The Rogue Not Taken

by Sarah MacLean

  But she couldn’t help herself. “You rescued me again.”

  “It wasn’t rescue.”

  “It was. You knew I did not wish to return to London.”

  He did not reply for long minutes. And then he said, “Someday, I’ll learn to leave you to your own devices.”

  But not today.

  Today, he’d saved her from being hauled back to her life in London. Today, he’d given her a chance at freedom.

  Today, he’d kissed her. In the dark hallway behind a taproom, her father’s bounty hunters on her heels. It wasn’t precisely what she’d expected for her first kiss.

  Despite being magnificent.

  She ignored the thought.

  He seemed utterly unmoved by the kiss, so shouldn’t she be the same? He’d clearly only allowed it because they were being followed. Suspected. Nearly found out. He’d kissed her to ensure the charade appeared legitimate.

  It certainly felt legitimate.

  Not that it mattered.

  It was best she never think of it again.

  She sneaked a look at him, eyes closed, arms crossed, long legs stretched across the carriage in an arrogant sprawl, crowding her into the corner of her seat. As though the limits of space should defer to him.

  She rearranged herself, pressing into the small space he’d left for her.

  It would be easy to forget the kiss if he carried on this way.

  He opened one eye. “Are you uncomfortable?”

  “No,” she said, making a show of folding her legs tightly against the box of the seat.

  He watched her for a moment, then said, “All right,” and closed his eyes once more.

  She coughed.

  He opened his eyes again, and she noticed the irritation in them. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said, all sweetness. “Am I bothering you?”

  “No,” he said, the word clipped, and closed his eyes once more. She heard the lie. What was she to do? Disappear? She’d offered to travel by mail. He’d been the one who had insisted on this wild plan.

  Instead, she lifted her legs and pulled them up, stretching out along the slippery wooden seat. The carriage chose that exact moment to hit a tremendous rut, and she had to grab the edges of the conveyance in order to hold her position.

  “For God’s sake, Sophie. Find a spot and stay in it.” He did not open his eyes this time.

  Her incredulous gaze met his. “You do realize that this carriage is not the behemoth in which you traditionally travel? As you have taken the low ground, my lord, I have no choice but to claim the high. And, as you may recall, I have an unhealed bullet wound in my shoulder, so the threat of the drop from seat to floor of the carriage is . . . unsettling to say the least.”

  He cut her a look. “I asked if you were uncomfortable. You said no.”

  She scowled at him. “I lied.”

  He sat up, just as the vehicle went round a corner. “Christ,” he muttered, putting his hand to his head.

  He was turning green.

  She let her feet drop to the floor. “Are you ill?”

  He shook his head, but put one hand on the side of the rocking carriage.

  “Do carriages make you ill?” she asked. When he did not reply, she added, “My sister Sesily is ill in carriages.”

  “Which one is that?” If he hadn’t looked so unsettled, she would have argued that her sisters were not all the same and it should not be too much trouble to tell them apart.

  Instead, she clarified, “She is second eldest.” She paused, then added, “As the rake you are, I’m sure you’ve heard what they call her when she is not in the room.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You needn’t pretend you haven’t. I’ve heard it, so I know you must have.”

  He cut her a look. “Have I made a practice of lying to you?”

  Well. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him. She blushed. “Never mind.”

  “You must tell me, now.”

  She shook her head. “It’s unkind.”

  “I’ve no doubt it is, if they don’t use it to her face.”

  She looked out the window. “Her name is Sesily.”

  “Yes. You said that.”

  She watched him pointedly. “Ses-ily.”

  He raised a brow, but did not speak.

  “You wish me to say it aloud.”

  He closed his eyes. “I’m beginning to care less and less about it, frankly.”

  “Sexily,” she said flatly. “They call her Lady Sexily. Behind her back.”

  For a moment, he did not reply. Did not move. And then he opened his eyes, skewering her with a furious look. “Anyone who calls her that is an epic ass. And anyone who calls her that in front of you deserves a fist to the face.” He leaned forward. “Who said that in front of you?”

  Surprised, she replied, “It’s not important.”

  “I assure you it is,” he said. “You should be treated with more respect.”

  Respect. What a foreign concept. She looked away. “The Dangerous Daughters do not garner respect, my lord. You know that better than anyone.”

  He cursed in the silence. “I am sorry for the things I said.”

  “You are?”

  “You needn’t sound so shocked.”

  “It’s just that—my sisters don’t mind the treatment, so the ton never seems to stop saying such things.”

  “But you do mind it.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “As we’ve established, I don’t value the gossip pages.”

  He watched her for a long moment before he said, “That’s not why you mind it.”

  “No,” she said, “I mind it because it devalues us. They’re my sisters. We are people. With feelings. We exist. And it seems that the world fails to see that. Fails to see them.”

  “Fails to see you,” he said.

  Yes.

  “I don’t wish to be seen,” she lied. “I just wish to be free of it.”

  His green gaze consumed her. “I see you, Sophie.”

  She caught her breath at the words. They weren’t true, of course. But how she wished they were.

