Page 5 of Along Came a Rogue

Despite the heaviness weighing in his gut, Grey crooked a half grin. “He likes looking down her dress when she leans over to put the spoon to his mouth.”

“That, too.” Edward grimaced. “When he’s healed, I plan on pummeling him for it.”

Grey’s eyes moved slowly over Thomas, his body so still except for the faint, steady rise and fall of his chest. So impossibly pale…“Then I hope you get to beat the hell out of him very soon,” Grey said quietly, his teasing words dull with grief.

“Me, too,” Edward murmured.

A clatter of noise went up from downstairs and broke the post-dawn silence of the still-sleeping town house. The front door opened loudly. Footsteps rushed in and out of the house as muffled shouts sounded outside. Then an angry voice called through the halls.

Edward slid a sideways glance at Grey. “Chatham’s arrived.”

“Apparently,” Grey muttered, not looking forward to seeing Thomas’s parents. They had never approved of his friendship with their son, and certainly not after the incident five years ago when they’d caught him kissing their daughter. They tolerated him now only because they didn’t want to alienate Thomas.

Moments later, his mother ran into the room. Mary Matteson, Duchess of Chatham, halted when her eyes landed on her son. A soft sob tore from her throat. She came forward slowly toward the bed, her hand shaking violently as she reached for Thomas’s cheek.

“Thomas?” His name was a pleading whisper between choking sobs. “Thomas, can you hear me? Darling, it’s Mother…please…please wake up…”

Soft cries poured from her, her already red-rimmed eyes revealing the tears she must have been crying for days, ever since the messenger arrived with news of the shooting and along every mile from Lancashire as they raced back to London.

“He’s so cold and pale,” she breathed in an anguished whisper, her fingertips stroking his face. “My baby—my poor baby boy…”

The two men looked on helplessly, before Grey had to turn away, his eyes blurring.

Edward placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “He’s out of danger now,” he assured her, his quiet voice calm and steady. The same timbre Grey remembered from Spain whenever Edward spoke to the wounded men after a battle, to give them whatever comfort and courage he could. “Dr. Brandon confirmed it. Thomas will be just fine.”

Then her cries of worry turned to ones of relief. She grabbed Edward’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “But—but he’s not waking up…”

“He’s been sleeping deeply all night,” Grey interjected gently, yet keeping his distance. He wasn’t welcome here, but he wanted to ease her suffering however he could. “Sleep is a good sign. It means his body is healing.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, and surprise crossed her face, as if she hadn’t noticed he was there. Then her lips pressed together tightly, and she nodded to acknowledge his words before turning back to Thomas.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she told Edward. “Your friendship means more than Chatham and I can ever express. Thomas is alive because of you.”

“And Major Grey,” Edward corrected gently, his gaze glancing over her head to meet Grey’s.

Grey could have told him to save his breath. He had no doubt that if Edward hadn’t been in the room, she would have already had the footmen toss him out on his ass.

“Thomas!” John Matteson, Duke of Chatham, strode into the room. His face was pale with worry, and his hands clenched helplessly at his sides.

A tall and imposing man with the same military bearing as Thomas, the duke had served in India with the East India Company, acting as a military liaison to the local maharajas for a decade before returning to England with his second wife and infant son, where he served as an administrator until he unexpectedly inherited. What struck Grey every time he saw the man was how much Thomas resembled him physically, but how little in temperament and character.

He took his wife’s shoulders and stared down at his son. “Mary, how is he?”

She choked back a cry and whispered, “He’s alive.” She turned her head and buried her face in her husband’s shoulder as she sobbed. “Our boy’s alive…”

“Thank God,” Chatham breathed out, then his arms slipped around his wife to briefly hold her close. “I told you that all would be fine.” He released her and stepped back, ending the uncharacteristic display of emotion. He glanced around the room. “Where’s Emily?”

Edward cleared his throat. “I dispatched a messenger to her. He returned three days ago with this.” He lifted a letter from the fireplace and handed it to her father. “She plans to come as soon as she’s able.”

Chatham unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly. His shoulders stiffened, but he nodded at Edward with a stoic expression. “Thank you.”

Grey knew what that letter said. Thomas’s sister Emily had thanked Edward for the news of the shooting, grateful beyond words that the colonel had thought to contact her, but claimed she was unable to travel to London. Still in mourning over her husband’s unexpected death last fall, she was too ill to travel, the roads in the north too treacherous in the spring rains, but she would come as soon as she could. Tell Thomas I love him, and always will…

Damned lies, all of it. When he’d met her five years ago, she’d openly adored her older brother, who in turn doted on her and affectionately referred to her as “the brat.” That young woman would have done anything to be at her wounded brother’s side, not letting sickness nor the weather stop her.

But the recently widowed woman who sent this letter—apparently, Grey didn’t know her at all anymore.

“Mother…” The word was little more than a breath on Thomas’s lips, but the soft sound pierced the room.