The Rogue Not Taken (16 page)

But the sigh did him in. He caught it with his lips, readjusting the angle, pulling her tighter against him and pouring all his expertise into the touch—instinctively knowing that if she’d ever kissed another, it had been nothing like this. For, if there was anything in the world King enjoyed, it was kissing. He adored the privacy of it. The magnificent way it tested and teased and tempted and ultimately told, foreshadowing a greater, more intense act.

Her mouth was open, her full lips on his, and he took what she likely didn’t even know she’d offered, worrying her beautiful bottom lip with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue and stroking deep, tasting her, the tang of bergamot from her tea and something sweeter, more delicious than he would have imagined.

She sighed again, and he pulled her closer, loving the way she gasped at the movement before giving in to it, wrapping her hands around his neck and threading her fingers in his hair. Christ. It felt good.

She felt good.

Even better when her tongue met his.

She was an excellent student.

And this kiss was getting out of control.

He broke it off, lifting his lips from hers, ready to stop the moment before it ran away with them both. But her eyes remained closed and her hands remained fisted in his hair, and he found that releasing her was not in the cards. Instead, he returned his lips to her skin, tracing her cheekbone, her jaw, running his teeth down the column of
her neck to linger in the space where it met her shoulder. He kissed her there, licking delicately before he sucked just enough to elicit a lovely little cry.

A cry punctuated with his own growl.

Her grasp tightened, and she whispered his name. Not his title—the name she’d mocked again and again. “King.”

The word gave him great pleasure, and he smiled against her skin. “What did you call me?”

She opened her eyes then—liquid blue and filled with desire. It took a moment for her to understand the question. The teasing in it. “Don’t get ideas.”

“Too late for that.” His ideas were legion. And he liked every single one of them. He slid one hand down her back, over the swell of her behind, to grab her thigh and lift it, pulling her tighter to him.

She gasped at the movement, but did not pull away. Indeed, she arched into him with a low, humming moan. Sophie Talbot more than made up for her lack of experience with her glorious excitement. King could happily sequester them both in a room upstairs and spend a week exploring all the things that made her gasp and arch and sigh and moan.

But there was a man mere feet away who was searching for her. And this was neither the place nor the time for King to be intrigued by the lady. A point that was validated by the appearance of the man who’d questioned them, who stepped into the dimly lit space and did not hesitate in taking a long look at them.

King turned to keep her from view, suddenly caring very much that her current state be for his view alone. “You ask for trouble,” he growled at the newcomer, who did not move for a long moment—too long for King’s liking.

He turned around to face the man. “Did you misunderstand me?”

“Not at all,” said the other man. “It’s only that your wife has the look of Lady Sophie.”

“My wife is Mrs. Louis Matthew. I made that clear. And your attention is irritating me more than I think you’d care for me to be irritated.”

The man’s gaze lingered on Sophie, who, for the first time in her life, stayed where she was put. Thankfully. He then tipped his hat. “Mrs. Matthew, I do apologize for the interruption.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said quietly.

The man looked at King. “You might choose a less public place. Newlywed or not.”

King had never in his life wanted to hit a man more. He should receive a special prize for not doing so. “I appreciate your advice,” King said, his tone indicating anything but appreciation.

Once the man returned to the pub, King grabbed Sophie by the hand and pulled her up the stairs and into her chamber, wanting her away from the scoundrel.

She pressed herself against the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “He knows.”

King ran a hand over his face. “I imagine he does, yes.”

She looked up at him. “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”

“That we are merely traveling companions who don’t much care for one another?” She paused at that, and he felt like an ass for having said it with the taste of her on his lips. “Sophie—”

“No,” she said, waving his words away. “It’s true. And he wouldn’t believe it.”

It wasn’t true, but he didn’t push her. “No, he wouldn’t.”

She nodded. “Thank you. I shall only presume for another day. Until the mail coach arrives.”

He looked to the ceiling. “You’re not taking the mail coach, dammit. Especially not now.”

“Why not? They shan’t be looking for me there.”

It was likely the truth, but he’d had enough of this woman and the carelessness with which she lived her life. “Because you have a habit of getting shot on mail coaches.”

“It wasn’t
on
the coach.”

“Now who is arguing semantics?” She closed her mouth. “I shall see you to Mossband.” He couldn’t help the rest of the words now that he knew, almost certainly, that she’d been lying to him from the start. “Right into your baker’s doughy arms.”

“Aren’t you clever.”

“I am, rather.”

He would wager his entire fortune that there was no baker. Which meant she was running, and he was the only person who could help her. Just as he’d been for another girl an eternity ago.

And he’d be damned if he was going to let this one down
, too.

A short rap sounded on the door to the room and he opened it to find Mary, John, and Bess. They stepped inside without being invited. Mary spoke quickly. “There’s a man downstairs asking questions about a missing girl.”

