The Rogue's Proposal

by Jennifer Haymore

  “More than ready. You know that. I want to do it right now.”

  She raised her brows. “I thought we’d wait for your brothers and Esme.”

  His siblings came to see him every day. Even Theo and Mark had come up from Cambridge. Sam’s words about brotherly love still resonated in Luke’s head. For the first time in his life, Luke was able to appreciate the different ways his siblings showed they cared.

  Trent made things—like the annulment—happen. Sarah showered him with motherly attention. Sam was a stoic, stable presence. Esme fretted and wrung her hands, and then she scribbled furiously in the notebook she always carried about with her. Theo and Mark chattered about nonsensical things, told jokes that made him laugh until the stitches pulled in his side, and asked him over and over to regale them with the story of how he had “saved Emma and defeated the dastardly Roger Morton.”

  Through it all, Emma was there. Beside him. Loving him in her quiet, steady way.

  “I don’t want to wait,” he told her now. “I want to do it with you. I want to walk to the drawing room and receive my family there instead of here.”

  She grinned at him. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. They’ll all be so happy to see you up and about.”

  He was certainly ready. He’d been restless and anxious to get out of bed for the past week, but the doctor had said no—the wound needed more healing. As she had since that first night, Emma insisted he follow the doctor’s orders to the letter.

  She slipped out of bed, then came around to his side. Slowly, he lifted himself up to a seated position, feeling the pull—but no pain—in his injury. She held his arms as if to steady him, but he well knew he was too heavy for her. It didn’t matter—he was quite capable of lifting his own body weight.

  Equally slowly, he slid his legs over the edge of the bed. He was wearing his drawers and the shirt he wore to bed every night.

  “Well done,” she said, beaming.

  He grinned up at her.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Good,” she breathed. “Baldwin laid out your clothes last night. Can I help you into them?”

  The last three weeks had been difficult and painful. Emma had probably seen enough blood and raw, oozing, pustulant flesh to last her a lifetime. But somehow, even though she’d never left him, he’d managed to continue to hide his back from her. There were times he’d asked her to turn away as Baldwin helped him out of his shirt and bathed him, and she had done so willingly but not without revealing the slightest tinge of hurt in her expression.

  But today…today was the first day of his new life—at least he hoped it would be. And today was the day he needed to expose that last bit of himself he’d kept from her.

  “Yes,” he said gruffly. “Please help me to dress.”

  She sucked in a breath, surprised. Then her expression relaxed. “I’ll call for a basin and cloth to wash you.” Her gaze met his evenly. “Let me do this for you, Luke. You’ll feel so much better.”

  There was a deeper meaning infused in her words. He understood it. She hadn’t really ever commented on it or complained about it, but she knew as well as he did that he kept his shirt on in her presence for a reason.

  “All right,” he told her. His heart suddenly felt like it was galloping. The only person who’d seen the scars on his back was Baldwin, and he’d always discreetly refrained from mentioning them.

  She was gone for a moment, ringing for Delaney and then speaking to the maid. A few minutes later, the girl and Baldwin brought up a basin, soap, and several towels.

  “Oh, sir,” Delaney exclaimed when she saw Luke sitting on his own, “’tis so good to see you up!”

  “Thank you, Delaney,” he said. He glanced at Baldwin and thought he saw a hint of a smile on the man’s imperturbable face.

  “Shall I bathe and dress you, my lord?” Baldwin asked.

  “No. Miss Anderson will do it.” They all addressed Emma by her maiden name now that her marriage had been annulled.

  “Very well, sir,” Baldwin said flatly. He and Delaney took their leave, closing the door softly behind them.

  Emma smiled at him as he sat there, frozen. Trying to fight back the fear and shame that had begun to well in his gut. Her smile thawed him, somewhat. Gave him the courage to go forward.

  She gestured to his shirt. “Let me help you with that.”

  Taking her time, her hands gentle, she untied his neckline, then grasped his hem in both hands and began to lift.

