The Rogue Not Taken (21 page)

Warnick made a sound that indicated he knew better. “There’s a curricle here. Buy it. Race me home. Send some of that anger packing before you face your dying father.”

He’d never heard an offer he so desperately wanted to take. He ached for the freedom of the curricle. For its promise. He wanted to feel as though he was on the edge of danger, knowing that it was his strength and skill and nothing else that kept him from losing everything. He wanted the reminder that he held his life in his hands. That he controlled it.

But for the first time in all the time he’d raced, it wasn’t the past he sought to escape. It wasn’t his memories he wished to control. It wasn’t the coach he wanted to avoid, but its contents. And the things those contents made him desire. Without realizing it, he looked to the carriage.

The duke realized it. “Send the girl back to where she came from.”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

I can’t leave her.

He did not reply.

Warnick watched him carefully. “Ah.”

Anger flared. “What’s that to mean?”

The duke shrugged a shoulder. “You care for your little footman.”

He did no such thing. “How did you know—”

Warnick smiled. “I might have been slow on the discovery, but once it’s seen—it can’t be unseen.”

“Do your best to unsee it, you ass.” King turned away, ignoring the other man, returning to the horse.

“Where are you taking her?”

He was taking her to Lyne Castle, until her father turned up to take her back to London. What other choice did he have? If he left her here, she could well end up in the clutches of someone like Warnick.

King thought of her at the castle, at the base of the ancient stone façade in her ridiculous borrowed frock, looking nothing like the lady she was.

I
’d rather you never marry at all than marry some cheap trollop in it only for the money
.

He stilled.

“Who is she?” Warnick asked.

She’s the youngest of the Dangerous Daughters.

“Because she’s too clever by half for you. Which means that she’s more trouble than anything else,” Warnick continued, oblivious to the fact that King was lost in his own thoughts, his own words echoing through him. “You shouldn’t dally with clever women. You’ll never outsmart them, and before you know where you are, you’re married to them.”

King looked up at the words.

You shan’t trap me into marriage
, he’d promised her when he’d believed she wanted nothing but his title. He no longer believed it. It wasn’t in her to connive. But she remained a Talbot sister.

And others would have no trouble believing it.

His father would have no trouble believing it.

It would mean he had to win his wager with Sophie—prove that her perfect baker was nothing more than
fantasy. And then he would have to keep her close. He ignored the thread of pleasure that curled through him at the thought.

Keeping Sophie close was not ideal. They did not even enjoy each other’s company.

You enjoyed her company a great deal over the last few hours.

He pushed the thought away, tested the strength of the harness, and turned to his new coachman. “Mossband, as quickly as we can get there.”

The coachman climbed up and took the reins.

Warnick was gingerly exploring the bridge of his nose. “I’m fairly certain it’s broken,” the Scot said.

“I wouldn’t worry. It can only be an improvement for your craggy face.”

The duke scowled at him. “I rarely get complaints.”

“Because women are scared silent at the look of you.” King put a hand to the door. “Will you linger here?”

The duke looked up to the second story of the inn, before shrugging his shoulders. “A day or two. She’s a welcoming piece.” He tilted his head in the direction of the carriage. “You don’t think I ought to have another look?” King scowled and the Scot laughed, big and burly, before he grew serious. “Take some advice, King. Be rid of her, before you find you can’t be.”

King nodded, even as something in the words did not set correctly. “I shall be,” he replied, opening the door with renewed vigor. “Just as soon as she’s served her purpose.”

T
he carriage smelled like fresh-baked bread.

The scent curled through her, hunger and desire coming on its heels. It felt like it had been an age since she’d eaten a full, warm meal, and perhaps it had been. Between her escape from the Liverpool estate, the gunshot wound, and the running from her father’s pursuers, eating well had not been paramount.

And last night, when King had delivered a basket of hearty food to the dark interior of the carriage, she hadn’t had much time to enjoy it, as she’d been too distracted by its messenger. Memory of the evening’s events had her sitting up in her seat, keenly aware of her state of disarray, a blanket she did not remember pulling to her chin falling to her lap.

King must have covered her. She ignored the warmth that came with the thought and sat up, quickly pulling the laces on her borrowed frock tight, covering herself as well as she could with the too-small dress. Once the most pressing task was complete, she looked up, simultaneously noticing three things: the whisper of grey light that filled the carriage, indicating that it was barely dawn;
the fact that King was not on the seat opposite her; and the fact that the carriage was not moving.

She peered out the window, somehow already knowing the truth, but the little brick buildings all in a row, mere feet away, confirmed it.