“Yes, we met him,” King said.

Mary looked to Sophie. “He says her name is Sophie. And she’s a nob.”

Sophie watched her carefully, but did not say anything.

Mary looked to King. “They say she’s with another nob.”

He did not reply.

John added, “We think it’s you.”

King spoke then. “Did you tell the man your suspicions?”

“No,” John said. “We’s loyal to our friends’ secrets.”

Sophie nodded. “Thank you.”

“Wot’d you do to deserve a man hunting you?”

Sophie smiled, small and somewhat sad, and King resisted the urge to go to her and gather her in his arms. “I ran from a life I did not want.”

“We cannot pretend we don’t understand that,” Mary said, putting her hand on Bess’s shoulder and pulling the girl close.

Christ. He was going to have to take care of these three. He couldn’t leave them here to their own devices. Mary was young and the other two were children.

Smart, savvy, thieving children, but children nonetheless.

“You must go,” Mary said. “And quickly.”

He reached into his pocket and extracted his purse, extending a handful of coins to Mary. “You’ll follow. In my coach.”

Her brows rose. “Why?”

He knew pride when he saw it in the young girl’s eyes. Knew she would not accept charity in any sense. He’d had to badger her into accepting the room Sophie had insisted he pay for. “Because we’re going to hire another carriage. And those men shall think that you three are us. In my coach. Hieing north to Scotland.”

“To elope!” Bess spoke for the first time.

Sophie looked to the young girl. “What do you know of eloping?”

“I don’t,” Bess said, honestly. “But I know people do it in Scotland.”

“As a matter of fact,” King said to the little girl. “I think they just might believe we are eloping.”

“Are you?” Mary asked.

“No!” Sophie said without hesitation.

He turned to her. “Another man would take offense at how quickly you discount my eligibility.”

She raised her brows at him. “Another man might be less of a cad than you are, my lord.”

He thought of the events in the public hallway downstairs and refrained from argument.

“Where will you go?” Mary asked.

“North. And quickly.”

Mary worried her lip, considering them both. “I don’t know that it’s proper for you to leave without chaperone, my lady.”

King was certain he hadn’t heard the girl correctly.

Sophie shook her head. “I preferred Mrs. Matthew.”

“But you’re not Mrs. Matthew. You’re an earl’s daughter. You should have a companion.”

“I have the marquess.”

Mary cut him a look. “I’m no highborn lady, but even I know he’s not an acceptable chaperone.”

If the girl only knew half of it.

“He’ll do fine,” Sophie said. “The marquess doesn’t even care for me.”

Mary looked from Sophie to King, and he had the distinct impression that she did not believe the words. “My lord, you understand that we feel quite possessive of the lady. What with her saving our lives.”

He nodded once. “I do.”

“Then you understand, also, that if you hurt her, I shall have to gut you.”

He blinked, grateful that the girl didn’t know half of it. Because she clearly meant the threat, and King wasn’t certain she did not have the guts and skill to do it. “I do.”

Satisfied, Mary nodded. “What shall we do?”

“Stay here. Try to throw them off our scent for a few hours to let us get away. Stay a few days, if you like.” He gave her a handful of coin from his purse. “That will keep you weeks if you need it. When you’re ready, my coachman will bring you and my luggage to my country seat.”

Mary was uncertain. “We were headed to Yorkshire. There’s a place there. I hear we’ll be safe.”

King shook his head. “There’s a place for you in Cumbria, as well. Or Wales. Or any number of other places. For John and Bess, as well. You shall all be under the protection of the Duke of Lyne.”

“Cor!” John said.

“A duke!” Mary said.

Someday soon.
And he’d try his damnedest to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. Perhaps, finally, he could do it.

Sophie looked to King. “Thank you.”

“Thank me when we’re off,” he said, pushing her toward his nearby chest. “You must dress. You’re leaving the pub the same way you came in.”

“Shot and passed out?” John asked.

King lifted the stained-but-clean livery that sat atop the luggage and handed it to Sophie. “As a footman.”

S
ophie and King were on the road in less than an hour, Mary and John doing their best to distract the men who searched for them as Sophie clung to the back of the hired carriage, grateful for her prior experience.

Minutes up the road, the carriage stopped, and she scrambled inside, King rapping sharply on the roof to set them once more in motion. “We won’t stop until we reach Cumbria,” he said, “except to change horses. And you will stay hidden. At best, you have a few days before your father’s men find you. If they think you’re with me, they’re already headed to Lyne Castle.”

She shook her head. “My father will receive notice of my plans for Mossband tomorrow. He shan’t bother you after that.”

King raised his brows. “Your father will want my hide, I’m guessing. Doubly so when he discovers you’ve been shot on my watch.”

“That’s nonsense. You weren’t there. You weren’t watching.”

