The Rogue Not Taken (14 page)

“I’m quite able to manage, my lord.”

He ignored the words. “Sit.”

She sat, the linen clutched around her as he coated his fingers in honey. Silence fell, and they both watched his fingers work, the stickiness of the honey nothing compared to the softness of her skin. King supposed he’d used enough of the salve, but he could not stop touching her, spreading it smoother and smoother across her shoulder.

Wishing it was not only her shoulder. Wishing it were the rest of her as well, on all that pristine, pretty, pink, unbearably soft skin.

The moment was getting away from him and he cast about for a safe topic. “Who is Robbie?”

There was a pause. “Robbie?”

He didn’t want to talk about the man, honestly. Not when she was here, clean and naked and fresh from a bath, smelling like summer. “Yes. Robbie. Your betrothed.”

Her gaze snapped to his at the words. Was it confusion he saw there? It was gone before he could be sure. “Of
course. Robbie. We’ve known each other since we were children,” she said, the words perfunctory.

“Who is he?” he pressed.

“He is the baker in Mossband.”

A baker. Likely short in the leg and weak in the chin.

“And you will run a bookshop.” He was finished. He should stop.

She nodded, the movement stilted. “I will run a bookshop.”

It was the perfect life for her. Married with a bookshop. He imagined her disheveled and covered with dust, and he liked it far too much.

He lifted his fingers and looked down at them, glistening with honey. She looked, as well. “You should wash them,” she said quietly.

He should. There was a bathtub full of water mere feet away. And a washbasin and fresh water even closer. But he did not go to either. Instead, he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked the honey from his fingers, meeting her eyes. Willing her to look away.

Her eyes widened. Darkened. But did not waver. It was then that he knew.

If he kissed her, she would not stop him.

And if he kissed her, he would not stop.

Dangerous Daughter, indeed.

“There’s a dress for you,” he said.

“I—I beg your pardon?”

“A dress,” he repeated, turning on his heel and tossing his shirt over his head before adding, “and boots.” He tore open the door. “Wear the damn boots.”

And he left the room.

T
he pub at the Warbling Wren was fuller than one might imagine it would be at the breakfast hour, Sophie discovered as she descended from her rooms abovestairs three mornings later, dressed in the simple grey dress the Marquess of Eversley had procured for her before he’d disappeared.

She hadn’t seen him since the evening that included what she now referred to as “the bath debacle.” If she did not know better, she would have imagined that he’d left her, as she’d suggested he do, and headed north to his father. According to Mary and the doctor, however, who had been to check on his patient at the crack of dawn both ensuing days, the Marquess remained in town despite having no interest in Sophie’s recovery, evidently.

Which suited Sophie perfectly well.

She ignored the small pang of disappointment that threaded through her at the thought. In fact, she denied that it was disappointment at all. She was simply feeling better, and her empty stomach was awakening as it did every morning.

She entered the pub proper to discover him at the far end of the room, breaking his fast by the window. He
did not look up at her arrival and she pointedly looked away. They were not friends, after all. They were barely acquaintances.

He saved your life.

Sophie stiffened at the thought. He did not seem to care about such a thing, so why should she?

You wanted him to kiss you.

She shuttered the traitorous thought. That particular desire had been born of exhaustion and gratitude for the bath. She was fully recovered from it now.

She barely noticed him.

She barely noticed his shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbow, and the lovely tan of his forearms, all strength and sinew, and the way his dark locks fell across his forehead. The way his green eyes saw everything beyond the window of the pub.

Why, he was practically invisible to her.

She resumed her direction with new purpose. Approaching a portly gentleman manning the pub’s taps, she said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I am searching for a messenger to carry a missive to London.”

The barkeep grunted.

She was not swayed. “I am able to pay quite handsomely.”

Mary had returned her purse yesterday, full to the brim with untouched funds. John had snatched it before the coach had been stopped. Thank heavens for the boy’s inappropriate habit, else Sophie would be without all her money.

Not her money.
His money.

Guilt flared and she could not stop herself from looking to him across the room. He had opened a newspaper and was reading, as though she weren’t there. As though they’d never met. She quashed the guilt, vowing to reimburse every cent she used.