They were in Mossband.

It was all still there, the haberdasher, the butcher, and, yes, the baker.

Already awake. Already baking.

Opening the door to the carriage, Sophie stepped out onto the block that was already there, sitting as though it had been waiting for her along with this little town and all the memories that came with it. She faced the little greensward at the center of town, marked by a massive stone, bigger than a small house and unable to be moved, and so left as a marker, moss climbing its north side, giving the town its name.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the light and the air and the early morning.

“Is it all you remembered?” The words were quiet in the predawn silence. She turned to find him close to her, leaning against the coach, closer than she expected. Close enough to smell him, to see the dark stubble that shadowed his chin. They’d been traveling without quarter, and he hadn’t shaved. Her fingers itched to touch it.

It’s not yours to touch.

Not by the light of day. Not here, at the end of their journey, when they were about to end their acquaintance. An acquaintance that had become far too close than any acquaintance should be.

She cleared her throat and found speech. “It is exactly the same.” She looked down the row of buildings, drinking in this place she’d dreamed of for years; there was a tea room now where there hadn’t been when she was
younger, just on the crest of the little slope that curved round behind the pub. “Except for the tea shop.”

He was looking at the pub. “The Weasel and the Woodpecker? Really?”

She laughed at his surprise. “I think it’s creative.”

“I think it’s ridiculous.”

She shook her head, pointing to the rock at the center of the greensward. “Seleste climbed that once.” She noticed the question in his gaze. “My sister.”

“The one we haven’t discussed.”

He did not mention her suitor, and Sophie noticed. She nodded. “She climbed up—couldn’t have been older than eight or ten—and once up there, she became terrified. She couldn’t get herself down.”

“What happened?”

“My father came to save her,” she said, the long-forgotten memory returned with utter clarity. “He told her to jump into his arms.”

“Did she?”

Sophie couldn’t hold back the laugh. “She toppled them both to the ground.”

He laughed with her, the sound deep and soft in the early-morning light. “Did she learn her lesson?”

Sophie shook her head. “No. In fact, we all wanted to climb the rock and play with Papa after that.”

The words came on a thread of sadness, something she didn’t entirely understand, and she shook her head, willing the emotion away. Turning, she found King staring at her. “Did you climb the rock?”

She pushed past him, rounding the corner of the carriage. “Yes.”

He followed. “And did you jump?”

She stopped. Looked down at her feet. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . .” She paused, not wanting to say the words out loud. Not wanting him to hear them. Not that it mattered what he thought of her. They were through today. After this, they’d never see each other again.

“Sophie?”

She turned, loving the sound of her name on his lips. The way it wrapped around her in the cool, grey morning air. The way it made her remember the night before. The way he’d sounded in the dark.

She shouldn’t think of that. Of course, she would, but she shouldn’t think of it here in public. In daylight. In the presence of him, and all of Mossband.

“Sophie.”

She shook her head, staring over his shoulder at the rock in question. “I was too afraid to jump.”

Silence fell and she imagined him judging her. She wasn’t much different now, was she? Still afraid. Still uninteresting. Still unfun. She braced herself for his retort.

“Until now.”

She blinked, returning her gaze to his, beautiful and green and unwavering. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re not afraid to jump now. Isn’t that why we’re here? Why you stowed away in my carriage? Why you stole my wheels and got yourself shot? Isn’t that why we escaped your father’s men? All so that you could be here, now? So you could jump?”

She didn’t know what to say, his words so pointed they almost goaded. And then they did goad. “So you could win your wager? With happiness?”

She looked to the bakery, its chimney spouting happy smoke, keenly aware of the fact that the wager was ridiculous. She’d never win it. But he was driving her to its logical conclusion. She would enter the bakery, see
Robbie, and return to Mossband. She would be free of London.

Everything would change.

It would begin again.

She would be free.

“Or do you forfeit?”

She was grateful for the teasing in the words. The way they brought her back to the moment. The way they reminded her of the woman she had promised herself she would become. The life she had promised herself she would have.

Without titles or pretension.

Without London.

Without him.

Not that she wanted him. She didn’t even like him. And he certainly didn’t like her.

Now was the time. She was here, in this place where she knew no one, had nothing. She’d found her way here. She’d made her wager and she would follow it through. Yes, she might fail, but she could not return to London. And she could not rely on King’s help forever.

He wasn’t for her.

I was too afraid to jump.

Until now.

It was not the seeing of Robbie that mattered, but the proving to herself that she was brave enough to do this. Alone. The proving to King. Because he would leave her, and she wanted him to think her brave.

To value her.