  She shook her head, returning to safer, less discomfiting ground. “It was a group of men talking about her. I stumbled upon them at a ball. They didn’t see me. They were too busy seeing her.” She lifted her good shoulder. Let it drop. “Sesily’s shape is . . . Well, men notice it. And because our blood does not run blue, men like you—” She stopped. Reconsidered. “Men who think themselves above us . . . they do not hesitate to comment on it. I suppose they think they are clever. And perhaps they are. But it doesn’t feel clever.” She looked up at him. “It feels horrid.”

  “I’d like to make each one of them feel horrid.” For a moment, she thought he was telling the truth. Of course, that couldn’t be the case. He wanted nothing to do with her. He paused. “Who’s her scandal?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “You each have an inappropriate man attached to you. Who is hers?”

  Of course, it was the suitor who defined the Soiled S. “Derek Hawkins.”

  “He’s a proper ass,” he said, before closing his eyes and leaning back against the seat. “And the fact that he hasn’t married your sister and murdered anyone who notices her shape proves it.”

  Though she agreed, she ignored the words. “I don’t have an inappropriate man attached to me.”

  He met her gaze pointedly. “You do now.”

  Her cheeks warmed, the words summoning the memory of his kiss. She did not know what to say, so she returned to the original subject. “At any rate, Sesily’s predicament makes long drives quite difficult.” She looked about for somewhere to catch his sick, should there be any. Collecting his hat from the seat next to him, she turned it over and held it beneath his chin. “If you’re going to be ill, use this.”

  He opened one eye. “You want me to vomit in my hat.”

  “I realize that it’s not the best option,” she said, “but desperate times
and all that?”

  He shook his head and put the hat back on the seat next to him. “I’m not going to be sick. Carriages don’t make me ill. They make me wish I was not inside carriages.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “I am . . . uncomfortable . . . in them.”

  “So you don’t travel?”

  He raised a brow. “Of course I travel, as you can see.”

  “Yes. But long journeys must be difficult.”

  There was a pause. “I don’t wish to be difficult.”

  She chuckled at that. “You think your aversion to carriages is what makes you difficult?”

  He smiled at her jest, a tiny quirk in his otherwise flat mouth. “I think you are what makes me difficult, these days.”

  “Surely not,” she teased. “I am easy as church on Sunday.”

  He grunted and closed his eyes. “I do not attend church.”

  “Shall I pray for your eternal soul, then?”

  “Not if you’re looking for someone to listen to you. I’m a lost cause, scoundrel that I am.”

  They rode in silence for a long while, King growing progressively more fidgety and unhappy. Finally, Sophie said, “Would you like to ride on the block with the coachman?”

  King shook his head. “I’m fine here.”

  “Except you made it clear that you dislike traveling companions. You said as much when we were on the road to Sprotbrough.”

  “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.” The carriage bounced and she slid across the seat, knocking her shoulder against the wall of the coach and gasping in pain.

  He swore harshly; he reached for her, lifting and turning her as though she weighed nothing, and settled her on the seat next to him. She was caged by his body and his legs before she could even consider what had happened.

  She snapped her head around to his, where his eyes remained closed. “Let me go.”

  He kept his eyes closed and ignored her, resuming his relaxed position. “Stop moving. It’s bad for your shoulder and for my sanity.”

  Well, being so close to him was not good for her sanity.

  Not that he seemed to mind.

  She closed her own eyes and put him out of her thoughts. It worked for several seconds, until his warmth enveloped her, beginning where their thighs touched and spreading through her until she wanted nothing but to lean into him. Instead, she kept as much distance as she could, and cast about for something to say that was not Kiss me again, please, if you don’t mind so very much.

  Although she wondered if he would do just that if she asked very nicely.

  She stiffened, as though posture could dispel errant thoughts. “What about your curricle?”

  “What about it?” he replied, not looking at her.

  “Why not drive that instead of sitting inside this coach?”

  “My curricle is dismantled and headed to Lyne Castle.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Why?” Surely it was not for her benefit. She enjoyed the company, but he should be enjoying his life.

  “It lacks proper wheels,” he said, dryly.

  Of course it did. “I am sorry.”

  His eyes opened again, surprise in the green depths. “I think you might be.”

  She nodded. “Is that surprising?”

  “People rarely apologize to me,” he said, simply. “Even fewer do so without artifice.”

  She did not know how to reply to that, so she changed the subject, returning to something safer. “I’ve never seen anyone drive a curricle with such recklessness.”

  “Did it seem reckless?”

  “You tipped onto one wheel. The whole thing could have toppled over.”

  He looked away. “It’s happened before. I survived.”

  She imagined him tossed on the side of the road, broken and bleeding. She did not like it. Her brow furrowed. “You could have died.”

  “I didn’t.” There was something in the words, something darker than she would like. She wished his eyes were open, so she could make more sense of him.

  “But you could have.”

  “That’s part of the fun.”

  “The threat of death is fun?”

  “You can’t imagine that?”

  “Considering I nearly died of a gunshot wound several days ago, I do not.”

  He did look at her then, and there was no humor in his gaze. “That’s not the same.”