But desperate times and all that.

She returned to her barely-a-conversation with the barkeep. Lowered her voice. “Sirrah. I shall pay you and the messenger handsomely.”

He did not look at her, but replied. “Two quid.”

She blinked. “That’s an enormous amount of money.”

The barkeep shrugged one shoulder. “That’s what it costs.”

She waited for a moment, and then said, “I want a seat for the mail coach as well. North.”

He grunted. “Of course.”

“Gratis,” she said.

He blinked.

“Free,” she clarified.

He nodded. “Free.”

Well. At least there was that. She placed the coin on the bar, along with the sealed envelope. “And for two pounds, I expect the letter to arrive tomorrow.”

The man looked affronted. “Of course.”

She raised a brow. “I do apologize, sir. I should never have suggested that you might misappropriate my funds, as you seem very reliable and aboveboard.”

He did not hear the sarcasm in her words. “I am that.”

“Of course you are. When is the next coach to arrive?”

“There’s one due tomorrow.”

Excellent. She had no reason not to be on it.

She ignored the twinge in her shoulder, nearly as irritating as the knowledge that the man across the room cared not a bit for her presence. “I shall take a seat on it.”

The man reached beneath the counter and set a ticket on the bar. She pocketed the slip of paper and considered her next course of action.

“I’ve three questions.” The words came low and soft at her ear, sending a thrill through her.

She resisted the urge to lean into him. To look at him. “Oh. Hello, my lord.”

He raised a brow. “Hello.”

“You’ve decided to acknowledge my presence.”

“My lady, I assure you, were I not aware of you, I would most definitely not be lingering in Sprotbrough.”

Her lips flattened into a straight line. She was nothing more than a difficulty for him. Obviously. “What are your questions?”

“Why are you exchanging funds with the barkeep?”

She pushed past him to fetch a hard biscuit and a cup of tea from the sideboard, grateful that he wasn’t asking more questions about Robbie, who had somehow become her betrothed in the days since her being shot.

She should have told King the truth about Robbie. But damned if she didn’t want him to think her spoken for. To think her purposeful.

To think her desired.

To desire her himself.

She resisted the thought the moment it came. Good Lord. She did not wish him to desire her. She was not mad. She did not even enjoy his company. And he certainly did not enjoy hers.

She collected her plate and cup and turned to find him there, ready to guide her by the elbow to the table he had claimed, appointed with his own breakfast and what she had to imagine was a weeks-old newspaper. “Well?” he prompted when she sat. “The barkeep’s money?”

“Why do you care to know?”

“Husbandly curiosity.”

She sipped her tea. “Luckily for both of us, you have no claim on my business dealings, my lord.”

“No?” he asked casually, leaning back in his own chair. “With what money did you pay him?”

Sophie’s cheeks warmed. “Is that your second question?”

“Yes, but let’s call it rhetorical. I assume our pickpocketing young hero returned your purse and my funds?”

The already dry biscuit was like sand in her mouth. She swallowed and placed the purse on the table between them. “There are a few pounds missing,” she whispered, “I shall repay you.”

He did not touch the bag. “With what funds? My money is all you have.”

She leaned forward. “Not for long. The barkeep is sending a letter home to my father, apprising him of my situation and asking for funds.”

He leaned forward himself. “You think your father does not already seek you?”

“I cannot imagine why he would.”

Dark brows rose. “You cannot.”

She shook her head. “I’m not my sisters.”

“What does that mean?” If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was irritated.

“Only that they’re much more interesting than I. They’ll all marry well and make beautiful, wealthy children who will climb aristocratic trellises like wisteria.” She looked out the window. A team of oxen hauled a massive cart past, revealing a pair of dusty men hitching their horses on the opposite side of the street. “I am not a climber.” He watched her for a long moment, silent, until she felt she needed to add, “You see? I told you I wasn’t angling to marry you.”

“If I remember correctly, you told me you wouldn’t marry me if I were the last man in Christendom.”

“Harsh, but true, I’m afraid.”

