The Rogue Not Taken (23 page)

With a huff of anger, she turned to leave, to find the pub. To rent a room. To be rid of him forever.

“Don’t blame me for this,” he said, and she stopped in her tracks, turning back as he continued. “I’ve done nothing but follow your directives as long as we’ve been together.” He approached. “You are the one who wanted
to leave London. Who wanted to come to Mossband, as though this were a life you would ever be able to have again, as though a decade in London wealthy and titled could be erased with a damn sticky bun.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” she lied.

“I know you fabricated that boy.”

Her brows shot up. “Fabricated him! You saw him, my lord, flesh and blood.”

“You fabricated everything about him, your perfect baker, pining away for you. And for what I don’t know, because he was never for you and you knew it. Hell, I knew it, and I didn’t even know the boy.”

“I wanted—” She stopped herself.

He came closer, and they were toe to toe. “Finish it. What did you want, Sophie?”

“Nothing.”

He watched her for a long moment, so close that she could see the little specks of silver grey in his brilliant green eyes. And then he said, “Liar.”

“Better a liar than an ass,” she said. “You simply had to prove yourself right. Couldn’t leave well enough alone. Couldn’t leave me alone. You had to prove that I was wrong. That I wouldn’t find the home I thought I would.”

“I wanted to be sure you were all right,” he said, the words clipped and irritated. “I thought you might be grateful for the chance to show Robbie that your life turned out well. Better than expected.”

“Oh, yes. Very well indeed. I’m stuck in Mossband with no money and absolutely no idea of what I’m going to do with myself.” She paused, then said, softly, “I thought I would be welcomed. I thought I would be . . .”

She trailed off, and he wouldn’t allow it. “What?”

“I thought I would be happy.” Except, instead of happy, she felt more alone than she’d ever felt in her life. “I thought
I would finally be home. And I would be free.” She shook her head. “But it’s not home. I’m not sure what is.”

“I’m sorry, Sophie.”

She snapped her gaze to his. “Don’t. Don’t lie to me. I may be rash and I may be stupid, but you haven’t lied to me yet, and at least there’s that.” The tears came then, and without hesitation, he reached for her, pulling her into his arms, not seeming to care than they stood on a public road in the center of a public town.

She didn’t care, either.

She leaned into his warmth and let the tears come, filled with disappointment and frustration and the knowledge that she’d ruined everything and she might never be able to right it.

He let her cry, murmuring softly, soothing her, promising her all would be well. And she let herself believe, for a heartbeat of time, that his comfort was more than fleeting. He was so warm. So warm and so welcome, if she didn’t know better, she’d think he felt like home.

Until she remembered that he wasn’t. That he’d never be.

She pulled back, straightening and wiping the tears from her eyes. When she looked up at him, it was to discover that he looked as uncomfortable as she felt. “I’ve relied too much upon you, my lord. You’ve really been a remarkable guard through this adventure. But it is over now. I shall rent a room at the inn. When my father’s men find me, I’ll return with them. This entire journey was a mistake.”

“Bollocks,” he said softly, surprising her. “This was a dream. It was the life you thought you’d have. And now it’s not the life you will have. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still have the freedom.” He watched her for a long moment before he shook his head. “You’re not staying at the inn.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You are coming to Lyne Castle. With me.”

Confusion flared, along with something else—something like desire. Not that she’d ever admit it. “Why?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I can think of two good reasons. First, because if you come with me, I can keep you safe until you decide your next path. We didn’t run from your father’s men so you could change your mind once things go slightly amiss.”

It didn’t feel slightly amiss. It felt as though she’d made a terrible mistake. “And the second reason?”

“Because I’ve a proposition for you,” he said. “One that won’t take long, but will pay handsomely.” Her brow furrowed, and he continued. “Give me a few days, and I’ll give you enough money to buy that happiness you so desperately want.”

She blinked, the promise exceedingly tempting. “That seems like a great deal of money.”

“Lucky for you, I have a great deal of money. And I’m about to have more.”

“Enough for me to never have to return to London?”

He inclined his head. “If that’s what you like. Enough for your bookshop. Wherever you want it to be.”

Desire and doubt warred within her. “Why would you help me?”

For a long moment, she thought he might say something lovely. Something that revealed that he was coming to like her. Hope flared, quick and dangerous. But when he replied, he said no such thing. “Because you are my perfect revenge.”

She narrowed her gaze on his, dread pooling. “What do you want from me?”

