The Rogue Not Taken Read online

  Sophie went scarlet as Eversley looked to the ceiling in frustration. “Is that why you wouldn’t let me near you?”

  “You’re the one who pointed out that I’d been doused in gin and honey,” she defended herself.

  “To underscore his madness, not your stench!”

  Mary’s mouth fell open.

  Sophie imagined hers might have also, if she weren’t so angry. “My stench?” She glared at him.

  He rocked back on his heels, as though considering his next move. “I did not mean—”

  She’d had enough. “Of all the ungentlemanly things you’ve said to me, my lord—and there have been many—that might be the worst of the lot.”

  He looked as though he wanted to say something, but refrained. Thankfully, because the doctor chose that precise moment to peel away the bandage, and Sophie yelped in pain.

  Eversley stepped forward. “You hurt her.”

  “Yes. I sensed that,” the doctor said without looking up from his work. “No signs of infection, however.”

  Relief flooded Sophie. “Then I shall live?”

  The doctor met her gaze. “For today.”

  “Christ,” muttered Eversley. “You’re a comforting bastard, aren’t you?”

  The doctor turned to him. “I tell the truth. No fever and no infection a day after the injury is positive. But medicine is more art than science. She might still die.” He returned his attention to Sophie. “You might still die.”

  She did not know what to say, so she settled on “Oh.”

  He extracted more tea from his bag and set it on the bedside table. “I wasn’t sure if you’d need more than a few days’ worth. But I’m feeling more hopeful.”

  Sophie imagined that should make her feel more certain of her future. But on the heels of his other statement, she wasn’t entirely sure.

  The doctor went on. “Continue with the tea—this blend will keep you more awake than the last—and be certain to keep the wound clean.” He set a pot of honey on the table next to the herbs and turned to Eversley. “The honey is essential. Apply after every bath.”

  She might have argued that the assignment was given to the man who had become a rather prickly thorn in her side, but she was distracted by another, far more tempting word. “I may bathe?”

  The doctor turned back to her. “Of course. Preferably daily, in clean, hot water. And summon me immediately if you begin to feel ill or if the wound changes appearance.”

  That sounded as though they could not leave. “When can we leave?” Everyone looked to her, each person more shocked than the next.

  “You are in possession of free will, Mrs. Matthew,” the doctor said. “However, I would hope to keep you nearby for at least a week.”

  “A week,” she groaned. She had planned to be north within the week. Beginning her future.

  “You do not care for our little town?”

  Her gaze settled on Eversley. He had to get north, too. “A week is a long time to linger,” she said. “My husband”—she ignored the warning in his eyes—“and I have much to attend to in Cumbria.”

  The doctor shrugged one lanky shoulder. “Then leave.”

  “Not until she is healthy.” Eversley cut in. “When will we know she’s healthy again?”

  The doctor stood, gathering his things. “When the wound heals and she’s not dead.”

  Eversley appeared to want to strangle the surgeon. Sophie smiled. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  He returned the kindness. “I trust that, whenever you leave, I will see you again, Mrs. Matthew.” He moved to leave, stopping to nod once at Eversley. “Mr. Matthew.”

  “I shall see you out,” Mary said, doe-eyed, following the handsome man’s heels.

  Sophie watched as the door closed. “Well. I have never met a man who makes one feel so very grateful to be alive in the moment.”

  Eversley scowled at her. “Why do they call us Matthew?”

  “For my footman.” The last word was lost in a yawn that she hurried to hide.

  Eversley blinked. “You mean my footman.”

  She waved a hand in the air. “Whichever. His name is Matthew. I used it in the mail coach.”

  “And I pronounced us married.”

  “Which was a silly thing to do.”

  “Yes, I’m realizing that now that I’ve been named for a footman.”

  “A good one,” she said, yawning again. Exhaustion seemed to be taking hold.

  “A terrible one,” he said, approaching her and helping her lie back against the pillows. “If he were any good, he would have told you he didn’t speak to ladies of station and returned to his work. I’ve a fair mind to seek him out and put a bullet in his shoulder, as without him, you would be intact.”

  Was he concerned for her? “I am intact,” she said softly, ignoring the pleasure that threaded through her at the idea. Ignoring the idea itself. “If in need of a bath, apparently.”

  “Christ,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean that you stink.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed. “Be careful, my lord. There are only two ways for that to go. The first way, you offend me. The other way, you are a liar.”

  There was a pause as she drifted into slumber, when she was awake enough to hear him. “Why do you travel north? What’s there?”

  “My bookshop,” she replied, thoughts barely taking hold before they poured from her lips. “Mossband . . . sticky buns . . . Robbie.”

  “Robbie?”

  “Hmm?” It was difficult to keep up with the conversation.

  “Who is Robbie?”

  Memory came, hazy and welcome, blond hair and ruddy cheeks. Her friend. The only friend she’d ever really had. “We’ll marry,” he’d promised once long ago.

  She smiled. It would be nice to marry a friend. Perhaps he’d love her. It would be nice to be loved. Perhaps they’d marry. Perhaps they’d be happy.

