Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors)

by Galen, Shana

“Nash, no.” She clutched his arm tighter.

  “The truth is, Pru, I do belong in an asylum. No sane man imagines those things. No sane man behaves that way.”

  “You are sane, Nash. You were just frightened, and fear can make us behave in ways we don’t expect or understand.”

  “There is one thing I understand,” he said, his voice carrying a note she did not like. “I’m a danger to you and to the other people around me.”

  “How can you say that? After what we just shared? After the past few days? You are not dangerous.”

  “Do you think I haven’t had good days or good weeks before?” She had been gripping his hand, but now he tightened his own grip almost painfully. “All it takes is one loud noise, one bang, and I’m back. If I think I’m in battle, if I think I’m being fired upon, I’m a danger.”

  He took her shoulders in both hands, holding her so she could see his face fully, not only his profile. “You are not safe with me, Pru. You will never be safe. I may be able to avoid the asylum. I may be able to convince my father not to send me, but that doesn’t mean I can live like other men.”

  “What are you saying?” she asked. But she knew what he was saying, and she didn’t want to hear it.

  “I can’t be with you. I can’t be with anyone. I was living here at Wentmore, alone, because that was the only way I could keep from hurting others. Rowden came and upended that, and I know why he did it. But he won’t stay. And once he’s gone, I’ll send Clopdon and the footmen, and Mrs. Brown away again.”

  “And me,” she said quietly.

  “I have to.”

  “You don’t.”

  “But I will.” He released her, stood, felt for his discarded dressing gown, and pulled it on. Pru had the distinct feeling she was being dismissed. She didn’t like the feeling. She didn’t like the silence in the room. She tilted her head, listening, and realized the rain had stopped. The world seemed almost too quiet now after the roar of the thunder and the finality of Nash’s words.

  “Nash—”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his back to her as he fastened his robe. “I shouldn’t have given in tonight. I don’t regret it, but I should have realized it would make this...” His hand gestured vaguely. “More difficult.”

  This. That’s what he called tonight. This.

  Did the pronoun refer to the way he’d kissed her? The way he’d held her? The way he’d thrust inside her until they were both spent?

  All of it? None of it?

  She was a this and their lovemaking was a this and all of it was now difficult for him.

  She tried not to feel hurt. She knew he was doing this to protect her. He was a protector, after all. His entire adult life had been spent in service to others. He was the one who stepped out from hiding and fired the shot to cover other men when there was danger. He was the one who had to make the hard decision of who lived and who died.

  She couldn’t imagine having to make decisions like that, having to muster enough courage to step out from hiding in the midst of danger and expose oneself in order to protect others. And to do it all with a steady hand and clear eyes.

  But she did feel hurt. She’d given all of herself—not just tonight and during this—but in the last few days and weeks when they had been together. She was the kind of person who always gave all of herself, and she’d been hurt before. But she couldn’t remember a time when the pain had felt quite so sharp or so deep.

  “I should go back to my chamber.” Her voice sounded wooden and flat. Nash’s shoulders went rigid, and she knew he heard her pain. But he didn’t turn and take her in his arms, as she’d hoped and wanted. He continued to face away from her.

  Pru found her shift and pulled it on, twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, and went to the door. “If the rain holds off, we’ll be gone first thing in the morning,” she said.

  “I think that’s for the best,” he said.

  “I’m sure you do.” She took the key, unlocked the door, and opened it. She hesitated, almost looked back at him, then walked away, keeping her head high and her shoulders square.

  Sixteen

  “Stop walking around like that,” Rowden said, looking up from the paper in disgust.

  “I can’t help how I walk.”

  “Then go walk somewhere else.”

  “Go sit somewhere else,” Nash said. “This is my bloody house.”

  Rowden, of course, ignored him. He turned the page and continued reading. But now he read silently. He’d been reading to Nash, but Nash didn’t want to hear about life in London, the contrivances of the Prime Minister, or the price of crops. He probably should be listening to the last of those. He had his own crops to sell. He told himself he would go over prices with Forester later.

