The Rogue Not Taken

by Sarah MacLean

  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.”

  A mad doctor and a school of thieves. Of course she’d saddled him with this merry band. Sophie Talbot brought trouble with her wherever she went. And how many times had he heard her called the boring Dangerous Daughter?

  She was dangerous, all right. But he didn’t worry for his reputation. He worried for his well-being.

  King raised a brow at the boy. “You’re the first pickpocket I’ve met who has no intention of keeping his spoils.”

  The boy looked down at his shoes. “It’s a habit.”

  “It’s a bad one,” King said.

  John looked to the doctor and offered a long gold chain. “’Ere’s your fob.”

  The doctor’s hand went to his waistcoat pocket. “I didn’t even feel it.”

  John grinned. “I’m the best there is in London. It’s too bad I’m reforming.”

  King was not impressed. “Reform harder.”

  He turned several coins into his palm and paid the doctor before pocketing his purse and reaching for Sophie, pulling her gently into his arms.

  The others in the room moved aside, but the young girl watched carefully, taking that moment to speak. “She’s like Briar Rose.”

  King looked down, taking in Sophie’s closed eyes and pale skin. He imagined she did look like the sleeping beauty from the fairy tales. For a moment, he considered the implications of the comparison. She might be a princess, but he was no prince.

  “Unlike Miss Rose, this lady will wake,” he vowed, more to himself than to the child.

  “’Course she will,” came the reply. “All you have to do is kiss her.”

  Were he not so tired of this motley crew, he might have laughed. He wasn’t going to kiss Sophie Talbot. That way lay danger of an entirely different sort.

  Chapter 7

  SLEEPING BEAUTY WAKES;

  NO NUZZLING NECESSARY

  Sophie woke the next day, the late-afternoon sun streaking through the mottled glass windows, dust dancing in the light, and a somewhat unsettling smell underscoring the not-so-cleanliness of the rooms above the Warbling Wren pub.

  “She wakes.” The words came from a chair at the far end of the room, set back in the shadows so she could not see their speaker. She didn’t need to see him, though. She knew precisely who it was.

  He’d stayed with her.

  She ignored the comfort that came with the thought. She didn’t want him to stay with her. She didn’t need him to stay with her. He was a rake and a scoundrel. And if not for him, she wouldn’t be here.

  But he’d stayed, nonetheless.

  She pushed herself up without thinking, pain shooting through her shoulder and causing her to cry out. One hand flew to her bandage, a mistake, as the lightest touch seemed to send fire through her.

  The Marquess of Eversley was beside her in an instant. “Dammit, woman. Are you simply unable to be cautious?” He put an arm behind her back. “Lie down.”

  She brushed away his assistance. “I was being cautious. When a lady awakes to find a scoundrel in her chamber, she removes herself from the bed.”

  His reply was dry as sand. “In my experience, the exact opposite is true.”

  “Yes, well, I question the company you keep.” Her shoulder began to throb. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Eighteen hours, give or take,” he said. “Do you remember waking for your tea?”

  A hazy memory came. Mary leaning over her with a teacup. “Vaguely.”

  “And the pain?”

  She shifted and hid her wince. “Bearable.”

  “Interesting. I would have wagered that it hurts like a bastard.”

  It did, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “You shouldn’t use that word in front of a lady.”

  “No? You realize you’ve an affinity for certain foul language yourself.”

  She blushed. “One word.”

  “One is all you require.” She looked to her lap as he said, “Does it hurt?”

  Like a bastard. “Women are known for their ability to endure pain.”

  “Mmm. And to think you are considered the weaker sex.”

  She cut him a look. “A label no doubt assigned by a man who never witnessed a childbirth.”

  One side of his mouth kicked up in a small smile. “You’re feeling better, I see.” Something about the warmth in the words sent a little thread of pleasure straight through her. She was grateful for the time to collect herself when he stood and went to the door, opening it and speaking to someone out of view before closing the door and turning back to her. “I’ve sent for the mad doctor, against my better judgment. And for more tea.”

