The Rogue's Proposal

by Jennifer Haymore

  He’d learned, on their travels so far, that Emma disliked asking people for help in that way. She’d much prefer to manage their course on her own.

  “All right,” he said mildly, and he continued to drive. Soon they entered the bustling little town of Berwick-upon-Tweed. Luke drew the horses to a stop at the first person he saw, a man huddled in an oil-slicked coat, and asked where he might find the nearest lodgings. The man directed him to the King’s Arms two minutes away.

  When he started the horses again, he slid a glance toward Emma. “See, now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  She made a little growly noise, and he laughed. “Are you pouting, Mrs. Curtis?”

  She gave him a very dry look. “I do not pout, Lord Lukas. Surely we could have found the inn on our own. Look”—she gestured at the stone building where they’d stopped—“we are already here.”

  And so they were. They performed the tasks they’d become accustomed to over the days—Emma directing the luggage while Luke dealt with stabling the horses.

  They planned to stay in Berwick-upon-Tweed for one night. What they didn’t know then was that the rain wouldn’t let up for five days.

  Five cold, wet, long days.

  Five glorious days, in a small inn in a small town, with nothing for Luke to do except keep Emma occupied…in bed.

  On the third morning, she woke, slipped her nightgown over her naked body, and padded to the window, crossing her arms over her chest and shivering a little.

  Luke gazed at her, focused on the curve of her bottom through the thin fabric.

  She cracked open the curtain and stared outside, sighing heartily. “It’s pouring, and the sky is a most uniform, most dreary color.”

  “Gray?” he supplied helpfully.

  She sighed again. “Yes. Gray.” She turned to him. “What are we going to do?”

  He gave her a wicked smile. “I’ve some ideas.”

  “You don’t think we should push forward?”

  He sobered. “No. Too dangerous.” For the horses, the carriage, and for her health. As much as he wanted—needed—to find Morton and his mother, he didn’t want to repeat her getting soaked through again. He wouldn’t risk her getting ill.

  When had Emma Curtis’s well-being become his primary concern? He wondered this vaguely as she approached the bed and sat on its edge.

  He laid his hand on her thigh. After so long forcing himself not to touch her, now he couldn’t seem to get enough of touching her.

  “Come back to bed,” he murmured.

  Her teeth closed over her lower lip. “I feel like…like I should be doing something. Something that will help us find Morton.”

  “There’s nothing to do. Not here. Not now.”

  Her brow furrowed. “How long do you think it will be before the rain stops?”

  He shrugged, tugged her onto the bed. She allowed him to arrange her limbs into a comfortable position, then he said, “I’ve waited six months to find my mother. You’ve waited a year to find Morton. As much as I want to find her, I know by now that a few rainy days won’t make a difference in the grand scheme.”

  She sighed and turned to face him. “You’re right.”

  He traced the edge of her face with his fingertips, pushing away the hair that had fallen over her cheek. “Are you still so eager to kill him?”

  “Morton?” Her lips firmed, and he saw the shadows pass behind her eyes. “Yes. Perhaps even more so now.”

  “Do you mean that literally?” he asked softly. “Would you hold a pistol to his head and pull on the trigger?”

  “Y—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “Murder, Emma. Are you truly capable of it, or is it your anger speaking?”

  Her breath whispered over his finger as she exhaled, and her eyes sank shut. He could tell she was picturing in her mind what it would actually be like to murder a man, because she shuddered. “He destroyed my family.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want him to suffer for what he’s done. I want him to pay. But…” She opened her eyes and looked at him, her golden gaze flat in the dim gray light. “I don’t know if I could really kill him.”

  He slid his arm over her stomach. “I don’t want you risking yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s dangerous. He’s a murderer and a thief. I won’t have you recklessly putting yourself into danger for that man.”

  “I—”

  He tightened his hand around her waist, holding her protectively. “I won’t risk you, Em.” In that moment, Luke knew that if Morton threatened Emma’s safety in any way, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the man himself.