  Luke sat rigid. God. God. He didn’t think he could do it.

  “Lift your arms,” she murmured. Her voice was so gentle.

  With an extreme force of will, he did so. She lifted the shirt over his head and laid it over a nearby chair. When she returned, she checked his bandages. “Good. No bleeding.”

  She turned away to dip a cloth in the steaming water, then scrubbed the soap over the wet fabric.

  She stepped back to him, her arm poised to wash him. He raised his arm, grasping her wrist in his hand, stopping her.

  “Em—” His voice sounded reedy and thin.

  Her sweet bosom rose and fell with a heavy breath. She gazed into his eyes, her expression somber. “I know, Luke.”

  He tilted his head at her, uncomprehending.

  “I know why you have never removed your shirt in my presence.”

  “Wh-what?” he stammered through his closed throat.

  “I saw you once. Soon after we arrived in London. You’d woken from a nightmare and had removed your shirt. You were washing yourself.” She paused, and then said in a throbbing voice, “I saw the scars.”

  He stared at her, unmoving, unspeaking. His mind roared. She knew. She’d known all this time.

  She reached forward, cupping his jaw in her hand, her thumb rasping over his unshaven cheek. “I didn’t mention it because I wanted to give you time. I knew you would tell me about them when you were ready.” Again, a pause. Then, softly, “Are you ready now?”

  “I—” His voice broke, and he cleared it. “I don’t know,” he said roughly. He lowered her wrist and released her. She returned the cloth to the basin and came to sit beside him on the bed on his uninjured side. She snuggled up against him. “It was the old duke, wasn’t it? He made those scars on your back?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told me he beat you. But this…this was different.”

  “Yes.” His voice was so dry it felt as insubstantial as an autumn leaf, so easily crushed under any passerby’s boot heel.

  “What did he do?”

  He pushed out a painful breath. Then he closed his eyes. “He burned me.” And a long-subdued part of him, that frightened boy who’d endured those burns, resonated in his voice.

  “How?”

  “Cigars,” he muttered. Fear and shame swirled heavily within him. He didn’t want to tell anyone about this. Hell, he never had, although sometimes he thought his mother had guessed. But even she had never broached the topic.

  Emma made a pained noise and pressed herself more tightly against him.

  “He said the reasons were twofold. The first was that he might burn the badness out of me. The second because he wanted me to be forever aware that I belonged to the House of Trent. To no one else.”

  “Oh, Luke.”

  “That’s why the scars are in the shape of a T. He intended to brand me.” The words came easier now. “But he didn’t completely succeed—he died before he could finish it. So now…” A bitter noise choked out from his throat. “Now…I have an incomplete T branded upon my back.”

  “It doesn’t matter—” Emma began.

  “He didn’t succeed in burning the wickedness out of me, but he did succeed in one way: I will never forget that I bear the mark of the House of Trent upon my back.”

  She shuddered against him. “And that bleeds over, somehow, to the new duke. Even though he never knew what the old duke had done to you.”

  “Yes,” Luke admitted. “Ever
y time I see him, a part of me remembers what his father did to me. A part of me remembers that he owns me, that a part of me will essentially remain a slave to him for the rest of my life.” He swallowed hard. “I try not to link the two. I know Trent had no part in it. But I can’t help it. I see him and…” He shook his head.

  “It must be so hard to look at the duke and see his father in him.”

  “Yes.” That was exactly it.

  “How old were you when he…when he burned you?”

  Groaning softly, he bent his head and ran his free hand through his hair. “Over years, starting when I was five or six. He’d add a new burn after a few months, after the last one healed.” Luke clenched his jaw, remembering the pain, the pulsating fear that had seized him each time he was summoned into his father’s study. “He said…he said it was because he wanted me to always feel it, always feel the pain of the sores as my shirt rubbed against them. That way, it was more likely to work.”

  “He was mad,” Emma said flatly. “A mad bastard.”

