The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel 1)

“You’re very perceptive.”

“Why are you in a coach that’s not your own?”

King sighed and turned to face the duke, feet away, arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the vehicle. “When did you become a Bow Street Runner?”

Warnick raised a brow and took a long drag on his cheroot before dropping it to the ground and stomping it with his massive black boot. “I don’t suppose you’d have room to hie me home?”

“I do not,” King said through clenched teeth, knowing that Warnick had no interest in passage over the border.

“Och,” scoffed the Scot. “It’s a few hours. You shan’t even require new horses to do it.”

“No room,” King said.

“Of course there is. I’ve all your wheels, so you’ve nothing but space. And I’m wee.”

Aside from being irritating as hell, the Scot was twenty stone if he was a pound. “You are nothing like wee.”

“Nevertheless . . .” Without warning, Warnick opened the carriage door.

King should have seen it coming. With a wicked curse, he dropped the hitch he was working on and went for him. “Close it.”

Warnick did, so quickly that it was almost as though it had never been open to begin with. He turned a knowing smile on King. “So, you did find a woman.”

“She’s not a woman.”

Warnick’s brows rose. “No? Because her bodice is undone, and things seem fairly clear on that front.”

King looked away for a heartbeat, frustration and fury making it impossible for him not to look back and plant his fist squarely in the center of the arrogant Scot’s face. “That’s for looking at her bodice.”

The duke put a hand to his face, blood spilling freely from his nose. “Dammit, King. Was that really necessary?”

King thought it rather was. He reached into his pocket and extracted a handkerchief, wiping his hand. He’d need to get a blanket for her. To cover her while she slept. He handed the square of linen to his friend. “I like you better when you’re over the border.”

“I like you better when I’m over the border,” the duke said, holding the white linen to his wound. “I’ve never seen you so wound up. Is it your father? Or the girl?”

It was both, no doubt. “Neither.”

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.”

Chapter 13

BAKER’S DOZEN?

OR BAKER DOESN’T?

The 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.