“I should have been,” he said, leaning back in the seat,
but before she could consider the words, he said, “Did you pack your tea?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“And the honey?”

“I did.”

“And fresh bandages?”

“I am not a child, my lord. I understand the concept of leaving a place with important possessions.”

He looked away, out the window, and she leaned back in the seat across from him, and attempted not to think of the day. Any of it.

But she couldn’t help herself. “You rescued me again.”

“It wasn’t rescue.”

“It was. You knew I did not wish to return to London.”

He did not reply for long minutes. And then he said, “Someday, I’ll learn to leave you to your own devices.”

But not today.

Today, he’d saved her from being hauled back to her life in London. Today, he’d given her a chance at freedom.

Today, he’d kissed her. In the dark hallway behind a taproom, her father’s bounty hunters on her heels. It wasn’t precisely what she’d expected for her first kiss.

Despite being magnificent.

She ignored the thought.

He seemed utterly unmoved by the kiss, so shouldn’t she be the same? He’d clearly only allowed it because they were being followed. Suspected. Nearly found out. He’d kissed her to ensure the charade appeared legitimate.

It certainly
felt
legitimate.

Not that it mattered.

It was best she never think of it again.

She sneaked a look at him, eyes closed, arms crossed, long legs stretched across the carriage in an arrogant
sprawl, crowding her into the corner of her seat. As though the limits of space should defer to him.

She rearranged herself, pressing into the small space he’d left for her.

It would be easy to forget the kiss if he carried on this way.

He opened one eye. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she said, making a show of folding her legs tightly against the box of the seat.

He watched her for a moment, then said, “All right,” and closed his eyes once more.

She coughed.

He opened his eyes again, and she noticed the irritation in them. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said, all sweetness. “Am I bothering you?”

“No,” he said, the word clipped, and closed his eyes once more. She heard the lie. What was she to do? Disappear? She’d offered to travel by mail. He’d been the one who had insisted on this wild plan.

Instead, she lifted her legs and pulled them up, stretching out along the slippery wooden seat. The carriage chose that exact moment to hit a tremendous rut, and she had to grab the edges of the conveyance in order to hold her position.

“For God’s sake, Sophie. Find a spot and stay in it.” He did not open his eyes this time.

Her incredulous gaze met his. “You do realize that this carriage is not the behemoth in which you traditionally travel? As you have taken the low ground, my lord, I have no choice but to claim the high. And, as you may recall, I have an unhealed bullet wound in my shoulder, so the threat of the drop from seat to floor of the carriage is . . . unsettling to say the least.”

He cut her a look. “I asked if you were uncomfortable. You said no.”

She scowled at him. “I lied.”

He sat up, just as the vehicle went round a corner. “Christ,” he muttered, putting his hand to his head.

He was turning green.

She let her feet drop to the floor. “Are you ill?”

He shook his head, but put one hand on the side of the rocking carriage.

“Do carriages make you ill?” she asked. When he did not reply, she added, “My sister Sesily is ill in carriages.”

“Which one is that?” If he hadn’t looked so unsettled, she would have argued that her sisters were not all the same and it should not be too much trouble to tell them apart.

Instead, she clarified, “She is second eldest.” She paused, then added, “As the rake you are, I’m sure you’ve heard what they call her when she is not in the room.”

“What’s that?”

“You needn’t pretend you haven’t. I’ve heard it, so I know you must have.”

He cut her a look. “Have I made a practice of lying to you?”

Well. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him. She blushed. “Never mind.”

“You must tell me, now.”

She shook her head. “It’s unkind.”

“I’ve no doubt it is, if they don’t use it to her face.”

She looked out the window. “Her name is Sesily.”

“Yes. You said that.”

She watched him pointedly. “
Ses
-ily.”

He raised a brow, but did not speak.

“You wish me to say it aloud.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m beginning to care less and less about it, frankly.”

“Sexily,” she said flatly. “They call her Lady Sexily. Behind her back.”

For a moment, he did not reply. Did not move. And then he opened his eyes, skewering her with a furious look. “Anyone who calls her that is an epic ass. And anyone who calls her that in front of you deserves a fist to the face.” He leaned forward. “Who said that in front of you?”

Surprised, she replied, “It’s not important.”

“I assure you it is,” he said. “You should be treated with more respect.”

Respect.
What a foreign concept. She looked away. “The Dangerous Daughters do not garner respect, my lord. You know that better than anyone.”

He cursed in the silence. “I am sorry for the things I said.”

“You are?”

“You needn’t sound so shocked.”

“It’s just that—my sisters don’t mind the treatment, so the
ton
never seems to stop saying such things.”

“But you do mind it.”

She lifted one shoulder. “As we’ve established, I don’t value the gossip pages.”

He watched her for a long moment before he said, “That’s not why you mind it.”