  She sighed, and they lay in silence for a long moment. He let his hand trail up and down the curve of her waist.

  “Can you sleep?” she eventually murmured.

  Coming out of the haze of desire that touching her had evoked, he blinked at her, then chuckled. “Sleep? Did you really think I had sleep on my mind?”

  Her expression relaxed. “Well…I wasn’t sure…”

  “Be sure,” he said softly. “If there have been more than a few hours since the last time I had you, having you again will always be what’s foremost on my mind.”

  “That’s nonsense,” she murmured. “It is new for us both now. But it won’t always be like this.”

  “Why not?” he asked her. He couldn’t even conceive of growing tired of this woman.

  “It never is.”

  “How can you know that?”

  She gave him a half-smile. “I suppose I don’t. But I thought that was the way of it. Especially for men like you.”

  “Men like me?”

  “Rakes. Scoundrels. Rogues.” The words emerged in that low, whisky-smooth voice of hers that stroked along his nerves. That was one thing he’d never get enough of, for certain: her voice.

  “Is that what you think I am? A rogue?”

  “I know that’s what you are. I’ve known that from the moment you looked at me over that glass of ale.”

  “But you know me better now. Your opinion hasn’t changed?”

  “My opinion of you has changed in many respects, but in that one, no. In fact, I do believe you are more of a rogue than I originally thought.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, you seem pleased by that.”

  She laughed softly. As always, his body responded to that sound.

  “I suppose I am pleased by it.” Her eyes flashed at him in a wicked glint. “My lord.”

  “Why?” he asked her.

  The slightest tinge of pink infused her cheeks. “You know why.”

  “Perhaps. But I want to hear it.”

  She licked her lips, the action so erotic his breath caught. “Very well,” she said in that soft, rasping voice. She was silent for a moment, then said, “I thought rogues were men who took what they wanted from the world with no regard for the people they hurt.”

  “They do,” he said softly. He knew that firsthand.

  She pressed a finger to his lips.

  “But I’ve learned there are different kinds of rogues. There are those who behave like that. There are those who pretend to be rogues but are really gentlemen at heart—”

  He raised his brows in disbelief. “You believe I am one of them?”

  “Not at all.” Her lips curled seductively. “You are the third kind.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “The true rogue. The man who lives by his own rules and refuses to be cowed.”

  She said it with such pride, like that was the kind of man she admired above all.

  “The kind of man who follows his heart, who takes risks.” She reached up and touched his cheek.

  He captured her wrist in his hand, pulling it down but keeping it firmly clasped in his own. “And that’s me?”

  “Mmm. Yes.”

  “Stay here,” he ordered. He slipped out of bed and found his cravat lying over the back of the chair, tucked underneath his trousers. He pul
led it free and returned to the bed.

  She gazed at him, all innocent freshness, but her words belied her expression. “What are you going to do with that, my lord?”

  He grinned. “Hmm. I think you’re growing too cocky. And do you know what happens when my woman grows too cocky?”

  “Nooo…” She stretched out the word, her eyes riveted to the cravat dangling from his hand.

  He went onto the bed and on his knees beside her. Bending down close to her ear, he whispered, “I teach her her place.”

  “My place? Where’s my place, my lord?”

  “Under me,” he growled. He captured her wrists and wrapped the cravat around them in one full loop but not tying it.

  “Do you like to be bound, Mrs. Curtis?” he asked, mimicking the question he’d asked her on that first night in Bristol.

  Her eyes flicked from her wrists, where he held the cravat, to his face. “I…I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’ve never been bound.”

  “But you need to be, don’t you?”

  “I…” She swallowed. He studied her, trying to read her expression. Uncertainty or anticipation? He wasn’t sure. He needed to be certain. “…don’t know,” she finished.

  He bent down and kissed her, running his cravat loosely over her wrists so she’d feel the rasp of the material against her skin.