  Today was Sunday and there were no workers hammering and sawing. Nash should have been pleased at the peace and quiet. He should have spent a pleasant morning eating food Mrs. Blimkin had sent and listening to Rowden read the paper.

  But nothing was pleasant, nothing was right, without Pru.

  It had been five days since he’d last seen her. Scratch that. It had been five days since he’d sent her back to her room without so much as a good night. He’d taken her to bed then sent her away like she was a common trollop. He hadn’t meant to dismiss her that way. He hadn’t meant to dismiss her at all, but in the aftermath of their lovemaking, he’d been gripped by a crippling fear—he could hurt her. He could mistake her for an enemy and shoot her dead. He’d almost killed Duncan over the summer. Nash couldn’t trust himself with Pru or with anyone.

  He’d tried to talk Rowden into leaving the next day, but Rowden was as immobile as ever. Undoubtedly, that’s why Draven had sent him. Rowden had told him to stubble it—but in less complimentary terms—and he’d stayed right where he was.

  “If you miss her so much,” Rowden said, turning another page of the paper, “why don’t you send for her?”

  Nash stopped pacing. He’d been pacing for the last half hour, and not only because it helped alleviate his restlessness. He knew it annoyed the hell out of Rowden. Of course, he’d forgotten Rowden could take a punch to the face stoically, so of course he could put up with Nash’s petty annoyances. Now Nash was the one irritated.

  “Send for whom?” Nash asked.

  “Stop playing the idiot.”

  It seemed a role he was destined to play, though. He shouldn’t have sent Pru away as he had. He should have been gentler. He should have taken more time. It wasn’t always best to shoot for the head. Sometimes one could fire a warning shot, give a bit of notice.

  “I’m not sending for her,” Nash said, pacing again. “She’s better off without me.” He could almost hear Rowden rolling his eyes.

  “She probably is, if this is how you treat her after taking her to bed.”

  “I never said I took her to bed.”

  Rowden made a sound something like a laugh. “I saw the way the two of you looked at each other that night. A team of horses couldn’t have kept you apart.”

  Nash took a wrong turn and rammed his knee into a piece of furniture. He winced. “I sent her away for her own good. She’s not safe here with me.”

  “You plan to shoot her like you shot Duncan Murray?”

  Nash sank onto the chair. “I didn’t plan to shoot Murray, and that’s exactly the problem.”

  Nash breathed through the long moment of silence. “You thought you were under attack,” Rowden finally said. “That’s what Draven believes. It was a mistake and Murray’s fault because he probably stormed in here like the lunatic he is. Notice when I arrived, I was a bit more circumspect.”

  “You’re still not safe. My mind could go back there. I could shoot you, and I’m unfortunately and unwillingly sober now. I wouldn’t miss.”

  The paper rustled as though Rowden was either reading it again or setting it aside. “I would prefer you didn’t carry your pistol with you at all times, but so long as Clopdon is in possession of
the powder and balls, I feel somewhat better.”

  Nash didn’t feel better. Clopdon had found a new hiding place two days ago, and Nash hadn’t discovered it yet. He reached into his coat pocket and touched the pistol there. Pru was right that he didn’t seem to need the comfort of it as he had before. He still liked to have it close by, but he didn’t need it as much.

  “You think you will shoot Miss Howard as she climbs into your bed one night? If you did, you’d be an even bigger rattlepate than I thought. And no one is that much of a nodcock, not even you.”

  Nash sincerely wished he could find his powder and balls. If anyone deserved a hole in his head, it was Rowden.

  “I suppose you think you’re being noble and protecting her.”

  “And what would you have me do?” Nash asked. He still didn’t fully trust himself to keep Pru safe, but he hadn’t expected to miss her this much. Surely, he could see her one more time.

  “Send for her—no, better yet. Go to her. It’s time you made some effort.”

  “I made a clean break,” Nash said. “I should leave well enough alone.”

