The Rogue Returns.smashwords

by Leigh LaValle

  She felt rather sad, truth be told. Her heart ached something terrible.

  Emotions made no sense at all.

  Finally, they rode into a small village and, using a passage of narrow alleyways, slipped into the back entrance of the stables belonging to Roane’s friend.

  “We will go in the servants’ door,” he murmured as he helped her down. “My good friend owns this establishment and will be sure to keep our identities secret. No one will know we are here.”

  They left the horses munching hay in their stalls and, keeping out of site, entered the brick building that was almost completely covered by ivy. The cook barely looked up as they walked through the kitchens and into the private dining room. The room was dark, but a fire in the fireplace gave off comfort and light.

  “By my own eyes. The prodigal son is returned.” A man, seated by the fire at the back of the room, stood and came toward them with open arms. He was tall and elegantly dressed, his boots shining and his cravat well pressed. His gaze flicked toward Helen and swept over her unconventional attire. “And with a beautiful woman.” He took her hand and bowed gallantly, as if they were in the finest of ballrooms. For a moment she worried he knew who she was, and half expected a ‘milady’ to roll from his lips. But then he winked at her, and she recognized his actions for what they were—the playful antics of a flirt. “Mr. Tiffen, at your service.”

  “Wonderful to see you.” Roane clapped the other man on the shoulder, perhaps harder than necessary, and drew his attention away from her. “We need a room for the night.”

  “Of course, of course.” Mr. Tiffen looked at Roane’s saddlebags but didn’t offer to take them. “Do you require anything else?”

  “Utmost privacy. Is the north chamber free?”

  “It is yours.”

  “Good. I’ve left two horses in the stables. And the lady wishes for a bath.”

  “It will be done.”

  As Mr. Tiffen turned to leave, Helen realized he never once used Roane’s name. Neither did he show them their rooms, nor ask any specific questions, like why she held a meowing basket in her hand, or how long they planned to stay.

  Just what kind of inn was this?

  Carrying his own bags, Roane led them up a flight of stairs, down a narrow hallway, and into a small chamber. He locked the door behind him, checked the windows, and tossed the dirty saddlebags onto the clean bed linens. Men.

  Helen turned in a circle, inspecting the room. It felt odd to be back in civilization, rather empty and disappointing. The chamber was nice enough, but she realized with a start that she did not want to be here. She’d rather be camping alongside a tumbling brook, a canopy of birdsong overhead.

  This chamber meant their journey was at an end. Tomorrow, she would return to London.

  She would say goodbye to Roane.

  Pushing aside her thoughts, she wandered over to the small looking glass above the washbasin. She braced herself for the shock of her disheveled appearance.

  But, to her surprise, she didn’t look so horrid. Yes, she was freckled and a touch browned from the sun, but mostly she just looked different in a way she couldn’t name.

  Happy?

  Maybe.

  Free?

  Yes. Certainly.

  But there was something else. Something around her eyes.

  Contentment. Peace.

  “You don’t mind sharing a bedchamber, do you?” Roane asked behind her, drawing her gaze to him. “I cannot protect you if you are in another room.” He sat in a chair and pulled off his boots. After the elegant attire of the innkeeper, he looked positively scruffy. Golden whiskers covered his jaw and hid his dimple. His boots were muddy, his clothing rumpled, and his forearms browned by the sun.

  He looked gorgeous. And exhausted.

  “I don’t mind.” Truly, she didn’t. She wanted to spend as much time in his company as she could before her departure. “How is your arm?”

  He glanced at her with a wry smile. “Improving.”

  “Might I look at it?”

  He waved her off. “It’s nothing. You looked at it last night.”

  “Why won’t you let me tend to it?”

  “Why must you take care of everyone else first?” He nodded toward the bed.

  “Relax. You look ready to fall over.”

  “I don’t feel tired.” But, suddenly, she did. The long press was over, and they’d finally found the gold. Her body had pushed and pushed for over a hundred miles, and now she was ready to collapse.

  She sank down on the bed, muddy clothes and all.

  Roane nodded. “That’s better.”

  “Don’t complain to me if your arm gets infected,” she murmured, closing her eyes and settling into the comfortable linens.

  But then the thought hit her—Roane wouldn’t be able to complain to her if his wound became infected, because she would never see him again. She would never talk to him again. After tomorrow, they would be strangers.

  A lump formed in her throat. This was all much more difficult than she had anticipated.

  She wasn’t ready to leave him. Not yet.