  She thought of the surgeon. “He didn’t seem mad to me.”

  “He doused you in gin and slathered you with honey. While I wouldn’t turn away a cake that had received such a treatment, it seems a bit odd for medicinal purposes.” He came closer. “Now that you’re awake, let me have a better look at that shoulder.”

  She turned her head and sniffed delicately. Gin and honey.

  The inn was not responsible for the strange odor.

  Oh, dear.

  She scuttled back from his approach and held up a hand. “No!”

  Eversley stilled, his eyes widening at the words. “I beg your pardon?”

  He was going to smell her. “Don’t come any closer!”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not appropriate.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “You. Being here. So near. While I am abed.”

  One black brow rose. “I assure you, my lady, I’ve no intention of debauching you.”

  She had no doubt of that, considering her current situation, but she couldn’t well tell him the truth. “Nevertheless, I must insist on the utmost propriety.”

  “Who do you think nursemaided you for the last day?”

  Bollocks. He was right. He’d been close. He’d had to have noticed her odor. But it didn’t mean he had to any longer. She straightened her shoulders, ignoring the twinge in the left. “My reputation, you see.”

  He blinked. “You were shot on the Great North Road while wearing stolen livery—”

  “How many times must I tell you that I paid for that livery?”

  “Fine. You were shot on the Great North Road while wearing purchased livery from a stolen footman, after stowing away in an unmarried gentleman’s carriage.”

  “Gentleman is a stretch, don’t you think?”

  He ignored the comment. “How, precisely, is your reputation not in already in tatters?”

  Her reputation was already in tatters for any number of the events of the last four days, but she wasn’t about to bring that up. Instead, she raised a hand once more, wondering how she might procure a bath without anyone inhaling in her vicinity. “That’s all perceived damage. Not actual damage.”

  Those brows rose again. “You’ve lived in London for how long?”

  “A decade.”

  “And you still believe there is a difference between truth and lies when it comes to scandal. Isn’t that charming.”

  She scowled
at his dry tone. “The point is, my lord, I’d appreciate you keeping your distance.”

  He looked as though he might argue, but instead said, more to himself than to her, “The doctor will be here in minutes, anyway.”

  As though Eversley summoned the man himself, the doctor took that moment to arrive, thankfully, Mary on his heels with a steaming cup of tea.

  It was only then that Sophie recalled that the doctor was also handsome. Of course. Because when it rained it poured, and Sophie—who’d never held a handsome gentleman’s attention for longer than the half second it took for him to realize she was not the lady he sought—was bedridden and unwashed when saddled with two of them. She was doomed.

  “Mrs. Matthew!” the surgeon said, all jolly humor. “I trust you had a good rest.”

  She’d forgotten that they’d christened her with the name. “I seem to have, Doctor . . .” She paused. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name, sir.”

  “I never gave it,” the doctor said simply, taking the tea from Mary with a dazzling smile. “Thank you.”

  Mary blushed. “Of course, Doctor.”

  Eversley snorted his irritation. Or was it something else? Could it be jealousy of the doctor’s effect on women? No. Eversley was exceedingly attractive himself.

  Not that she noticed.

  She’d have to like him to notice.

  And she did not like him.

  The doctor approached the bed and handed Sophie the cup of herbed tea. He waited for her to take a long drink before asking, “How do you feel?”

  Vaguely, Sophie realized that the man still hadn’t shared his name. No one else in the room seemed to mind, however, so Sophie answered the question, keenly aware of the Marquess of Eversley’s watchful gaze. “Quite well.”

  “Well. I’m sure that’s not true.” The doctor took the teacup from her and passed it back to Mary before seating himself on the bed and donning his spectacles. “So let’s have a look.”

  She shrank back against the pillows, unable to think of anything but her odor. “I’d rather—”

  He ignored her and put a hand to her forehead. “Excellent. No fever.” Before Sophie could enjoy the pronouncement, the surgeon added, “I’ve smelled worse, madam, I assure you.” He did not lower his voice, and the words boomed through the room.