  After all, they’d promised it all those years ago. She’d said it, too. “We’ll marry.”

  She repeated the words now, aloud, the Marquess of Eversley watching over her.

  Chapter 8

  SOILED S SCHEDULE:

  WAKE . . . WASH . . . WOO?

  Night fell, and King let her sleep for several hours before summoning a bathtub and cold water, and then, once she grew restless beneath the sheets, hot water. Once steam rose from the copper tub and the women who’d carried the pails had been paid, he waited for Sophie to wake.

  He watched her from his place leaning against the wall of the small room, his focus on her face in the candlelight as she came out of her deep sleep, the comfort of slumber giving way to the pain of her shoulder. The pain of reality.

  He wondered if his father was dead yet.

  Agnes’s missive had been urgent. It was possible King was already the Duke of Lyne. Possible that he’d lost his final chance to have the last, punishing word with the man who had so roundly punished him.

  Who had ruined his chance for family. For happiness. For love.

  A memory came, unbidden, King in the Lyne hedge maze, his father behind him, revealing its code. “Two lefts and a right, then one left and a right. Until the center,” the duke had said, urging him forward. “Go on then. To the center.”

  King had led the way, and at the center, his father had told him the story of Theseus and the Minotaur. “Who are we?” King had asked.

  “Theseus, of course!” the duke had crowed. “Great heroes.”

  King came off the wall at the memory.

  Heroes. What a fucking lie.

  He moved to stand over Sophie. He could not spare time for this girl, who was turning out to be a cyclone of scandal. London called her the plain, boring Talbot girl. He huffed a little laugh at the thought. If they could see her now, bullet wound in her shoulder, sleeping under an assumed identity in a pub in the middle of nowhere.

  There was nothing boring about Sophie Talbot.

  She was to be married.

  Why in hell hadn’t she told h
im that from the beginning?

  King knew about women who wished to marry for love.

  He’d been the love in question, once.

  Who was Sophie’s love? If she was escaping London in exile, with specific plans for a future with this Robbie fellow—though King questioned the precise manliness of a grown man who used the name Robbie—why hadn’t she said so?

  Robert was a better name for her husband. More forthright. More likely to care for her.

  Not that King minded one way or the other.

  At the thought, her brow furrowed and her breath quickened. She would wake soon, and she would hate what consciousness brought with it.

  King sat beside her on the bed. Telling himself he was checking for fever, he placed the back of his hand on her cool forehead, relief spreading through him at the temperature. The furrow deepened and, unable to stop himself, he smoothed his thumb over the little ridge between her brows.

  She settled at the touch, and he ignored the pride that threaded through him as he moved to cup her cheek. He did not wish to be her comfort. She was trouble, and he had enough of that without her.

  But he did not remove his hand.

  “Sophie,” he said her name softly, telling himself he was waking her for the bath she’d seemed to desperately want, and not to see her deep blue eyes.

  She sighed and turned into his touch, but did not wake.

  “Sophie,” he repeated, ignoring the fact that he liked the sound of the name on his lips, ignoring the fact that he should not continue the caress, even as he did just that. Instead, he marveled over the softness of her skin, the silky threads of her eyebrows, the dark wash of her lashes against her pale cheeks, the pink of her lips—

  He lifted his hand as though it had been burned, and shot to his feet.

  The color of her lips was not for him to notice.

  She’d asked for a bath, and he’d fetched her one. That was the extent of their interaction in this moment. He’d keep his hands—and his observations—to himself. “Sophie,” he said more firmly, louder.

  Her eyes flew open, finding him instantly.

  “Your bath,” he said.

  Her gaze flew to the other end of the room as she clutched the bedclothes to her chin. “They brought it in while I slept?”

  “They did.”

  Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Did they see me?”

  He smiled at that. “Would it matter?”

  Her eyes went wide. “Of course!”

  “They did not. I set the dressing screen by the bed.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  “But I saw you,” he said, unable to resist teasing her. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “You don’t count,” she replied.

  The words did not sit well. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You don’t like me.”

  “I don’t?”

  She shook her head. “No. You’ve more than enumerated the reasons why.” She pushed herself to a seated position, wincing. “But you’ve endeavored to eliminate the most offensive one, thankfully.”

  “I like you fine.”

  “And a ringing endorsement that is.”

  He liked her fine when she was not infuriating, that was. He changed the subject. “I found you a frock, as well.”

  Her gaze fell to the simple grey dress that hung over the dressing screen. She nodded. “Could you summon Mary?”

  “Why?”

  “I need assistance.”

  “I can assist you.”

  Sophie shook her head. “Not in this.”

  “Which is?”

  She flushed. “My lord, I cannot bathe with you.”

  She didn’t mean for the words to tempt him. Christ, she was covered in remnants of her adventure—blood and gin and dirt and God knew what else. And of course baths required a lack of clothing. But for some reason, the quiet implication of her nudity had him hard and unsettled in an instant.

  She was to be married, dammit.

  “I can help you,” he snapped, knowing he was being unnecessarily coarse.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked at him as though he was an imbecile. “You are a man.”