  “Because it was not at my own hand?”

  “There are many who would say that, yes.” The carriage bounced over a rough patch of road and he gritted his teeth.

  “Are you afraid you might die? Now? Is that why you dislike carriages?”

  He paused. “This is a very small carriage.”

  It was a perfectly ordinary-sized carriage. “Why?”

  For a moment, his gaze darkened, and she lost him to thought—something that seemed unpleasant. Haunting. She resisted the urge to put her hand on him. To soothe whatever that memory was. She didn’t expect him to answer. And he didn’t, despite shaking his head and saying, “I don’t care for them.” He paused. “And I do not wish to discuss it further.”

  She nodded. “All right, what do you wish to discuss instead?”

  “I suppose that I cannot say that I wish to sleep instead?”

  “You look as though you might leap from this carriage at any moment,” she said. “You are no more going to sleep than I am going to fly.”

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “If you were a man, I would not care much for you.”

  Her brows rose. “You do not care much for me, anyway.”

  He watched her for a long moment. “I was warming to you.”

  The words sent a thread of excitement through her that came on a wave of memory, the dark hallway behind the Warbling Wren pub, his hands and mouth upon her. The feel of his hair in her fingers.

  She had been warming to him, as well.

  She cleared her throat. “We can discuss anything you like.” He did not reply, and the minutes ticked by in silence, until, finally, she gave up. “You are tremendously antisocial, my lord. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “No,” he said.

  Obstinate man. Sophie reached into the satchel on the floor of the coach and extracted a book. She opened it, pretending that he was not there, hoping that it was something diverting.

  He leaned forward, and she could smell him, clean and with a spice she could not identify. It was lovely.

  She cleared her throat and looked down at the book. A Popular and Practical Treatise on Masonry and Stone-cutting. Oh, dear. It was not diverting.

  Could nothing in the world go her way?

  She began to read. Vaguely. She was distracted by the stretch of his trousers over his thighs, which were larger than she could have imagined. Of course, she should have guessed they would be, what with all the curricle racing he did.

  Her fingers itched to touch the thigh closest to her. The one touching her. The one that she’d had a leg wrapped around earlier in the day.

  It was very warm in the carriage.

  “Where did you get a book?”

  She started at the words, cheeks flaming. She did not look up. “I thought you did not wish to talk.”

  “I don’t. But that does not mean I do not wish an answer.”

  “It was at the back of the drawer in the table in my bedchamber.” She turned a page with force, as though doing so would make him smaller. Less formidable.

  Less intriguing.

  It did not.

  Of course, anything would be more intriguing than a treatise on masonry and stone-cutting. But one made do. She soldiered on.

  The silence stretched between them as the carriage careened up the Great North Road, away from Sprotbrough and toward their futures, and Sophie read, slowly, distracted by every sway of the conveyance and the way it pressed her to him.

  King, however, remained unmoved.

  On several occasions, she nearly spoke, desperate for conversation, but s
he refused to break first and, after an age, she was rewarded.

  “Is it any good?” he asked.

  “Quite,” she lied. “I had no idea that masonry was so fascinating.”

  “Really,” he said, voice dry as sand. “Well, I suppose I should not be so surprised that you find it so. What with you being the unfun sister.”

  She cut him a look, took in the small smirk on his lips, and decided that if he wasn’t going to be a decent companion, neither was she. “There’s nothing unfun about it, my lord.” She took a deep breath and waged her war.

  “This book has a comprehensive explanation of hemispheric niches, hemispheric domes, and cylindric groins. There is a great deal to learn.”

  The smirk grew. “About groins particularly I would imagine.”

  She ignored the words, punishing him far better than she could ever imagine by reading aloud. “This is the first and only work in English on the art of stone-cutting, and such a publication has been long and eagerly sought after.”

  “No doubt”—he reached across her to close the book and consider its cover—“Peter Nicholson, Esquire, has convinced himself of such a thing.”

  She ignored the sliver of pleasure that coursed through her as his hand brushed hers, instead reopening the book. “I think he might be right. There are several full chapters explaining the basic and complex geometry necessary to properly stonework. Isn’t that fascinating? Did you know that,” she read, “In preparing stones for walls, nothing more is necessary than to reduce the stone to its dimensions so that each of its eight solid angles may be contained by three right angles?”

  His smirk became a grimace, and Sophie was now quite happy that this was the only book to be found at the Warbling Wren. She gave herself over to the moment, enjoying how much he hated it. “And listen to this next bit, about Druids and standing stone structures.”

  “I don’t think I will.”

  “Everyone thinks Druids are interesting.”

  “Not everyone, I assure you.”

  “Everyone with taste, of course. This structure is called Tinkinswood.”

  “It sounds lovely.”

  The words indicated that the Marquess of Eversley thought Tinkinswood might be nothing short of Hades. Sophie was beginning to enjoy herself. “Doesn’t it? Quite quaint. Listen to this fascinating description. This Welsh dry stone masonry boasts a horned forecourt weighing more than thirty tonnes, and the structure would have required some ten score Druids to lift it into position. Imagine that!”