“No,” she said, “I mind it because it devalues us. They’re my sisters. We are people. With feelings. We exist. And it seems that the world fails to see that. Fails to see them.”

“Fails to see you,” he said.

Yes.

“I don’t wish to be seen,” she lied. “I just wish to be free of it.”

His green gaze consumed her. “I see you, Sophie.”

She caught her breath at the words. They weren’t true, of course. But how she wished they were.

She shook her head, returning to safer, less discomfiting ground. “It was a group of men talking about her. I stumbled upon them at a ball. They didn’t see me. They were too busy seeing her.” She lifted her good shoulder. Let it drop. “Sesily’s shape is . . . Well, men notice it. And because our blood does not run blue, men like you—” She stopped. Reconsidered. “Men who think themselves above us . . . they do not hesitate to comment on it. I suppose they think they are clever. And perhaps they are. But it doesn’t feel clever.” She looked up at him. “It feels horrid.”

“I’d like to make each one of them feel horrid.” For a moment, she thought he was telling the truth. Of course, that couldn’t be the case. He wanted nothing to do with her. He paused. “Who’s her scandal?”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“You each have an inappropriate man attached to you. Who is hers?”

Of course, it was the suitor who defined the Soiled S. “Derek Hawkins.”

“He’s a proper ass,” he said, before closing his eyes and leaning back against the seat. “And the fact that he hasn’t married your sister and murdered anyone who notices her shape proves it.”

Though she agreed, she ignored the words. “I don’t have an inappropriate man attached to me.”

He met her gaze pointedly. “You do now.”

Her cheeks warmed, the words summoning the memory of his kiss. She did not know what to say, so she returned to the original subject. “At any rate, Sesily’s predicament makes long drives quite difficult.” She looked about for somewhere to catch his sick, should there be
any. Collecting his hat from the seat next to him, she turned it over and held it beneath his chin. “If you’re going to be ill, use this.”

He opened one eye. “You want me to vomit in my hat.”

“I realize that it’s not the best option,” she said, “but desperate times and all that?”

He shook his head and put the hat back on the seat next to him. “I’m not going to be sick. Carriages don’t make me ill. They make me wish I was not inside carriages.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“I am . . . uncomfortable . . . in them.”

“So you don’t travel?”

He raised a brow. “Of course I travel, as you can see.”

“Yes. But long journeys must be difficult.”

There was a pause. “I don’t wish to be difficult.”

She chuckled at that. “You think your aversion to carriages is what makes you difficult?”

He smiled at her jest, a tiny quirk in his otherwise flat mouth. “I think you are what makes me difficult, these days.”

“Surely not,” she teased. “I am easy as church on Sunday.”

He grunted and closed his eyes. “I do not attend church.”

“Shall I pray for your eternal soul, then?”

“Not if you’re looking for someone to listen to you. I’m a lost cause, scoundrel that I am.”

They rode in silence for a long while, King growing progressively more fidgety and unhappy. Finally, Sophie said, “Would you like to ride on the block with the coachman?”

King shook his head. “I’m fine here.”

“Except you made it clear that you dislike traveling companions. You said as much when we were on the road to Sprotbrough.”

“Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.” The carriage bounced and she slid across the seat, knocking her shoulder against the wall of the coach and gasping in pain.

He swore harshly; he reached for her, lifting and turning her as though she weighed nothing, and settled her on the seat next to him. She was caged by his body and his legs before she could even consider what had happened.

She snapped her head around to his, where his eyes remained closed. “Let me go.”

He kept his eyes closed and ignored her, resuming his relaxed position. “Stop moving. It’s bad for your shoulder and for my sanity.”

Well, being so close to him was not good for
her
sanity.

Not that he seemed to mind.

She closed her own eyes and put him out of her thoughts. It worked for several seconds, until his warmth enveloped her, beginning where their thighs touched and spreading through her until she wanted nothing but to lean into him. Instead, she kept as much distance as she could, and cast about for something to say that was not
Kiss me again, please, if you don’t mind so very much.

Although she wondered if he would do just that if she asked very nicely.

She stiffened, as though posture could dispel errant thoughts. “What about your curricle?”

“What about it?” he replied, not looking at her.

“Why not drive that instead of sitting inside this coach?”

“My curricle is dismantled and headed to Lyne Castle.”

Her eyes went wide. “Why?” Surely it was not for her benefit. She enjoyed the company, but he should be enjoying his life.

“It lacks proper wheels,” he said, dryly.

Of course it did. “I am sorry.”

His eyes opened again, surprise in the green depths. “I think you might be.”

She nodded. “Is that surprising?”

“People rarely apologize to me,” he said, simply. “Even fewer do so without artifice.”

She did not know how to reply to that, so she changed the subject, returning to something safer. “I’ve never seen anyone drive a curricle with such recklessness.”