The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel 1)

Damned if he didn’t want to beg her to let him tend to her.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to. She let go. And he began to wash her in careful strokes, clearing her arm and chest of dried blood, wishing he could will it back into her. Wishing he could reverse time. Wishing he could change this course.

“You should go,” she said quietly.

His gaze snapped to hers. “What did you say?”

“You should leave me here. You have a life to lead. You were on a journey before I made a hash of it.”

“A journey that brought me here.”

“I’m simply saying that I can make my own way,” she argued. “I am not your problem.”

The words stung—how many times had he said them to himself? How many times had he said them to her? “I’m not leaving you alone.”

“The doctor seems kind,” she said. “I’m sure he will allow me to stay until—”

Over his rotting corpse. “You are not staying with the doctor.”

She took a deep breath, and he heard the exhaustion in it. “I don’t have your money.”

“What does that mean?”

“If that’s why you’re staying. It was in a bag. I left it in the coach. It’s gone now.”

He didn’t care about the money.

“That’s why you followed me, isn’t it? For the money.”

“No,” he corrected her. “I followed you on principle. You can’t simply sell a man’s curricle wheels. He might need them.”

“Why did you have so many?”

“In case I broke a wheel saving an unsuspecting female from highwaymen.”

She gave a small laugh at that, one that ended in a gasp when the movement forced her shoulder to make itself known. He reached for her, immediately wishing that he could stop what had to be a beast of a pain. “Sophie—”

She turned away from him. “You should go.”

He shook his head. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Why not? You don’t even like me.”

She’d been a thorn in his side since the moment he’d met her and she’d stolen his boot. She’d lost him his carriage wheels, a half-dozen races, and a large portion of his sanity. Yesterday, he’d begged her to leave him alone.

But today . . .

“I’m not leaving you.”

The doctor chose that moment to return with a cup in one hand and a pouch in the other. “The fact that you do not have a fever now does not mean you won’t develop one,” he said to Sophie, as though King were not in the room. He held up the pouch. “These herbs might keep it at bay.”

“Might?” King asked. “Why exactly were you tossed out of the Royal College?”

“I share an unpopular belief that creatures invisible to the eye cause infection.” King raised a brow and the doctor smiled. “It’s too late for you to refuse my help. She’s already bulletless.” He reached to help Sophie sit up. “The herbs might help to kill them and keep you well. Add them to hot water three times, daily.” He helped her to sit up. “Here is your first dose.” She drank from the steaming mug, and he turned to King then. “Even a sane doctor would suggest you stay here for several days.”

King nodded, looking to Sophie. “I was just telling your patient that I planned to stay.”

She deliberately did not look at him, instead focusing on the doctor, who nodded. “Excellent. You’ll need a room.”

King nodded. “Already secured.”

That got her attention. Even more so when the doctor said, “Your husband is an exceedingly competent man, madam.”

Sophie sputtered her herbal swill. “My . . . what?”

It wasn’t King’s preferred way of her discovering his lie. But the universe was on his side, as the doctor did not have the opportunity to repeat himself.

“Mrs. Matthew?”

The name echoed through the small cottage, bellowed from the now permanently open doorway by a young boy, who materialized on the heels of the sound, followed by a girl not much younger than he was.

“John, we don’t wander into people’s homes,” admonished a young woman who brought up the rear. King recognized them instantly as the children who’d nearly seen Sophie killed on the road. The woman’s gaze fell on the doctor and her eyes went wide. “Cor,” she said. “You’re handsome.”

Did everyone have to notice the damn doctor?

The surgeon smiled. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” replied the stupefied female.

“The door was open,” John said.

“The door wasn’t even there,” said the doctor, dryly. “I take it you are here to see the patient?”

“Mrs. Matthew!” the boy repeated when he saw Sophie. “You’re alive!”

Who in hell was Mrs. Matthew?

Sophie smiled at the child. “I am, indeed, John. Thanks in large part to you and this fine doctor.”

“We thought yous was dead,” said the smaller girl, pressing her face right up against Sophie’s. “There was oodles o’ blood.”

“As you see, I am not dead,” Sophie assured her.

“You still could be,” John pointed out, coming closer, pushing a surprised King aside.

“John!” said the woman with them. “That’s not very heartening.”

“It’s true, Mary,” John insisted, turning to explain to Sophie. “My mum died of a fever after being knifed. It happens. Ain’t it, Doctor?”

“It can do.”

Good God. King had to gain control of this circus. “How did you find us?” he cut in, stepping toward the children.

“Easy,” Mary said. “She was hurt, and you went barreling off in search of a surgeon. This is the nearest town.”

“So ’ere we are!” John announced, all pride.

“Lovely,” Sophie said, passing her now-empty cup to the doctor and returning to the tabletop.

“Why?” King couldn’t help but ask.

Mary looked from him to Sophie to the doctor. “Because we were worried about your wife.”

“His what?” Sophie asked, her gaze sliding to his.

“My wife,” King said simply, quickly changing the subject. “No need to worry about her, though, as the doctor has managed it.”

The doctor chimed in. “I’ve removed the bullet and dressed the wound. Mr. and Mrs. Matthew will be staying here for several days so I can monitor the injury.”

Mary nodded. “That’s excellent. We shall stay, as well.”

“No,” King said.

“Oh, darling,” Sophie replied, looking to King. “I think it would be lovely if they stayed.” To an outsider, Sophie’s gaze no doubt appeared wide-eyed and sweet as treacle. Only King could see the irritation in her blue eyes as she continued. “Mary, you must let my husband pay for your room.”

Even shot in the shoulder, she was angling to fleece him.

“We couldn’t,” Mary said.

“Oh, you must. He’s very wealthy. And you did play an instrumental role in saving the life of his wife.”

Dammit.

“Yes,” he said, over a barrel. “I’ll pay for it. Of course.”

“Excellent,” Sophie said, quietly, the word barely a sound as she slipped into sleep; King would have called the smile on her face smug if he weren’t so surprised by her slumber. He turned worried eyes on the doctor.

“There’s something in the herbs to help her sleep, as well,” he said. “Do you need assistance carrying her round to the inn?”

“No.” King’s response was clipped. He could carry his own imposter wife himself, dammit. And he wanted away from this mad surgeon as soon as possible. “Tell me, Doctor, how much for today’s services?”

The doctor did not answer, now entirely focused on Mary. “You’ve a terrible bruise at the side of your head, Miss.”

The woman raised her hand to the spot, her cheeks turning pink. “It’s nothing.”

The doctor turned away and opened a drawer. “It most certainly is not nothing.” He turned back with a

small pot, opening it and reaching for her. She flinched away from him, and he paused, his voice lowering. “I shan’t hurt you.”

Pink cheeks turned red, and King had the strange feeling that he should look away as the doctor spread a white cream across the bruise on Mary’s face.

King cleared his throat and reached for his purse to pay the doctor . . . only to find it gone. He looked down at his belt, where the coin had been not an hour earlier.

“Are you missing your purse, m’lord?” John asked, rocking back on his heels.

“John,” Mary said, stepping away from the doctor’s touch quickly, sounding somewhat breathless. “It is kind of you to honor your wife’s wishes, Mr. Matthew,” she added, the words sounding through the shock of King’s discovery that his money was gone. “I hope you remain willing to do so once you discover that John has picked your pocket.”

John extended his purse. “I weren’t goin’ to keep it.”