To see her. One final time.

She pasted a bright smile on her face. “Why would I forfeit when I am so very close to my bookshop?” Triumph flared at his surprise. He didn’t think she would do
it, and so she returned to the open door of the carriage, reaching in to collect her paltry things.

Setting her basket at her feet, she smoothed her skirts, asking, “How do I look?”

“As though you’ve been riding in that carriage for twenty-four hours.”

She scowled up at him before collecting the basket and standing straight. “I shouldn’t have asked you.”

He stepped forward and raised a hand to her face, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, the touch sending a thrill through her. A thrill she tried to ignore, even when his thumb stroked over her cheek, wiping away some invisible mark. The tips of his fingers lingered at her jaw, tilting her face up to his, and she felt her cheeks warm under his unwavering gaze.

They stood that way for a long moment, long enough for her to wonder if he might kiss her again. Long enough for her to wish he would kiss her again. There, next to the Mossband town greensward in full view of anyone who cared to look.

“Do not forget to keep your wound clean.”

If she’d wagered a thousand pounds, she would not have guessed that he’d say that. Her breath caught in her chest at the strange, caring instruction. “I shan’t.” She lifted the basket as unnecessary proof. He nodded and stepped away, and she felt the loss of his touch keenly. Disliked it. Grasped for something else to say, unready to be rid of him.

“I never intended to trap you into marriage, you know.” It was an odd thing to say, but true, and that was what mattered, she supposed.

“I know that now,” he said, a little smile on his handsome face. There was a dimple there, in the dark stubble of his unshaved beard. She itched to touch it.

Instead, she said, “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Sophie.”

And that was that. She nodded once. “Good-bye, then,” she said, disliking the words.

“Good luck,” he replied. She disliked those words more.

With a deep breath, she crossed the street to the bakery, telling herself that the discomfort in her stomach was nothing more than nerves. Nothing at all to do with turning her back on Kingscote, Marquess of Eversley. The man with whom she’d spent the better part of the last week.

After all, they didn’t even like each other.

She pushed the door to the bakery open, a little bell above the door tinkling happily, announcing the heat of the ovens, and the smell of cinnamon and honey making her mouth water. The counters were empty of food, as it was too early for passersby, and it took her a moment in the dim light.

“I’m sorry, miss, we haven’t anything for sale just yet—” Robbie began, coming to his full height at the great mouth of the brick oven that sat at the center of the room. He met her eyes, his already warm and kind and gentle—exactly as she remembered. “Sophie?”

He remembered her.

Her chest constricted with an emotion she could not immediately identify. She smiled. “Robbie.” The name felt strange on her tongue. Unfamiliar. Incorrect.

He came out from around the counter, tall and broad in his shirtsleeves, his still-blond hair tied back in a queue, his brown eyes filled with laughter. “We didn’t know what became of you! I mean, we read the papers, but you never returned!”

He reached for her then, and she stepped back, surprised by his forwardness. He stilled, sensing the awk
wardness. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forget that you’re a lady now.”

The words placed distance between them. Immediately setting her apart. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s only—you surprised me.”

“I’m the one who is surprised, I assure you.” He looked around the shop, searching for something and not finding it. “I don’t have a coat.”

He was embarrassed of his shirtsleeves, and she hated herself for making him feel that way. She lifted a hand. “No, don’t worry about that.”

He looked away, and silence fell between them. “It’s the crack of dawn,” he said.

“I just arrived.”

“From London?”

She nodded.

“Are your sisters here, as well?”

“No. I came alone.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

She thought for a long moment, and then settled on, “I wanted to come home.” She paused, and when he did not speak, she said, “To a place I knew. To people I cared for.”

I wanted to be happy.

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

She searched for more, settling on “I hate London.”

He nodded as though the words made sense, but she had the distinct impression that they did not. “All right.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his suspenders pulling tight, and he rocked up on his toes, then back, peering about the room before his attention finally settled on the basket on one table. “Buns are still cooling, but are you hungry? Would you like a biscuit? They’re from yesterday, but still good.”

And that’s when she knew.

This ends poorly.

King had said those very words to her, before they’d made their foolish wager. And she’d known they were true, even as she’d denied it. This did end poorly. And not because Robbie Lander was not to be her husband.

It ended poorly because ten years had made this place different.

Or perhaps it had made her different.

But, either way, Mossband was not her home.

The universe underscored her thoughts with the ringing of the bell above the door. “Papa!”

A little girl pushed past her, and Robbie bent down to catch her in his large arms, lifting her high. “Good morning, moppet. Give me a kiss.”