The Rogue Not Taken
Page 55
Her shoulder ached, and she was happy for the stop. “Will we spend the night?”
He shook his head. “We only change horses, and then press on. We have to put some distance between you and your pursuers.”
And then the door was open and he disappeared into the afternoon’s golden sunlight.
Chapter 11
SOPHIE AND EVERSLEY:
SEDUCTION OR ABDUCTION?
Thank God they’d arrived when they did.
A quarter of an hour longer, and King would not have been held responsible for what happened between them. Lord deliver him from long carriage rides with impossible, infuriating, remarkable women. How was he supposed to keep from kissing her? From touching her?
Every time the woman opened her mouth, he wanted her more.
And then she’d declared herself less than valued. Told him that only now, as she ran, London and her past at her heels, did she feel free. Proclaimed herself existent.
As though he’d needed a proclamation to notice her.
As though he wasn’t keenly aware of her every movement. Her every word.
Despite knowing that he shouldn’t see her at all.
She had been trouble since the moment he’d met her, at the bottom of the damn trellis at Liverpool House. And still, he seemed to never quite be able to escape her. He was the Minotaur, trapped by her labyrinth.
It was useful to have the break to remind himself of all the reasons why he didn’t want her. Why he didn’t even enjoy her.
She was the very opposite of women he enjoyed.
Except she wasn’t.
Indeed, he would have no trouble saying something nice about her. When she’d enumerated all the terrible things he’d said until now, he’d felt like a proper ass. He didn’t believe any of those things. Not anymore.
Not ever.
He began to unhitch the tired horses, quickly and efficiently, as he remained keenly aware of the fact that the men they’d encountered in Sprotbrough might be stupid enough to believe Sophie had been an ordinary footman on an ordinary carriage, but were also smart enough to realize she’d left the inn—and sooner rather than later. There would be no lingering. Which was for the best, because when she’d asked if they would be sleeping here tonight, his entire body had leapt to answer in the affirmative.
In the same room.
In the same bed.
With as little sleeping as possible.
She wanted to be free—he could show her freedom.
He could show her happiness.
Except he couldn’t.
Cursing under his breath, he handed the first of the four horses off to the coachman and made quick work of unhitching the second when she poked her head out of the door. “My lord?” she called, before returning to the shadows of the carriage.
He didn’t wish to think of her. He was too busy thinking of her.
“Bollocks,” he muttered.
Christ. Now he was swearing like her.
“My lord!” She was sounding more panicked.
He passed the second horse to the coachman and returned to her. “What is it?”
“I must go inside.”
“You shouldn’t be seen. You stay here.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I have necessary requirements.”
He sighed. Of course she did.
“And I think perhaps I ought to find other clothes. The livery has become somewhat . . . obvious.”
She was right, of course. She looked like a footman who’d been dragged through the muck, shot, and left for dead. Which wasn’t an entirely incorrect assessment of her situation. And with her long brown hair coming out of her cap, she would be discovered in a heartbeat. And when her hunters arrived, a girl dressed as a bedraggled footman would certainly count as something unique enough to mention. He hadn’t a choice.
“You handle your needs. I shall get you a dress.”
He charmed the pub owner with a long-suffering sigh and a handful of coin, and returned to the carriage with a frock and food and a skin of hot water. Opening the door, he found her already returned, and tossed the first two items into the carriage before handing her the water. “For your tea.”
He did not give her a chance to thank him, instead closing the door before returning to help the coachman hitch new horses.
“We’ve two good stretches before we get to Longwood, sir,” said the coachman. “We’ll need another change of horses in the night.”
“And a new coachman. You’ll need to sleep,” King said, triple checking the leather harnesses.
“I can see you through until then.”
King nodded. “Good man, John.”
John smiled. “The night is the best time to ride the roads.”
King knew it keenly. He also knew it was the worst time to ride inside a carriage—the darkness closing in around him, reminding him of the past, which became more and more difficult to ignore as they drew closer to Cumbria.
He opened the door to the carriage with more force than he’d planned, and she squeaked from her seat, hands clutched to her chest. She was wearing the green dress, festooned in little frills of lace and ribbon. “I’m not ready for you, yet,” she said, the words nearly strangling her.
“Why not?”
“Because I am not,” she replied, as though it were a legitimate answer to his question.
He raised a brow and did not move.
“I require another five minutes,” she said, shooing him out of the carriage. With her foot.
It was the foot that tipped him to her concern. His gaze fell, lingering on the hands at her breast, white laces crisscrossing up the bodice of the dress. “Are you having trouble lacing yourself into it?” he asked.
