in his hands. But what about her heart?

She’d worked too hard to be free of the whims of men, she didn’t know how to let go and let the currents take her. What if she made a mistake? What if she gambled and lost? What if she hated his horse farm, missed London, missed Harry? What if love was a fickle, temporary thing?

What if so many things?

Undaunted, Roane kissed her lips. “I love that you are feminine and vulnerable and strong at once. I love that you see beauty and it relaxes you, that you smile at storms and scream at spiders. I love your laugh and the way you touch me. God, I never knew I could love anyone so much.”

Helen stroked his hair, her chest full. She was so happy. So terrified. She couldn’t catch her breath. Couldn’t find her voice.

Roane looked into her eyes. “Come with me. Come to the land auction in Lincolnshire. Our adventure doesn’t have to stop here.”

She didn’t say anything for a long while. What did she want? Not what she thought she should do, but what did her
heart
want? He was only proposing a few weeks together, not a lifetime. Not a binding contract of marriage. When she did finally speak, her voice sounded far away. “I want to go with you.”

“Good. We’ll—”

She spoke quickly, fear making her words a jumble. “But I need to get back to London. To Harry.” She wasn’t ready for the leap. Not yet.

“I’ll take you to there as soon as the auction is over. You can settle the estate and anything else you need. Just say yes. Don’t leave tomorrow.”

She blinked, trying to focus. “I need time to think about it.”

“But you are not saying no.”

“I am not saying no.”

“Good.” Roane smiled and drew her close.

***

R
OANE STARED UP AT THE CEILING,
trying to hold on to his patience. Beside him, Helen sat up and reached for the dress he’d bought from Tiffen. The innkeeper always was good for clothes.

She stroked the green fabric. “Someone took great care, sewing this dress. Notice the smocking on the sleeve.”

She held out the gown for his inspection, as if he gave a damn about smocking. Roane murmured something and tamped down his impatience. Why didn’t she say she loved him? Why wouldn’t she come to Lincolnshire?

He’d tried to be patient with her for days. Had tried to allow her time to open to him on her own. But there was no time left. Their journey was at an end. It was now or never. And she
did
have feelings for him. He could see it on her face.

But she was scared. She was pulling away from him, catching her breath. Talking about fashion.

He leaned back and inhaled. A part of him understood her fear. Truth was, he
had
been a rabble-rouser for a good portion of his life. No doubt James would protest their alliance, were he still alive. Helen certainly had cause to be wary of the former Midnight Rider.

But another part of him, the part that ached, just wanted her to throw caution to the wind and love him.

He wanted her to love him.

At least she didn’t say no.

They sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the inn. Footsteps echoed in the hallway, a shout rose up from outside. Beside him, Helen studied the gown and breathed quietly, as if trying to make herself small. As if she didn’t want to take up any space in the room.

“I am
famished
,” she finally said, her voice bright. She would push aside the unanswered question about tomorrow. He would allow her to, for now. After they ate, after she gathered her strength, he would approach the topic again. And she
would
say yes.

“I am certain you are.” Roane forced a grin, sat up and planted a kiss on the graceful curve of her hip. “Best you eat now. You’ll need your strength for tonight.”

She flushed at his words and stroked his cheek. “Who says there will be a tonight?” she teased.

“Minx.” He nipped her thigh, just where it curved into her buttocks and low back. The sound that escaped her was a half laugh, half cry of desire. “Hurry or I’m going to have you again.”

“I truly am hungry.” She inched away. “Ravenous, really.”

“Dress.” He swatted her rear, unwilling to take his hands from her lest she leave him when he wasn’t looking. He forced himself to sit back. “I’ll try not to touch you again until you have eaten.”

With a saucy toss of her hair, she slipped from bed. “We could order food to the room instead.”

“I’ll never be able to leave you alone. Besides, Tiffen’s staff doesn’t like hauling trays upstairs. We were lucky to get a warm bath. It’s better we take the back stairs and sup in the private dining room.”

Helen pulled on the gown he’d bought for her and whipped her hair into some kind of a knot. It looked like it was going to tumble down at any moment—he liked it.

She turned to face him, her head tilted coyly. “Thank you for my dress.”

“You look lovely. I want to take it off you. One tie at a time.”

She scooted away. “I will grow weak from hunger, and we’ve the bed all night.”

Roane dressed quickly, then grabbed her hips and pulled her back against him. “Hurry down the stairs,” he growled into her ear, “before I decide I’d rather eat you instead.”

Helen kissed his freshly shaven cheek. Then she stepped out of his embrace, opened the door to the world outside.

And screamed.

H
ARRINGTON HAD FOUND THEM.

Roane reached for Helen, but he was too late. Harrington already had her. One hand was clamped over her mouth, the other pushed a pistol into her side.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Grantham, returned to English soil.” Dragging Helen with him, Harrington stepped into the room. “Do please join us and close the door behind you.”

With his pistol trained on Harrington, Roane stepped back into the room and closed the door. His heart was pounding, pumping blood to his muscles. Good, let it pound. He was going to kill the blackguard. “This is between us, Harrington. Let her go.”

“I have plans for her, too. But you first, Grantham.” He jerked his chin, indicating Roane should walk deeper into the room. “I want your weapons. Your pistol and knife.”

Roane dared one quick glance at Helen’s face. Her eyes were wide with fear, her skin white, and Harrington’s filthy hand still covered her mouth. Rage blurred like acid in his throat.

Helen would not be harmed.

No matter what else happened, she was walking out of this alive.

With a force of will, Roane tore his gaze from hers and focused again on Harrington. The brute looked the same as he had three years ago, boney and long with sharp blue eyes. He hardly appeared a worthy adversary, but Roane knew what ugliness lay behind the man’s pale exterior.

“Don’t make me angrier than I am, Grantham.” Harrington tightened his hold on Helen, and she cried out beneath his hand.

Reluctantly, Roane uncocked his pistol and put it on the floor. He hadn’t any other choice, with a gun stuck in Helen’s side. He kicked his weapon toward Harrington.

Then, he rifled through his saddlebag and found his knife, neatly sheathed in its leather pouch.

Christ
.

He stared at the weapon in his hand, his mind charging ahead. There had been three riders, where were the two other men? And had Tiffen seen Harrington come up? Was the innkeeper harmed?