  “You’ll tell me if you’re scared. You’ll tell me if it hurts. You’ll tell me to stop, if you need me to.”

  “I will?” she breathed.

  “Yes.”

  “But I want you to go far,” she said shyly, blinking up at him.

  After the last three days with her, he believed her. That tinge of fear still frayed the edges of his consciousness—that worry that he’d do something to ruin everything. But each time they made love, her enthusiasm and responsiveness shrank that fear.

  He leaned down and licked the shell of her ear. “I’m going to take you hard, Em. Are you ready to scream?”

  He felt the tremor run through her body at his promise. And he gloried in it.

  She didn’t answer. But then, he hadn’t expected her to. He ran his lips over her ear, down her jaw and the silky slope of her neck. She tasted so damn good. She could make him forget everything.

  Rising back up onto his knees, he secured her wrists in front of her. He knotted the cravat tightly, knowing it would make indentations in the lovely, soft flesh of her wrists. He wanted to see those later. To have her bear his marks on her flesh.

  “There.” He glanced up at her face. Her eyes were closed. “Keep your hands right there, Em. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

  She took a shaky breath. But she complied.

  “Good,” he murmured in approval. She was compliant, hot, responsive.

  His cock was pulsing with burning, demanding need.

  Yanking up her nightgown, he pushed his hand between her legs without preamble. She was wet already. He groaned.

  He grabbed her wrists with his free hand and pulled them over her head, tugging her nightgown up her body until her breasts were exposed. They beckoned him, so full and soft, with puckered pink nipples begging for his mouth.

  With one hand stroking between her legs and the other pinning her wrists above her head, Luke bent down and suckled her sweet, taut nipples, one at a time. Licking, nibbling, tasting. So soft, so good. He could lose himself in her breasts.

  Vaguely, he heard her panting. “Luke,” she whispered. “Please, Luke.”

  He continued making love to her soft flesh, pushing his thumb inside her tight channel. She gasped with pleasure, thrusting her body against him.

  “Shhh,” he told her. “Be still. Just feel, Em. That’s all I want you to do. Feel.”

  With a small whimper, she relaxed. He licked up the side of her breast, rubbed his lips over the tight nub of her nipple. He thrust his thumb in and out of her, reveling in the slick, hot clasp of her body.

  But his body was making demands of its own, and they were growing more urgent by the second. He pulled his hand away from her sex, giving it a light squeeze.

  “Turn over,” he told her, his voice gruff.

  She did as he told her, flipping onto her stomach without a word. Her immediate compliance in bed always surprised him. When they weren’t naked, she was different—confident and in charge. But then, when they weren’t naked, he was different, too. And he liked her transformation. It suited his desires perfectly.

  He looked down at her and swallowed. She lay before him like an offering, her hands stretched overhead, bound by white linen. Her hair fanned in loose silken waves across the pillow. Her head was turned to the side, and she faced him, gazing up at him with complete trust in her gold-tinged eyes.

  What the devil had he ever done to deserve such a look?

  The way she offered herself was a precious gift, and unworthy as he was, he couldn’t understand why she chose to give it. But what he did know was that he wanted to give her a gift in return: the most pleasure he could possibly bestow.

  Her back was smooth, her complexion a soft, uniform olive shade. There were two small dimples above the cleft of her arse, and he bent down to press a kiss to each of them, one at a time.

  He lifted his head again, admiring the slope of her behind. Her curves were so generous. Her breasts were large and firm, her hips narrow, her arse round and plump, her legs long and well formed.

  “You are so perfect,” he murmured.

  “Luke,” she said on a sigh. He glanced at her face as she continued in a voice so soft he had to strain to hear. “So are you.”

  He closed his eyes. When such words came from her lips, he could almost believe. Almost.

  He trailed his hand down her spine, watching the shiver that chased it, and then he palmed her cheek.

