Page 31 of Along Came a Rogue

“If someone was willing to kill Andrew because he was the heir—if they knew I was carrying his child and possibly the next heir, then—” She choked on the words, unable to make herself utter her worst fears aloud. “I love this baby, Grey, more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life. I know that sounds silly. It’s barely a bump, really, and not even visible with my clothes on. But I wanted this baby with every ounce of my heart and soul.” Even now her chest burned with the same fierce love and determination to be a mother as when the baby was conceived. “And I will do anything to protect it. Anything.”

Slowly, he placed his large hand over hers as it rested against her belly, the small bump nearly hidden beneath his outstretched fingers. “Me, too,” he assured her.

Her breath hitched as her eyes flew up to his face. Dear Lord, had he really just said…“Pardon?”

His eyes never lifted from their joined hands. “I swore to protect you, Emily.” Each quiet word blossomed inside her like a spring rose. “And this baby is part of you.”

Warmth radiated through her from his palm down to the tips of her toes. Goodness, she hadn’t expected that! She’d anticipated yelling and cursing, threats of telling her family and the Crenshaws…even returning her straight back to the burned-down house to leave her there amid the smoldering timbers and ashes.

Oh, he was furious with her, despite his outward appearance of calm; she could see in his dark eyes the anger and betrayal that she’d kept this from him, this secret of all secrets. But for some reason she couldn’t fathom, he kept his anger in check. For the moment anyway. And that, at least, was a hopeful sign. The first one she’d had in months.

“Is that it, then?” he asked pointedly, this time unable to keep the hint of angry accusation from his voice. “Anything else you’re keeping from me?”

She was unprepared for the overwhelming relief that cascaded through her at finally being able to share news of the baby with him, and she shook her head, unable to speak around the knot in her throat.

“Good,” he murmured. Slowly, he reached for the neckline of the nightgown plastered to her skin. “Then let’s get you undressed and warm.”

She gasped, her hands flying up to stop his. “Grey, you can’t!”

“In addition to protecting you, I also promised to take care of you.” His deep voice softened, yet the resolve lacing through it told her that he’d brook no argument. “So let me take care of you tonight.”

With a hesitant nod, she dropped her hands away. She held her breath, not daring to breathe as he unfastened the handful of buttons, then slowly peeled the wet material down her body and off, until she stood naked and trembling in front of him. Oddly, she felt no shame, not even when he lifted her into his arms and carried her across the room to the bathtub. After all, she’d just entrusted him with the biggest secret of her life, and she didn’t think it was possible to be any more exposed, any more vulnerable than by admitting she was with child.

He lowered her gently into the warm water of the waiting tub, and she sank into its steamy heat up to her breasts. Sliding down beneath the water with a grateful sigh, she felt her skin prickle as the heat soaked into her and warmed away the bitter cold.

He frowned down at her, a new concern furrowing his brow. “Earlier, at Snowden—you said you were ill…the baby?” Each word came awkward and slow.

She smiled at that. Her fearless hero was befuddled by a simple pregnancy. “Yes, in the mornings. Yardley says it’s common when a woman’s increasing.”

As if relieved that he had nothing more to worry about than that, he nodded and stepped back. She watched, mesmerized, as he unbuttoned his wet waistcoat and removed it, hanging it over the wooden chair. His shirt lay plastered over his chest, outlining each hard, well-defined muscle beneath.

He paused as he pulled his shirt free from his trousers. “A baby and illness on top of Crenshaw’s murder and fleeing servants.” Surprised admiration tinged his voice. “You dealt with all that alone?”

“I had Yardley.” She smiled in gratitude at the maid’s devotion to her. “I don’t think I could have survived without her.”

His deep voice purred huskily, “And I think you’re much braver than you believe.”

Her eyes darted up toward his at the quiet compliment. But he’d already lifted his shirt over his head, leaving her to rake her gaze shamelessly over his bare chest and the muscles in his shoulders, the sculpted ridges of his abdomen, the dusting of golden hair that led down beneath the lean waist of his trousers—

Oh my! She averted her eyes, thanking God that the hot water hid the flush in her cheeks. She was a proper lady, after all.

Then her very improper eyes slid slowly back to him, to steal a very unladylike peek at his physique. And what a wonderful figure it was, too. Tall and lean with every muscle hard and well defined across his chest, broad shoulders that narrowed to his waist, muscular arms…When he turned around to throw the shirt over the chair with the waistcoat, the view from the back was just as fine. Muscles rippled across his back as he reached down to toss another log into the already blazing fire.

Stripped down to only his damp trousers—for a moment, Emily wondered if he planned to remove even those, given her own naked state—he picked up the soap from the washbasin and carried it over to the tub, knelt beside her, and began to lather the soap in the bathwater.

Her breath choked. He planned to…wash her?

She swallowed nervously even as the idea tempted her so much that her thighs clenched. “You don’t have to—”

“Lean up,” he commanded gently.

She hesitated. No one had ever washed her before, certainly not a man. Yet knowing she had no choice but to do as he ordered, and not wanting another argument, especially when they were finally getting along, she fought back her uneasiness, closed her eyes, and leaned forward. Besides, it was only a bath. He most likely washed his horse once a week.

When his hands touched her shoulders and spread the soap across her bare skin in slow, soft caresses—oh, lucky, lucky horse!

She bit back a soft moan of pleasure. Everywhere his fingers brushed over her skin, heat radiated and chased away the last of the cold until she pulsed hot and tingling, the ache of the chill replaced by a far more electric one. As his hands slipped lower to languidly roam up and down her spine, a contradiction of sensations skittered through her. The slippery-smooth soap beneath his rough hands, not washing so much as massaging, the soothing warmth of the water against the exciting caresses of his fingers—she trembled.

“Are you cold?” he asked, mistaking the reason for her shiver, and poured warm water down her back. “Better?”