  He nuzzled his nose into her hair. “I never thought so,” he muttered. “I believed him.”

  “You were an impressionable child. He was your father, a duke, revered by all.”

  “You are the first person I’ve ever known who has made me believe that maybe he was mad—”

  “He was!”

  “For the first time, I have begun to think that his punishments were a product of his own insane reaction to my mother’s affair with Stanley. That maybe, just maybe, they had nothing to do with me.”

  “How could they have had anything to do with you? You. Were. Innocent.” She said the last words with a solemn forcefulness, as if she were trying to physically drill those words into his soul.

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in. She smelled so good. Fresh and sweet, and so familiar to him now.

  Somehow, he did believe her. If drilling those words into his soul had been her intent, she had succeeded.

  They sat there for a long while, and when she finally pulled back, he turned away from her, for the first time baring his ugly, scarred back to her view.

  “Will you bathe me?” he asked softly.

  “Always.” She retrieved the cloth and with soft, smooth strokes, she washed his torso, starting with his back, pressing her lips to various spots after she’d finished rinsing them.

  He closed his eyes. They hadn’t made love in weeks—not that his body had stopped responding to hers, but there had been too much pain that first fortnight, and the third week, she’d been adamant about his need to heal.

  Now he wanted her. His pulse throbbed between his legs, and his cock hardened, pressing against the front of his drawers. Her kisses pressed harder as time went on, and when she nudged him to turn so she could clean his front, the color was high on her cheeks and her thick, dark lashes were downcast. She was so beautiful his breath caught in his throat.

  She rinsed him and dried him, then her hands went to the waist of his undergarments as she looked up at him through her lashes. “Let me bring you pleasure.”

  They held each other’s gazes for a long moment. He nodded. “Yes. Make me come. My body needs you, needs to come in you.”

  Her color deepened at his words. She opened his drawers and lowered her mouth to him. His cock jerked at the first touch of her lips, the soft, hot feel of her pressing against him sending pleasure rolling through his body. Leaning back on one hand, he threaded the fingers of the other through her hair, locking her against him. “Yes, Em. That’s it. Lick me. It feels so damn good.”

  She stroked her tongue over him in long, hot drags. He was so full, so thick, and every touch of her mouth made him harder. Made him want to bury himself inside her.

  Made him mad for her. For every bit of her.

  His fingers tightened in her hair when she opened, and his cock slid deep into her mouth. “God,” he growled out. “That’s right, angel. Take me in your mouth. Deeper. That’s it. Yes.”

  She grasped the root of him between tight fingers, circling him, gliding up and down concurrently with her lips tightened into a round O of pleasure as they moved over him. Up and down. Tight and hot and wet.

  He groaned as hot waves of sensation undulated from his cock and through his body. She set the rhythm with her long slides up and down him, but he needed control. He locked his hand in her hair, stopping her, then he thrust into her mouth and hand.

  She took him. Deep, soft, wet. So sweet and hot and carnal. She relaxed over him, allowing him to set the pace, keeping herself open and accepting of whatever he demanded of her.

  He loved that so damn much about her. He loved her strength and her loyalty. Her passion and her intelligence…and her acceptance.

  This was the woman he wanted to be with. Forever.

  “I love you,” he murmured, pumping into her mouth. “I love you, Emma.”

  She couldn’t respond, couldn’t reciprocate, couldn’t repeat the words back to him. His bollocks drew up tight against his body, and sensation coalesced at the base of his spine. He was going to come.

  With a harsh gasp, he pulled her off him. Seed dribbled from the tip of his cock. When she bent down, he allowed her to lick it off, closing his eyes at the near painful pleasure of it.

  “I…need to…be inside you,” he ground out.

  He lay back on the bed, dragging her along with him. She scrambled up onto the bed. She was still wearing her nightgown, but he knew from experience she was naked underneath.

  “Ride me,” he commanded huskily.