“It’s quite simple, really.” He opened the door to the
coach and indicated she should enter, not knowing how much his next words stung. “I’m going to present you to my father. As my soon-to-be wife.”

She stilled. “You are serious.”

“Quite. We’ve been fabricating a marriage for the last week; an engagement shouldn’t be so very difficult. We’ve already started.”

“You didn’t tell Robbie we were engaged for me. You did it for you.”

He shook his head. “For
us
. It works for both of us.”

She ignored the pang in her chest at the words. “You’re asking me to lie to a duke.”

“To my father.”

She blinked. “I thought you planned to convince him that you’d never marry.”

“And I won’t,” King replied. “I’ve no intention of marrying you.”

He said it as though it wouldn’t hurt. And it shouldn’t, she realized. There was never a moment when he’d given any implication that they were more than traveling companions.

Except for last night, in the carriage.

She pushed the thought away. It wasn’t as though she would marry him, anyway. But still. “It’s a wonder any woman in Christendom finds you charming.”

He added, as though it would help, “I’ve no intention of marrying anyone, Sophie. You know that.”

“Have you changed your mind then? Do you wish to make a dying man feel better?” She asked the questions even though she knew the answers.

“No.”

You’re my perfect revenge.

“Because I am a Dangerous Daughter. God forbid anyone with fortune and title marry a Talbot sister.”

He stilled at the words, and she wondered if her frustration was clear. If her hurt was. “Sophie—”

She cut him off. “No, no. Of course. Your great, aristocratic father will no doubt be horrified that you’ve stooped to marry me. I lack breeding, bloodline, and class. My father won his title at cards—making us at best usurpers of title and privilege.”

“He believes those things.”

“Just as his son does.”

His eyes went wide, and then narrowed with anger. “You know not what you speak of.”

“No?” she asked, suddenly feeling very brave. “I think I know precisely that of which I speak. You didn’t linger here out of concern for my future. You didn’t sally into the bakeshop to rescue me out of the goodness of your heart. You don’t offer me this arrangement because you wish for me to have freedom.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? So if I were another woman, with sounder reputation, with bluer blood, you would have proposed this?” She paused and he did not speak. “Of course you wouldn’t have, because those women wouldn’t anger your father so much.”

“Sophie—” King had the grace to look chagrined.

She was having none of it. “But those women also wouldn’t have the opportunity I have. I wasn’t raised to marry well, Lord Eversley. I wasn’t born with the silver spoon that allows you to be so utterly deplorable. So, fine. You want a Soiled S to trot before your father? You get one.”

She took hold of the edge of the coach and hoisted herself in without his help.

H
e followed her into the carriage without hesitation, closing them into the tight, small space, and waiting for the vehicle to move before he spoke, frustration and anger and no small amount of embarrassment driving his words.

“It seems, my lady”—he drawled the honorific, knowing she would loathe it—“that you have forgotten how very much I have done for you in the past week.”

Her gaze shot to his, furious. “Do edify me.”

“I had plans of my own, you might consider. I was hieing north on a rather time-sensitive matter.”

She raised a brow. “Oh, yes. To find one final way to punish your father on death’s door. Very noble.”

“If you knew my father—”

“I don’t,” she said, all casualness, reaching into the basket on the seat next to her and extracting a book. “But frankly, my lord, I am not feeling very kind toward you at this particular moment, so if you’re angling for my sympathy, perhaps save your stories for another time.”

She was the most infuriating woman he’d ever met. “I gave you everything you wished. I brought you to damn Mossband instead of packing you back to London, as I
should have the moment I discovered you, like the baggage you are. I protected you from your father’s damn hunters. Oh, yes. And
I saved your damn life.
”

“It’s hard to believe that a Dangerous Daughter’s life was worth the trouble, honestly.” She opened the book calmly. “My apologies for your wasted time.”

He sat back on the seat, watching her.
Shit
. It wasn’t a waste. None of it. Indeed, he wouldn’t give up a moment of the last week for anything. Even though she was the most difficult woman in Christendom. “Sophie,” he said, trying to change tack.

She wasn’t having it. Turning a page, she said calmly, “Do not worry, my lord. Your ailing father will loathe me. I shall make him wish death would come sooner. And when you get your
perfect revenge
, we’ll be through with each other. Blessedly.”

King watched her for a long moment before he said, quietly, “I don’t think less of you, you know.”