  “I thought I didn’t count.”

  She rolled her eyes at that. “You count in this.”

  He should do as she asked. Go get the girl and leave the two of them to it. But the past days had him feeling contrary. “She’s not available.”

  Sophie blinked. “Where is she?”

  “In the room I have paid for, at your request.”

  “You deserved that for pronouncing us married without my permission.”

  “I was to wait for you to regain consciousness before defining our relationship?”

  “You could have told the truth,” she said.

  “Really?” he asked, “You think that would have helped your situation?”

  She sighed, and he knew he had won. “It’s the middle of the night and the girl is caring for two other children,” he said, matter-of-factly. “If you want a bath, you’ll have to accept my help.”

  She pursed her lips at that, her gaze settling longingly on the steaming bath. “You mustn’t look.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” It might have been the most obvious lie he’d ever told.

  Somehow, she believed it, nodding and throwing back the coverlet to step out of the bed. She came to her feet, the top of her head at his chin, and he resisted the urge to help her across the room. “How do you feel?” he asked, hearing the gravel in his words. He cleared his throat.

  “As though I’ve been shot, I’d imagine.”

  He raised a brow. “Clever.”

  She smiled. “My shoulder is sore, and I feel as though I’ve been asleep for a week.”

  He moved to the fire burning beside the bathtub and hung a kettle over the flames. “More tea when you’ve bathed,” he said, returning to her. “There’s food as well.” The words summoned a low growl from her, and her hands flew to her stomach. Her cheeks turned red, and he smiled. “I take it you are hungry.”

  “It seems so,” she said.

  “Food after the bath. And then tea. And then sleep.”

  She met his gaze. “You’re very domineering.”

  “It’s a particular talent.”

  “What with you being called King.”

  “Name is destiny.”

  She ignored that, moving past him to the high copper bathtub. She turned back. “Thank you.”

  He resumed his place against the wall, arms crossed, watching her carefully. “You’re welcome.”

  She reached down, her long fingers trailing in the hot water as she sighed her anticipation. The sound was like gunfire in the room—pure, unadulterated pleasure. It was delicious.

  King stiffened. He was not interested in the lady’s pleasure.

  If only someone would tell his body that.

  If only someone would tell it that it was not interested in the way the borrowed nightrail pulled across her breasts, the way it bunched above her hips and clung to the curves of her hips and thighs. Nor did it have any interest in where else those fingers might find purchase.

  King dragged his gaze up to find her staring at him.

  He coughed. “Aren’t you going to bathe?”

  She raised her brows. “As soon as you turn your back, yes.”

  He didn’t want to turn his back. “What if you need assistance into the bath?”

  She shook her head. “I won’t.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “You might.”

  “Then you shall be mere feet away. Ready to act as my savior, despite your better judgment.”

  He scowled at that and did as he was told. Watching her undress would have been the highest form of masochism, after all, as he had no intention of touching Sophie Talbot. Turning his back was best.

  Except it wasn’t.

  It was sheer torture.

  He sensed his mistake immediatel
y, the moment she began to remove the shift, the sound of fabric sliding over skin, the quickening of her breath as she navigated her wound, the little, nearly inaudible sound she made as she must have moved her arm in an uncomfortable way.

  “Do you require assistance?” he asked, the words harsh in the quiet room.

  She was silent for a moment before the soft reply came. “No.”

  He cleared his throat. “Be careful of your arm.”

  “I have been.”

  Past tense. Christ. Her shoulders were bare.

  The moment the thought came, he heard proof of it, the hiss of fabric as she pushed it over her hips, the sound rhythmic enough to make him think she was moving them to ease passage. Undulating.

  He clenched his fists and leaned against the wall, his imagination running wild.

  Her breath came slightly faster, but not nearly as fast as his. Not nearly as fast as his heart was beating.

  Not nearly as fast as other parts of him throbbed.

  And then he heard the scrape of the wooden bath stool against the floor as she positioned it, and the soft pad of her feet as she climbed it and sank into the water with a stunning, glorious sigh, as though she sank into pure, unadulterated pleasure.

  This was, by far, one of the worst nights of his life.

  It took all his power not to turn around. Not to go to her. Not to stare into that damn tub and take in the long length of her, flushed and pink from the heat. From his gaze.

  Christ.

  He did not want her.

  But he did.

  She was to be married.

  To a bumpkin called Robbie.

  Where the hell had she met him? How was she planning to marry someone in Cumbria? He shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn’t care.

  She was plain and proper and uninteresting.

  Liar.

  And then she began to wash herself, and he resisted roaring his frustration at the sound of water against her skin, against the bathtub, sloshing and sluicing as she cleaned herself. He imagined arms and legs peeping over the edge of the tub as wet cloth slid down perfect, pale skin. Her head tipped back as she washed her neck and chest, her hands moving slowly, with infinite pleasure, across her body, above and then below the water, over curves and valleys, down, down, until the cloth disappeared and it was nothing but her hand, those long fingers dipping into moisture of a different kind—