  “If you don’t want to see her, fine. Be a nodcock. But the more I think about it, the more I think it would be wise for you to go into Milcroft. Show yourself. We want word to reach your father that you’re doing well. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.”

  “You want me to march into Milcroft and what—go shopping at the general store?”

  Rowden stood. “Excellent idea, but you shouldn’t march. You’re the son of an earl. We’ll go in a carriage. Unfortunately, nothing will be open today and most people will be home. It’s Sunday. We should go tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to go into Milcroft.” The idea made him shiver with loathing. He didn’t want to be exposed to the villagers. Everyone would stare at him. There would be whispering and murmurs behind fluttering fans.

  Pru would be there.

  “I didn’t want to come here,” Rowden said. He opened the paper again, or at least Nash assumed that was what the rustling of the pages and the accompanying silence indicated.

  Nash went to stand by the window. He couldn’t see the view as he once had, but he could feel the sun on his skin. Funny how Pru had made him take notice of little things like the feel of the sun on his face or the breeze in his hair. Funny how, hard as he tried, his thoughts always returned to her. Even now, if he allowed his mind to wander, it would return to that night of the storm and the feel of her trembling with need beneath him. The rake of her nails against his back and the deep-throated moan she gave when he slid into her.

  Nash wanted to moan himself. He wanted her back and in his bed. And he also knew that sending her away had been the right decision. For both of them.

  He heard a sound like a baby’s cry and went completely still. He knew that cry. Once all of Wentmore seemed to echo with it. Once Wentmore had echoed with laughter and voices. It hadn’t always been the silent tomb it was now. But the peacocks were gone and so was the joy.

  Nash felt very much akin to the lone peacock calling outside, crying for his companions, his mate. Crying for a time that would never come again.

  “HOW MUCH LONGER, GIRL?” Mrs. Northgate asked as Pru stood behind the privacy screen in her boudoir and waited for Sterns, the lady’s maid, to do up the last of the buttons on her new dress.

  The dress she had sewn—well, mostly sewn. It was ready and Pru was both thrilled to finally be able to try it on and also a little sad that her daily visits with Mrs. Northgate would be at an end.

  She wouldn’t miss Eliza, Mary, George or their mother. But she had begun to think of Mrs. Northgate as a friend.

  “There,” said Sterns, taking a step back. She nodded approvingly, and it was the first time she’d ever looked at Pru and not through her. “You look very well,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Pru said in surprise, forgetting one wasn’t supposed to thank servants. Ridiculous rule at any rate.

  “Well, step out then,” Mrs. Northgate ordered. “Let me see.”

  Pru moved out from behind the screen and stood in front of Mrs. Northgate, who removed her spectacles so they dangled from her hand, the gold chain glinting in the midday sun. Her face gave nothing away. It was still the handsome, formidable face that had become so familiar to Pru. She should have known the woman would never allow so much as a smile to slip.

  Mrs. Northgate made a twirling gesture with one hand, and Pru turned around, slowly and awkwardly.

  “Stop,” Mrs. Northgate said when Pru’s back was to her. Then, “Go ahead.”

  Pru finished her turn and looked at Mrs. Northgate expectantly.

  “Don’t look at me. See for yourself,” she said, gesturing to the cheval mirror in one corner. Pru moved hesitantly toward it, filling her lungs with air. But when she caught sight of herself, she let the air out in a burst. She was still the same person she had been when she’d come this morning—hair a bit unkempt, freckles dotting her face, slight hollows under her eyes. But she looked...oh, she looked like a lady.

  She looked like she had a bosom!

  Pru turned from one side to the other, admiring the way the ruffles on the bodice gave the illusion of more and the tapering of the skirts highlighted her small waist.

  “Well?” Mrs. Northgate asked, and Pru realized she had been waiting for Pru’s verdict. Pru turned to her.

  “I love it!” And then even though she knew the older woman would hate it, she threw herself into her arms and hugged her. “Thank you! Thank you! I could never have done this myself.”

