Page 33 of Along Came a Rogue

Outwardly, she ignored that, but he felt her fingers tighten against his. “But I’ve told you all my secrets.”

His jaw tightened at her unspoken challenge as he asked sarcastically, “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine? Is that it?”

“I think,” she offered shyly, biting her lip, “I’ve already shown you all of mine.”

Sweet Lucifer, she had indeed, and a stolen glance confirmed it.

In the flickering shadows of the firelight, the water just tickled at her breasts, her nipples puckering from its warmth, while beneath the surface, her round hips gave way to impossibly long legs on a woman so petite that the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. And if he looked hard enough, he would see the tiny baby bump, barely visible.

In his life, he’d seen so many naked women that he couldn’t remember them all, stunning women who commanded the attention of every room they entered. But Emily…well, Emily was different. Quietly beautiful, alluring without trying. Simply lovely.

“I trust you, Grey.” She slipped her hand away from his and closed her eyes, and even though she sat within his reach, she suddenly seemed a world away. “I only wish you knew how much you can trust me.”

He stifled the bitter laugh that rose to his lips. She had the body of a woman, but still clung to the innocence of a child if she believed in trust. She, of all people, should have known that there were some secrets that were meant to be hidden away, secrets that weren’t safe to reveal to the light of day.

Trust me. She had no idea how much she was asking of him, to trust her not only with his secrets but also with his life. If anyone found out the truth, his reputation would be ruined; his position in Spain would be repealed, and possibly his entire career at the War Office ended. Everything would be stripped away, and he’d be back in the streets. He’d fought too hard for too long to lose everything.

But if he didn’t tell her the truth, nothing would be the same between them. This fragile friendship they’d managed to carve out would shatter, and he’d never be able to confide in her again. If it had been any other woman asking this of him, he would have flat-out refused. But not Emily. The brat had gotten under his skin since he saw her standing in the garden with such fear in her eyes—no, perhaps this pull toward her had always been there, even when he’d kissed her all those years ago at Ivy Glen.

He muttered a curse of surrender under his breath. “All right, you win.”

Of course, she’d won. Truly, could there have been any other outcome, even knowing the admission she wanted would endanger his future? She trusted him with her life. He only hoped he could do the same.

“You’re right,” he admitted grudgingly. “My father wasn’t a blacksmith. Or if he was, I didn’t know it.” He paused. “I was an orphan.”

Slowly, she opened her eyes, and he steeled himself against what he expected to see in those sapphire depths—pity, contempt, disdain. Instead, all he saw was understanding and compassion. “Tell me.”

“Are you certain?” He’d never told anyone before about his childhood, nor did he plan on speaking of it ever again, so he needed to make certain she understood from the beginning the importance of this moment and the depth of the trust he placed in her hands.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Slowly nodding, his expression carefully stoic, he reached for the soap. “Then lean back.”

Emily stared at him warily for a moment, sensing that something had just irrevocably changed between them and that there would be no going back now.

She eased herself down against the tub. Until that moment, she’d felt no self-consciousness in front of him, and nothing about the bath had changed—she was still just as naked beneath the water now as she’d been five minutes ago. But this time when he lathered the soap between his hands and brushed it over her shoulders in long, caressing strokes, she trembled with vulnerability. There were no more secrets between them now, no more barriers of any kind. They’d both laid themselves bare, her with her body and him with his past.

“My earliest memory is from the orphanage when I was around three,” he began quietly. “I don’t how I got there or when. But it was either stay there or live on the street, and at least there, I had shelter from the rain and an occasional meal.”

“What was it like?” she asked breathlessly as he slowly reached for her leg, to massage down her thigh to her knee and calf.

His fingers lingered against her skin, drawing slow and delicate patterns against her wet flesh. “Exactly as you think…cold, dank, filth everywhere.” Delicious heat flared up her leg to the ache blossoming between her thighs. “We were left to run wild.”

“Wasn’t there—”

Her voice hitched as he stroked his hand up her inner thigh and nearly to the wet curls at her center, making her squirm in the warm water and distracting her from the details of his past. He wasn’t even bothering to pretend now that he was washing her. Sweet Lord, he was exploring her! It was scintillating. Scandalous. Wickedly sinful. And oh, she didn’t want him to stop.

But she needed the truth.

As his hand retreated back down her leg, she took a deep breath and tried again. “Wasn’t there a matron to oversee you?”

“Yes. But since she beat us, I doubt she cared what we did.”

“Grey—” He swept his hand up her leg again, this time letting his fingertips graze against her feminine folds before retreating, and a shiver tore through her. That time, he successfully distracted her, and whatever she was about to say fell lost forever.

“I never knew my parents. I made inquiries a few months ago, but nothing came of them.”

She tried to concentrate on what he was telling her, but she was rapidly losing her ability to breathe, caught between arousal and relaxation, swept away by his erotic caresses.