  “Up on your knees,” he told her. “Keep your forearms on the bed.”

  He helped her into the position, then studied her again. His hand wandered down to his cock, and he gave it a few tugs, trying to give himself some relief as he studied how her arse tilted in the air. Waiting. Ready for him. He glanced at her to find her watching him ardently. Her gaze snagged his, and she licked her lips.

  No more teasing. For her or for him. He needed her now.

  He moved into position behind her, guided himself to her entrance. There was no preamble this time. He thrust home in one hard push. She bucked, her spine curving.

  Oh. Yes. She was on her knees, her bound arms in front of her, her head bowed. He bloody loved to see her like this.

  He gripped her hips. Her skin was soft and warm under his. The curve of her supple waist made perfect notches for his hands to hold her.

  He thrust into her, her body caressing him in a silken glide.

  “So good,” he told her. “You’re so tight and sweet around me.” At her low moan, he added, “Yes, that’s right. Let me hear your pleasure.”

  Soon, she began to buck and arch, her body slamming into his each time he pushed home. That telltale clamping of her body around him told him she was going to come.

  “Yes,” he encouraged. “You’re getting tighter.” He ground his teeth at the intensity, trying to keep himself from exploding inside her. “You’re going to drive me mad, Em.” He squeezed his fingers over her hips, directing her body’s movements against him.

  Her breaths emerged in harsh “Ah! Ah! Ah!” sounds. Her back curved, then straightened. Her forehead pressed into the bed. Her pelvis tilted back, allowing him the deepest penetration possible.

  And then her back arched and she threw her head back, and she came. Glorious pulses of pleasure milking his cock.

  Damn it. Damn it, he thought to himself. Wait. Wait, damn it. He wanted to be inside her for the duration of her climax, but oh, God how he needed to come.

  As soon as her tremors began to subside, he thrust hard into her, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, his cock digging into the tight grip of her sex.

  Once, twice, three times. And then he pulled out of h
er, wrapped one of his arms around her while he braced his weight on the other, and shuddered out his release in the cleft of her arse.

  As his own tremors subsided, he collapsed to his side, clutching her against him.

  With fumbling fingers, he untied her bonds. He blindly tossed aside the cravat, then rubbed soothing fingers over the indentations it had left in her wrists.

  “Mmm,” she said.

  “Does that mean you do like being bound, Mrs. Curtis? Because I’ve asked you several times now, and you’ve yet to respond.”

  “Mmm,” she repeated. And then, a few moments later, she added in her low, sultry voice, “Yes, Luke. I like being bound. I like it very, very much.”

  Chapter Ten

  Over the next few days, Luke made very good use of his cravat. And her stockings. And the two yards of soft cotton rope he’d purchased at one of the stalls on the town’s market day.

  Emma really did like to be bound, he discovered. And he very much enjoyed tying her up. He bound her wrists. Her ankles. He tied her to a chair and had his wicked way with her. He secured her to the bedposts, spread for his pleasure—and hers. He wished there was more furniture to experiment with, but alas, this was a simple country inn.

  And she cried out his name. She screamed in ecstasy. She came more times than he could count. And not once did she ask him to stop. He was fairly certain she never even came close, even when her legs and arms were bound in intricate knots, precluding her from moving at all.

  Emma bound was a compelling erotic picture. It awed him. He’d bound women before. Some women hated it—more than one had called him a bastard afterward. Some did seem to enjoy it, but none to the extent Emma did. She seemed to revel in it; her skin grew so sensitive that the merest touch sent her to shuddering and the softest stroke made her come.

  He’d never been more sexually sated. He’d never felt calmer. Those sharp edges within him, the ones that seemed to scrape incessantly at him, had dulled to a low throb.

  And yet, on their final night in Berwick-upon-Tweed, the plague of nightmares returned.

  He’d fallen asleep after another bout of vigorous bed sport and had slept soundly for several hours. Then it began.