  She settled over him, her knees on either side of his hips, her hot, slick center sliding over him. She was ready for him. Taking him into her mouth had aroused her.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” she gasped.

  “You won’t,” he promised. “Take me inside you. Now.”

  She reached down to guide him. They both groaned as the steely length of him penetrated her lush body. “God, Em. You’re so wet. So tight,” he murmured, closing his eyes to the onslaught of sensation.

  Her body swallowed him in a hot sheath, and when she leaned forward, the hard points of her breasts brushed against him through the fabric of her nightgown. When they moved over his own sensitive nipples, he gave a low growl of approval. He clutched her buttocks in his palms, lifting her up and slamming her down over him. Even though he was on the bottom, she surrendered control.

  She cupped his face in both her hands, sinking her fingers into his hair, and gave in to his movements. She tightened over him, and he ground up into her, stroking her most sensitive places with his body.

  She grew tighter and tighter, releasing tiny whimpers whenever he buried himself the deepest. God, how he loved the sweet little noises she made.

  And then her body clamped over him, and she came in a hot, tight rush, her channel undulating over his cock. Damn. The pleasure—it was too much. He pumped furiously inside her, then exploded into her, giving a hoarse shout as he did. “Emma!”

  His body released its seed in hot ropes. It went on and on. Luke had no control of his wild, frantic thrusts as he poured himself into her, as pleasure overwhelmed him in crashing waves.

  She slumped over him—even that slight movement making him shudder. Her weight was distributed over his body, slung across him, but he felt no pain in his gunshot wound. Further proof that he was almost healed.

  They lay still, both trembling occasionally in the aftermath.

  Finally, she murmured, “You came inside me.”

  He turned his face, his lips brushing over her ear. He kissed her there. “Yes. Is that all right?”

  She pulled back slightly so she could look at him. He gazed into her beautiful eyes.

  “Yes, Luke. It is more than all right. I…” Blushing, she averted her gaze.

  “You what?”

  Her breath whispered against his neck. “I hope you will come inside me every time. It’s…”

  “Erotic?” he asked.

  “Yes. So
erotic. And…so much more.”

  He understood. They had been together so many times, but never like this. Coming inside her was a statement almost stronger than any vow. It was a silent promise he made her. A commitment. A guarantee that she belonged to him, and he would take care of her, no matter what. He hoped she understood all that. He believed she did.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Blowing out a breath, Luke called, “What?”

  “Your family is here, sir,” Baldwin said.

  “All of them?”

  “Yes,” Baldwin confirmed dryly. “All.”

  “Very well. Show them into the drawing room. We’ll join them there in a few minutes.”

  It took a while longer than he’d expected. Emma dressed him carefully, paying special attention to his cravat, chewing her lip in concentration as she attempted to get every fold just right. A smile tugged at his lips as he sat docilely, allowing her to fret over him.

  Then she called in Delaney to help her dress, even after he’d insisted he could serve her in return. He only relented when she promised him she’d give him that privilege when his bandages were off for good.

  Finally, bathed, dressed, and combed, they entwined arms, and Luke rose from the chair he’d been seated in for the past half hour. Again, his wound pulled but it didn’t hurt. Still, he tugged Emma tight against his body. He liked her close. He wanted her close forever.

  His family awaited him in the drawing room: Trent and Sarah, Esme, Sam, and Theo and Mark. They all stood when he and Emma entered, and Mark began to clap. They all joined in the applause, and Luke found himself blushing and embarrassed.

  “Good God, I’m not a child,” he grumbled. “I’ve been walking for over a quarter of a century, after all.”

  “Oh, Luke,” Sarah said, her smile reaching her blue eyes as she clasped her hands together over her expanding belly, “it is so good to see you up and about.”

  Trent came and clapped him on the back. Sam helped him onto the sofa. Theo, the youngest of his brothers, dark-haired and still retaining that air of boyish innocence, asked, “Does it still hurt?”

  “Not at all,” Luke assured him.