She turned another page. “For being too common for your perfect life? For being so common the mind will boggle at the possibility that I might make a decent wife? For being so common that you can hardly deign to breath the same air I breathe?”

Damn. That wasn’t what he meant at all. “I don’t think you are common.”

She turned pages more quickly now. “It’s difficult to believe that, I must admit, as you have spent the entirety of our acquaintance reminding me of my common appearance.”
Flip.
“My common background.”
Flip.
“My common past.”
Flip.
“My common family.”
Flip.
“My
most
common character.”
Flip. Flip. Flip
. “Indeed, my lord, you have been very clear on the matter. Clear enough for me to think you’re something of an ass.”

He stilled. “What did you call me?”

“I feel confident that your hearing is in full working order.”

Flip.

He reached across and snatched the book from her hands.

She scowled at him, then sat back, crossed her arms over her chest, and spat, “I shall be very happy to see the end of this carriage.”

“I cannot imagine why,” he retorted. “As I rather adore it.”

The words weren’t as sarcastic as he wished. Indeed, when he thought of this carriage, it gave him a great deal of pleasure. More than any carriage he’d ridden in since the last time he was here, in Cumbria. More than any carriage he’d been in since he was a young man.

Except it wasn’t the carriage.

It was her.

The realization came with no small amount of discomfort—he did not wish for her to give him pleasure. This journey was not for pleasure, it was for pain. For his father’s pain. He came to watch the old man die. Came to ensure that, finally, he was punished for the way he had manipulated and machinated King’s life.

Sophie was a means to that end, and nothing else.

She couldn’t be anything more than that.

He didn’t have room for her in his life.

She wasn’t his problem.

Even if he wished her to be.

He sighed, leaning back against the seat, frustration and anger coursing through him. He had been an ass. He’d insulted her from the start. She didn’t deserve it. She deserved better than him. The thoughts echoed around him as the carriage began to move, and they drew closer and closer to Lyne Castle.

She deserved better than this.

He looked to her, sitting stick-straight on the opposite seat. Minutes crept by as he considered her, wearing that abomination of a gown. He’d summon a seamstress from somewhere. He’d buy her a wardrobe full of frocks.

Not that there was any kind of seamstress for miles.

He’d send to Edinburgh. To London if he had to.

And boots. He’d have a half-dozen pairs made for her. In leather and suede, in all the latest fashions. He’d have a pair made that laced high up her calf.

He’d like that.

He shifted in his seat, thinking of unlacing such a boot, and put the thought from his mind. He hadn’t seen her in anything but livery and ill-fitting dresses since they’d met. He imagined that she’d been wearing a legitimate gown when they’d first encountered each other at the Liverpool party, but he’d been so committed to descending the trellis and escaping the events of the afternoon that he hadn’t had a decent look.

His shifted his attention to the place where her breasts rose over the line of her dress, lifting to trace the long column of her neck, the curve of her jaw, the pink swell of her lips.

He’d been a fool.

And apparently more than once. They’d danced at a ball before that, one he could not remember. But it was difficult to imagine that he wouldn’t remember her. That he wouldn’t remember the feel of her, lush and tempting in his arms. That he wouldn’t remember the scent of her, soap and summer sunshine. That he wouldn’t remember
her
, all clever remarks and cutting retorts and a brave, bold way of facing the world.

Christ. He’d remember her after this.

Even after she’d long put him out of her mind and built
a new life, all her own. Even after he gave her all the happiness she desired.

He’d never forget her.

I am sorry.

He wanted quite desperately to say the words to her. To begin again. To embrace this wild journey as not a man and a stowaway, a lady and her aide. But as King and Sophie, and whoever . . . whatever . . . they might be.

It was impossible, of course.

She hated everything he was, and he would never be good enough for her.

There was nothing common about her.

He should tell her that, here. Now. Before they turned down the drive to Lyne Castle and he lost the chance.

But she was so livid with him, he had no doubt she wouldn’t believe him. And perhaps that was best. Perhaps it was best that he so infuriated her. That she look forward to leaving him. That she desire to put him behind her.

The carriage turned off the main thoroughfare, and he looked up, keenly aware that they drew ever closer to Lyne Castle, where his past and future held sway.

Where his father might already be dead.

He returned his attention to Sophie, suddenly a port in a very turbulent storm. “We are nearly there.”