He shook his head. “We only change horses, and then press on. We have to put some distance between you and your pursuers.”
And then the door was open and he disappeared into the afternoon’s golden sunlight.
Chapter 11
SOPHIE AND EVERSLEY:
SEDUCTION OR ABDUCTION?
Thank God they’d arrived when they did.
A quarter of an hour longer, and King would not have been held responsible for what happened between them. Lord deliver him from long carriage rides with impossible, infuriating, remarkable women. How was he supposed to keep from kissing her? From touching her?
Every time the woman opened her mouth, he wanted her more.
And then she’d declared herself less than valued. Told him that only now, as she ran, London and her past at her heels, did she feel free. Proclaimed herself existent.
As though he’d needed a proclamation to notice her.
As though he wasn’t keenly aware of her every movement. Her every word.
Despite knowing that he shouldn’t see her at all.
She had been trouble since the moment he’d met her, at the bottom of the damn trellis at Liverpool House. And still, he seemed to never quite be able to escape her. He was the Minotaur, trapped by her labyrinth.
It was useful to have the break to remind himself of all the reasons why he didn’t want her. Why he didn’t even enjoy her.
She was the very opposite of women he enjoyed.
Except she wasn’t.
Indeed, he would have no trouble saying something nice about her. When she’d enumerated all the terrible things he’d said until now, he’d felt like a proper ass. He didn’t believe any of those things. Not anymore.
Not ever.
He began to unhitch the tired horses, quickly and efficiently, as he remained keenly aware of the fact that the men they’d encountered in Sprotbrough might be stupid enough to believe Sophie had been an ordinary footman on an ordinary carriage, but were also smart enough to realize she’d left the inn—and sooner rather than later. There would be no lingering. Which was for the best, because when she’d asked if they would be sleeping here tonight, his entire body had leapt to answer in the affirmative.
In the same room.
In the same bed.
With as little sleeping as possible.
She wanted to be free—he could show her freedom.
He could show her happiness.
Except he couldn’t.
Cursing under his breath, he handed the first of the four horses off to the coachman and made quick work of unhitching the second when she poked her head out of the door. “My lord?” she called, before returning to the shadows of the carriage.
He didn’t wish to think of her. He was too busy thinking of her.
“Bollocks,” he muttered.
Christ. Now he was swearing like her.
“My lord!” She was sounding more panicked.
He passed the second horse to the coachman and returned to her. “What is it?”
“I must go inside.”
“You shouldn’t be seen. You stay here.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I have necessary requirements.”
He sighed. Of course she did.
“And I think perhaps I ought to find other clothes. The livery has become somewhat . . . obvious.”
She was right, of course. She looked like a footman who’d been dragged through the muck, shot, and left for dead. Which wasn’t an entirely incorrect assessment of her situation. And with her long brown hair coming out of her cap, she would be discovered in a heartbeat. And when her hunters arrived, a girl dressed as a bedraggled footman would certainly count as something unique enough to mention. He hadn’t a choice.
“You handle your needs. I shall get you a dress.”
He charmed the pub owner with a long-suffering sigh and a handful of coin, and returned to the carriage with a frock and food and a skin of hot water. Opening the door, he found her already returned, and tossed the first two items into the carriage before handing her the water. “For your tea.”
He did not give her a chance to thank him, instead closing the door before returning to help the coachman hitch new horses.
“We’ve two good stretches before we get to Longwood, sir,” said the coachman. “We’ll need another change of horses in the night.”
“And a new coachman. You’ll need to sleep,” King said, triple checking the leather harnesses.
“I can see you through until then.”
King nodded. “Good man, John.”
John smiled. “The night is the best time to ride the roads.”
King knew it keenly. He also knew it was the worst time to ride inside a carriage—the darkness closing in around him, reminding him of the past, which became more and more difficult to ignore as they drew closer to Cumbria.
He opened the door to the carriage with more force than he’d planned, and she squeaked from her seat, hands clutched to her chest. She was wearing the green dress, festooned in little frills of lace and ribbon. “I’m not ready for you, yet,” she said, the words nearly strangling her.
“Why not?”
“Because I am not,” she replied, as though it were a legitimate answer to his question.
He raised a brow and did not move.
“I require another five minutes,” she said, shooing him out of the carriage. With her foot.
It was the foot that tipped him to her concern. His gaze fell, lingering on the hands at her breast, white laces crisscrossing up the bodice of the dress. “Are you having trouble lacing yourself into it?” he asked.