“I’d ask why, but I’m afraid your honesty might wound me.” He sat back. “Care for a wager?”

“What kind of wager?”

“I wager your father seeks you already.”

She smiled. “I’m certain it’s not true. Matthew saw me into your carriage. My father knows I am well.”

King raised a brow. “At best, your father thinks I’ve ruined you.”

She shook her head. “Don’t worry about that. He’s a reasonable man who will understand everything when I explain it. You shan’t be saddled with a wife.”

“Oh, I don’t worry about being saddled with a wife.”

She considered the words. “I suppose you wouldn’t be. You’ve avoided marriage after ruination before.”

“It’s less avoiding than eschewing. I shall never marry. Angry fathers be damned.”

“Why not?” She couldn’t resist the question, but when his face darkened in reply, she instantly regretted it. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

After a pause, he said. “Your father seeks you already, my lady. That’s the wager.”

Triumph flared. Even if her father was looking for her, he would receive her missive tomorrow, and call off any search. She could not lose. She smiled, allowing herself to enjoy the moment. “I assure you, he does not. What do you forfeit when I win?”

“What would you like?”

“My bookshop. On the Mossband High Street.”

“Done. And
when
I win, I get a forfeit of my choosing.”

Her brows snapped together. “That seems a high price.”

“Higher than the cost of a bookshop?”

She tilted her head to one side. “I suppose not. All right. I agree.”

He smirked and reached over to steal a bit of her biscuit. “I will simply say, you’re a fool if you think your father hasn’t hired two dozen men to comb the English countryside and get you home.”

“I
am
going home,” she said.

“Home to London.”

“That’s just it. London isn’t my home.”

“And Mossband is?”

“Yes.” It must be. It was her only chance.

“You don’t remember it.”

“I remember it perfectly,” she insisted. “I remember the town square and the baker and the haberdasher and the livery. I remember the Maypole, festooned with ribbons, and the way that the summer days lingered as the sun set over the hills and the river. I remember that it was more beautiful and more interesting and more . . .” She searched for the word. “. . .
honest
than anything in London.”

“How romantic. Do you speak of the town? Or your betrothed?”

She narrowed her gaze, hating the way he mocked her and made her defensive, as though she didn’t know what she was doing or why.

As though she were being terribly rash.

As though she had a choice.

“In comparison to you and London, both.”

It wasn’t rashness that had her heading home. She had no choice. London would never have her. It never wanted her to begin with. She had to hope that Mossband would.

He finished his tea. “You know, considering you are whiling away your days in comfort abovestairs thanks to my largesse, Lady Sophie, one would think that you would be significantly better behaved in my presence.”

She faked a smile. “Sadly, my lord, I am not like the women with whom you typically consort.”

He reached for his newspaper. “You shan’t have an argument from me on that.”

He was odious. She huffed her irritation. “What’s the third?”

He looked up. “The third?”

“You said you had three questions.”

“Ah,” he said, looking back to the paper. “I do.”

“Well?”

“What the hell did you do to the Duke of Haven?”

Oh, dear. “How did you—” she began before realizing that the question acknowledged her actions. She changed tack. “I told you.”

He shook his head. “No. You told me you insulted him in front of the entire assembly.”

“I did,” she said.

He tossed the newspaper on top of her unpleasant biscuit. “What did you do before that, Sophie?”

She looked down at the paper, her gaze falling to a line of large, bold type.
D
ANGEROUS
D
AUGHTER
D
UNKS
D
UKE
!

It was not, as she had expected, an old newspaper. “That newspaper was printed and delivered with uncanny expediency to Sprotbrough.”

“Who would have imagined it was such a metropolis?” he replied.

“The exclamation point seems unnecessary,” she said quietly.

“You should write a letter of complaint to the editor. What did you do?”

She lifted the newspaper and offered it back to him. “I’m certain you can read all about it.”

“It says you nearly drowned him. There’s speculation that you wished to kill him.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. He was backside first in two feet of fishpond.”

He laughed at that. A warm, rolling laugh that surprised her with its honesty. It made her wish he laughed more. It made her forget what they were discussing, until
he recovered his words and asked, incredulous, “At your doing?”