  Mrs. Northgate patted her for a moment, and then to Pru’s surprise she put her arms around her and embraced her back. “It was my pleasure,” she said quietly. Then she stepped back and flicked her gaze at the maid. “What are you looking at? Don’t you have something to do?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” But Sterns only smiled as she pretended to be busy straightening items on a dressing table.

  Pru was looking at herself in the mirror again. “I must admit, I had my doubts about the color, but it does suit me.”

  “Yes, it does. It even lessens those dark circles under your eyes.”

  Pru supposed it was too much to hope that Mrs. Northgate hadn’t noticed those.

  “I haven’t been sleeping very well lately.”

  “Care to tell me why?” she asked.

  “No reason,” Pru said, turning from side to side, admiring the dress and feeling very vain.

  “And has Mr. Pope been sleeping well?” Mrs. Northgate asked.

  Pru gave her a sharp look. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  Mrs. Northgate frowned. “If I were your age, I wouldn’t waste a moment of my time being unhappy. No doubt he’s as miserable as you. And don’t give me that look, Miss Howard. I know you’re in love with him, even if you don’t. I can’t imagine he doesn’t love you back. You have a way of making people love you.”

  Pru stared at Mrs. Northgate. “That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “Oh, bother. Do not start weeping. Sterns, give her a handkerchief.”

  The maid brought a clean one from the drawer and handed it to Pru, who dabbed at her eyes. She had been trying very hard for the last few days not to think about Nash Pope. It seemed to take a great deal of effort to not think about him. And the more she told herself not to think about him, the more she was actually thinking about him.

  And then she began to think about herself and wonder what was wrong with her that no one ever wanted her. Her parents hadn’t wanted her. They’d left her with a stranger with hardly a good-bye. It might be years before they returned. If they ever returned. Mr. Higginbotham didn’t want her. He’d only taken her in out of Christian charity.

  Abubakar hadn’t wanted her. One thing she had not told Nash was that when her parents had discovered Pru had been ruined, they’d demanded Abubakar marry her. He’d refused and his father had blamed the entire affair on Pru. As a further sting to her parents, the fath
er had said he would never allow his son to marry a heathen whore. Pru still grimaced when she remembered her parents hurling insults back, accusing Abubakar and his family of being the true heathens.

  It was no wonder they’d had to leave Cairo quickly after that.

  Pru thought she had learned her lesson after Abubakar. She’d thought she had closed her heart after her parents left.

  But she’d obviously learned nothing because here she was, sobbing in Mrs. Northgate’s boudoir, over Nash Pope.

  He didn’t want her either.

  She still had Anne, her dear sister Anne. Perhaps she would write and suggest, again, that she come for a long visit. Surely, Anne could use help with little Rose. She knew Anne and Mr. Thomson did not have much money and lived in a modest one-bedroom flat, but Pru didn’t eat much. She could sleep on a pallet in the kitchen and stay out of the way.

  But Anne hadn’t yet answered her last letter, and Pru didn’t want to ask to come for a visit in every letter she wrote. She didn’t want to seem desperate.

  Even if she was, now more than ever.

  But she couldn’t stand here weeping all day. She had to go back to not thinking about Nash and all the other people who didn’t want her. Besides, Nash still needed her. She would not allow his father to have him sent to an asylum. She didn’t yet know how she would prevent it, but she knew she had to try.

  “Ah. I see that pointy chin of yours lifting,” Mrs. Northgate said, taking a seat in her highbacked chair. “Stop watering and sit down.”

  Pru wiped her eyes once more and did as she was bid.

  “Did I ever tell you about Mr. Northgate, my husband?”

  “No,” Pru said, trying not to sniffle.

  “He was a curmudgeon of a man, even when I met him at six and twenty. Never a smile out of him, so sober and serious, while I was his opposite.”

  Pru narrowed her eyes. “You were?”

  “Oh, yes. I was always laughing and dancing and flirting. Do not look so shocked. It was a different time. Our skirts were wide and our necklines low. My hair was white with powder then, not age.”