  She fisted the coverpane in her hands. She needed to be on that coach tomorrow. It was imperative she infused the estate coffers with funds at once. And who knew what trouble Harry had stirred up while she was away? She couldn’t possible push her life to the side just to spend time with a man. What good could possible come of that?

  She had a life to return to. People counted on her. People who needed her to be dependable and responsible.

  Roane was…Roane was excitement and passion. He was an adventure.

  Adventures ended.

  She glanced over at him where he sat in the chair, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, a slight smile about his lips. He hardly appeared concerned that their time together was ticking away. Oh, he was kind and heroic, even trustworthy in his way, but the truth was the truth. He was a man who stirred up the world and moved on. A man who tried not to miss people after they said goodbye.

  People leave. I’ve learned to move on.

  A cold hand squeezed her heart.

  Would he miss her at all? Or would he just move on to the next adventure. The next woman.

  The thought was sobering in that breath-stealing, world-tilting kind of way.

  A few quiet minutes later, a knock sounded on the door, and they both scrambled to their feet. “Who is it?” Roane asked.

  “Your bath, sir.”

  He checked that his pistol was still in the holster at his waist before he opened the door. Two maids entered with buckets of hot water, two footmen followed, carrying a copper tub. The tub was dented and slightly misshapen at one corner but Helen couldn’t remember the last time she’d anticipated anything quite so much.

  The maids left, then came back with more steaming buckets of water. Roane stood sentinel over the whole scene, his legs braced and his hands on his hips, as if he expected trouble at any moment.

  He was rather charming in his protectiveness.

  But what, exactly, was he thinking would happen with this bath? He had already removed his boots. Did he think to bathe first? Or to wait in the room while she bathed?

  The next possibility she could not even consider, though her mind was already galloping ahead with images. The two of them, hot and soapy and naked, pressed together in the copper tub. Skin sliding against skin…

  She turned away before anyone could guess the nature of her thoughts. Outside, dusk was settling over the hills. She would miss these wide-open places once she returned to life in London. She would miss the feeling of being able to breathe.

  Finally, the maids stoked the fire before the tub and left the room. Roane closed the door behind them and locked it.

  She must have turned and looked at him oddly, for he held his hands out. “What?”

  “Are you not going downstairs?”

  “I thought to lay down and rest.” He threw h
imself onto the bed with a sigh of contentment.

  “But… but you... it’s not…” she sputtered, her attention swinging from the tub to him and back again.

  He smiled and crossed his arms behind his head. “Have at it, princess.”

  She stared at him.

  “You still worry about propriety? After everything?” He laughed.

  She laughed as well, realizing how ridiculous it sounded. “Habit, I guess.”

  “Mmm,” he mumbled, and she suspected he was half asleep already. The bed had been lovely and comfortable after so many nights on the cold ground.

  She turned her back to him, peeled off her dirty clothes and slipped into the warm water.

  Heaven. It was heaven. A sigh of pure delight rushed between her lips. Water sloshed to the edges as she sank deeper. The heat seeped the soreness from her muscles and she closed her eyes.

  But her brain did not get the message that it was time to relax. Behind her eyelids, all she could see was Roane stretched out on the bed, his form long and lithe and powerful. All she could hear was Roane’s even breath. He filled the room. He filled everything. He simply made everything better, just by being nearby.

  She would leave him in the morning. Board a coach and never see him again.

  Helen dipped her head under the water, trying to thrust him out of her mind. She knew this was how it would end. There was no cause to lament it now.

  But even as she surfaced, her chest ached, and her throat felt tight, and no bath could fix that.

  Vaguely, she was aware of the maid retuning and talking quietly to Roane through a crack in the door. The commotion roused her so she took up the bar of soap and began to wash the grime beneath her fingernails.

  People leave. I’ve learned to move on.

  “I’ve a dress for you.” Roane came to the side of the tub and didn’t bother pretending to be a gentleman. He stared down at her, his warm brown eyes lingering over her bare skin.

  “A dress?” She sat up and hugged her knees, flustered by her nakedness.

  He threw the dress on the bed, his eyes never leaving her. “Might I help you bathe?”

  “Now?” she squeaked.

  He grinned and pulled off his shirt. “Yes, now.”

  Her gaze skidded over the muscles of his chest and shoulders as he unwrapped the bandage from his wound, which was healing well. He stepped behind her and blood rushed to her head, making her throb as if the water was too hot. “Do you mean to climb in with me?”