She smoothed her skirts. “I shall require a bath and a change of clothes before I meet your father. While I appreciate that this dress might well-suit your desire to infuriate him, I will not meet him in an ill-fitting frock looking like I’ve been driving for hours on end. Even a Talbot daughter knows how to behave around aging dukes.”

He nodded. “I hope you will sleep as well. You are past due for your herbs.” If he wasn’t so thoroughly transfixed by her, he might not have noticed the way her breath
caught. He did, however, and would have offered a small fortune to know what she was thinking. Instead, she turned back to the window as though he wasn’t there.

The carriage turned once, twice, and Lyne Castle rose from the horizon, setting his heart beating faster and harder as the great grey stones loomed and the coach pulled to a stop in front of the home he’d known for his entire childhood.

Something edged through him. Something like sadness.

Tearing his gaze away, he looked to Sophie, wanting to say something. Wanting to tell her that he was sorry.

Instead, he opened the door, stepping out to face the great behemoth, memories of his time here assaulting him: the scent of the green hills of Cumbria, rolling to the River Esk on one side and to the Scottish border on the other; the remains of Hadrian’s Wall that made his mountain as a child; the warm food and kind words of Agnes, the castle’s housekeeper, the closest thing it had to a mistress and the closest thing he had to a mother; his father, stern and cautious, with a single goal—to raise a future duke.

And Lorna
. Golden-haired and pale skinned, filled with promise. The promise of love. Of a future. Of a life beyond name and propriety.

Of happiness.

They’d been so young. Too young for him to realize that none of those things were for him.

He pushed the memories away, turning to help Sophie down, his hands at her waist. When she was on solid ground, she looked up at the stone walls of the castle and then to him, a question in her eyes. “Are you well?”

Even now, the echo of her frustration around them, she found room for concern. He released a breath he had not
known he held, considering her big blue eyes, the color on her cheeks, the way she thought of him. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if he leaned down and took those full pink lips for the kiss he’d wanted to give her since day had broken. He’d linger there, at the soft skin, reminding himself of her taste. Replacing the memories of his youth here with something else.

But he knew better than to kiss her here, in this place where memories seemed to etch themselves into the ancient stones.

Instead, he released her. “As well as can be expected.”

A shout punctuated the words and King turned to see a great grey horse in the distance, followed by a pack of dogs. He squinted at the rider, tall and grey-haired, ruddy-cheeked and filled with vitality.

It couldn’t be.

“Shit,” he whispered.

“Who is that?” Sophie asked, and her soft words at his shoulder might have pleased him at another time, the way they curled around him, making him a partner in her curiosity.

He was too livid to find pleasure in anything, however. “That is the Duke of Lyne.”

“Your father?”

“The very one.”

“He doesn’t look to be at death’s door to me,” she said, and he was almost certain he heard pleasure in the observation.

“T
he duke requests your company at the evening meal.”

Sophie stood at the far corner of the room to which she had been assigned, considering the extravagant view. She’d bathed and slept much of the day in the massive, deliciously comfortable bed, and she’d woken to a collec
tion of no doubt borrowed gowns, several of which actually fit.

A maid helped her dress before leaving her alone to wait there, in the window, considering the labyrinth in the foreground and the rolling green hills of a North Country summer beyond, wondering what was to come next before King rapped on the door and entered without summons. She turned to face him, still full of the anger she’d felt earlier in the day, when he’d made it clear that she was nothing but scandal to him.

Still attempting not to be hurt by it.

Still trying to put the evening before—the way he’d touched her and kissed her and whispered her name in the darkness—out of her mind.

She met his gaze, hating the way his presence had her breath quickening. “Mine alone?”

He leaned against the jamb. “Sadly, no. Ours, together.” His gaze lowered to her bad shoulder. “Are you feeling well?”

She smiled, a brilliant, false expression that would have made her sisters proud. “I am about to sup with two men who disdain me, so I have, in fact, felt better.”

He cut her a look. “I meant your shoulder. And I don’t disdain you.”

She ignored the last. “The herbs and honey are working well.”

“Did you bathe?”

Her cheeks warmed. “Not that it is your business, but yes.”

“It’s my business.”

“Because if I die you’ll be out your revenge?”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “I don’t care for your smart mouth.”

Another smile. “And here I was working so very hard
to make you care.” She approached. “Have you told him that you’ve returned with a Dangerous Daughter on your arm?”

He looked over his shoulder into the hallway and stepped inside the room, quickly closing the door. “I haven’t,” he said quietly, “But he’ll know soon enough.”