The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

“Oh, thank the Lord.” Verity raced round to the opposite door and climbed into the conveyance. Mr Trent slipped his hands into hers. With a heave, she pulled him to sit in the seat beside her. “If the urge to sleep comes upon you, you must fight it.”

Mr Trent’s head lolled forward, and his hat tumbled to the carriage floor. “Need to … to rest.”

“No, you mustn’t rest.” Once the mind gave up, few people recovered. “Speak to me. Talking will keep you alert until the doctor can check your wound.”

“He’s too tall to lie down, even with his knees bent.” Mr Cavanagh barked orders to Sleeth, gave the poor man back his boots and then climbed into the conveyance and closed the door. “Sit on his lap, Miss Vale. Talk to him. Occupy his mind. Slap his face if you think it will help.”

The carriage lurched forward, and Mr Trent almost slipped from the seat.

Stone-cold fear for his wellbeing saw her gather her skirts and sit astride him. The time for modesty had passed. Her pantaloons concealed her legs from Mr Cavanagh’s gaze, and in her current position, might be deemed a frilly equivalent of a chastity belt.

Mr Trent opened his eyes upon feeling her hand on his cheek. His penetrating stare stirred something deep within. Verity swallowed. The intimacy of the moment was not lost on her, despite convincing herself she acted merely out of Christian charity.

“Don’t sleep.” She removed her mask, moistened the silk with her tongue and dabbed the blood on his cheek and hairline. “Not until the doctor has examined you.”

He watched each flick of her tongue, permitted her to mop his brow and wipe his face.

“Might I check the wound?”

Mr Trent blinked his permission, and Verity ran her hands through his hair to touch the hard lump that made him wince and groan in discomfort. The pads of her fingers were damp with blood, and so she pressed her mask over the cut and held it there.

She glanced over her shoulder at Mr Cavanagh. “It may need a stitch or two. Just to be certain.”

Mr Cavanagh watched her with a look of mild fascination. “With a head injury, it is what you cannot see that proves most worrying.”

The remark raised her pulse a notch. She turned her attention back to the gentleman upon whose lap she sat so brazenly. “Tell me something about your life. Do you have a favourite place? A particular hobby? A treasured memory?”

Mr Trent shook his head, though his gaze never left her.

“Trent strives to live in the moment, and prefers not to think about the past,” Mr Cavanagh informed as if his friend were mute and he was his interpreter. “As to the other two questions, I could not say.”

Men did not speak of such things, she supposed.

Men spoke about feats of courage, about daring adventures. They boasted of conquests, of their stamina and prowess. And yet Mr Trent did not exude the arrogance of a man who liked to brag.

“Well, my favourite place is anywhere other than home,” she said, hoping to keep his attention for the next fifteen minutes at least. “When one has been kept a prisoner, paradise lies but a step past the threshold of one’s front door.”

The walls of her house in Shepperton still rang with the same condescending comments, the taunts and torments of parents who were never satisfied. Had her waist been more slender, had she excelled at playing the pianoforte, had she the voice of a nightingale, then she might have attracted a worthy suitor. As it was, she had to settle for Mr Rowan. The man had land and wealth, even if he appeared haughty and aloof.

If only she had been born a boy.

Oh, how her parents would have rejoiced.

“And regarding hobbies,” she continued, “I would make a lousy wife. My needlework stitches are untidy. My singing sends the crows scattering.” She brushed a lock of hair from his brow and smiled. “But I can sink my blade into an apple when thrown from thirty yards.”

Behind her, Mr Cavanagh chuckled.

Mr Trent opened his mouth to speak, but it took him a few seconds to say, “A m-man requires nothing more.”

“Most men demand obedience and insist their potential bride has immense skill in the feminine arts.” It was one of the many reasons she refused to abide by her parents’ demands and marry Mr Rowan. “Is a wife anything more than a breeding machine and a trophy to display at dinner parties?”

Mr Trent inhaled deeply before saying, “A wife should be … should be a dear friend, a loyal and tender lover.”

Verity looked into his vibrant green eyes, eyes that possessed the power to play havoc with her insides. She shuffled on his lap, became aware of his muscular thighs, of the lustful energy that sparked between them.

Were it not for Mr Cavanagh bearing witness, she might have kissed him, kissed him in the way that spoke to his heart, that told him she cared even if no one else ever had.

“Mr Rowan might disagree,” she said, merely to banish these dangerous thoughts lest she throw caution to the wind and act on impulse. “The man doesn’t have a tender bone in his body.” No, he was sharp, abrupt, easily irritated. Nothing like Mr Trent.