  “No.” He dipped his forearms into the warm water and quietly hissed between his teeth.

  “Your wound.” She craned her neck to look at him, a frown on her face.

  “My arm is fine, buttercup. Relax.” He made a twirling motion with his fingers and she complied, turning around so he could wash her back. Even after everything they had been through, it felt odd, letting him tend to her. An intimate quiet settled over the room, broken only by the sounds of the fire, the splash of the water.

  He placed his palms on her shoulders, then ran his hands down her back. His fingers were slippery and sank into her muscles as he worked. Helen dropped her head onto her knees and enjoyed his rhythmic touch. He kneaded her shoulders and along the sides of her spine, drawing the tiredness and the ache from her body.

  A low moan escaped her as he rubbed a particularly sore spot on her low back. “This feels wonderful,” she murmured.

  “Good. Slide forward a little.”

  She did as he instructed, and he moved his palms down to the place where her back dipped into her buttocks. She groaned again. Good lord, his touch was pure bliss. No wonder the horses followed him everywhere.

  He gently rinsed off her back and shoulders and began washing her left arm.

  “I can do it,” she protested, dragging herself out of her stupor.

  “Let me take care of you.” He held her elbow until she stopped struggling. He washed one arm, then the other, kneading her muscles as he worked.

  “Now your hair.” She tilted her head back, and he used a pitcher to carefully pour water over her tangled tresses, then worked the soap into lather, massaging from her scalp to the ends. He’d done this before, to another woman, but Helen didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything but how wonderful he was making her feel.

  “When I first met you,” he said, running his fingers through her hair, “you were wet and half-undressed and already a handful. I never imagined I’d—” He cut himself off and dunked the pitcher in the tub. “Close your eyes.” Then he poured a luscious stream of warm water over her head and rinsed the soap from her hair.

  “You never imagined what?” she prodded.

  “I never imagined I’d have the honor of seeing you wet and fully undressed,” he teased. He leaned forward and kissed her bare shoulder.

  Helen leaned back and enjoyed his touch. But she knew he’d been about to say something else. Something that made her heart pulse in her ears and inside her elbows.

  He came around to her side and brushed a thick wave of blond hair from his forehead. The steam made it curl at the ends. “Your leg, please.”

  She peered up at him, her breath in her throat, and hugged her knees.

  “I thought you were spoiled,” he said with a crooked smile. “I thought you’d demand I perform chores for you. I was prepared to carry your army of trunks and wash your feet in rose petals. Little did I know you’d be so shy and retiring.”

  Helen laughed. She was many things, but shy and retiring was not one of them. She gently extended her right leg, keeping her arms wrapped around her left knee and covering her breasts.

  That didn’t stop Roane from looking, and raking his hot gaze over what he could see. He took his time, washing her leg, touching every inch of her skin from her inner thigh to the ends of her toes. She forgot to hide from him as he slipped his thumbs over the arch of her foot. She simply lay back, extended her left leg, and let him wash and knead and caress her where he wished.

  He gave her left leg the same loving treatment, then slid his palm up to cup her sex. She stiffened, but he quickly moved on higher, to her belly and finally her breasts. With both hands, he cupped her breasts and brushed his thumbs over her sensitive nipples until she was panting for breath. Until she was straining into his touch.

  Then he stopped.

  Helen opened her eyes. He was sitting back on his heels, staring at her with dark eyes, his chest rising and falling with his own rapid breath.

  The air was charged between them. On his face, in the hard expression of his mouth and jaw and the heaviness in his gaze, she recognized her own heart.

  He would miss her. More than he was prepared for.

  Her heart pulsed hard, and her throat swelled with emotion.

  He said nothing. He did nothing. He did not try to make a joke, or kiss her, or somehow push away the sorrow between them. He breathed it out and she breathed it in.

  Finally, Helen could stand it no longer. It was all too big, too much. She was not supposed to have feelings for Roane. It just didn’t fit in her life. He didn’t fit in her life. As much as she tried, she couldn’t picture a future for them. Their paths may have joined for a time, but in the end, they were bound for different worlds. She would take her gold back to London to create stability and purpose for her family and their dependents. He would take his eight thousand and gamble on a parcel of wilderness and a fledgling horse farm. No matter his talent and hard work, his future was fraught with risk.

  She needed to focus on patching her world back together. She couldn’t forget the helplessness and fear that had propelled her on her journey. “I’ll let you have your turn before the water grows cold,” she said.

  “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.