Along Came a Rogue by Anna Harrington Page B

for that swift change in conversation. “Yes.”
    “What happened?”
    “Are you sure you want to know?” He held her gaze, and to her credit, she didn’t avert her eyes. “That’s not usually a story society ladies want to hear.”
    She shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not an ordinary society lady, I suppose.”
    No, you’re certainly not. And he couldn’t help but wonder exactly how extraordinary she was, how far from the expectations of propriety she’d be willing to stray. With him.
    Slowly, he reached over to pat the seat cushion beside him.
    But she didn’t accept the invitation and only continued to watch him warily through lowered lashes, as if unable to decide how far she could trust him.
    “Sit down, Emily,” he ordered softly. “There’s nothing scandalous about two old friends enjoying a quiet conversation.”
    Clearly, though, she didn’t believe that, her eyes sweeping from her dressing robe to the door, back from the door to his half-undressed appearance as he lounged on the settee…When she didn’t move, a stab of unexpected disappointment pierced him that the brat should prove so ordinary after all.
    Then, surprising him, she agreed. “I suppose not.” Tentatively, she sat down next to him, curling her legs beneath her. Her small surrender pleased him far more than he had a right to feel. “Two old friends,” she repeated with a smile.
    Oh, he was certainly feeling friendly, all right. But not trusting himself to respond to that without giving her cause to slap him, he said nothing and raised the glass to his lips.
    “What happened to you in Spain?” she prompted after a moment. “How were you hurt?”
    This certainly wasn’t what he wanted to talk about tonight with a half-dressed, beautiful woman sitting next to him. Yet the serious expression on her face told him it was important to her. So, inexplicably, it became important to him. “We were charging the end of a cannon line,” he began. He watched the golden liquid with a frown as he swirled it thoughtfully. “We’d made it across the field when I looked down and saw the hole in my breeches, the blood…I knew I’d been hit. The ball had cut through my thigh.” Two inches lower, and it would have taken his knee. Two feet higher, his life.
    “You didn’t know until you saw it?” Confusion darkened her face. “Didn’t you feel it?”
    He took a large swig of brandy. “No.”
    Men in battle often didn’t know they’d been shot until they saw the wound or lost too much blood to fight on. They were distracted by the noise and action, by the adrenaline pulsing through their muscles, and by a single-minded focus on killing in order to stay alive.
    But how could he explain all that to a gently bred lady? He shouldn’t be talking about this with her in the first place. Although it was surely safer than what he’d wanted to share with her, he supposed…a detailed explanation of how he wanted to peel away her clothes, lay her bare body in front of the fire, stroke between her thighs until she moaned with pleasure—
    He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “We were in the middle of battle,” he said simply, not trusting himself at that moment to say anything more.
    His answer seemed to satisfy her, though, because she nodded solemnly as if she understood. And perhaps she did. She’d already known immense grief in her young life, maturing her far beyond other women her age.
    Slowly, he held the glass of brandy toward her, daring her to go a step further in proving just how extraordinary she was by sharing the drink with him. The only other women who’d ever done such a thing were those like Lady Roquefort—society women who considered him little more than a titillating way to disrupt the monotony of their lives.
    Not Emily. She was there because she wanted to be with him . And he liked it. More than he should have. But never before had he experienced having a soft woman in whom to confide the hard details of his