The Rogue Not Taken

QUININE: THE CURE FOR CARRIAGE QUEASINESS

Sophie and King were on the road in less than an hour, Mary and John doing their best to distract the men who searched for them as Sophie clung to the back of the hired carriage, grateful for her prior experience.

Minutes up the road, the carriage stopped, and she scrambled inside, King rapping sharply on the roof to set them once more in motion. “We won’t stop until we reach Cumbria,” he said, “except to change horses. And you will stay hidden. At best, you have a few days before your father’s men find you. If they think you’re with me, they’re already headed to Lyne Castle.”

She shook her head. “My father will receive notice of my plans for Mossband tomorrow. He shan’t bother you after that.”

King raised his brows. “Your father will want my hide, I’m guessing. Doubly so when he discovers you’ve been shot on my watch.”

“That’s nonsense. You weren’t there. You weren’t watching.”

“I should have been,” he said, leaning back in the seat, but before she could consider the words, he said, “Did you pack your tea?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“And the honey?”

“I did.”

“And fresh bandages?”

“I am not a child, my lord. I understand the concept of leaving a place with important possessions.”

He looked away, out the window, and she leaned back in the seat across from him, and attempted not to think of the day. Any of it.

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 she 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!”

“All those white robes in one place,” he replied, sounding as though he might perish from boredom.

She turned the page. “Ooh! Henges! Shall we learn about those?”

The henges broke him. “Stop. For God’s sake. Stop before I leap from this conveyance not from my own demons but from your eagerness over horned groins.”

“Horned forecourts.”

“I honestly don’t care. Anything but more of the damn masonry.”

She closed the book and looked at him, willing herself to seem displeased with his insistence. “Is there something else you’d prefer to discuss?”

Understanding dawned in his green eyes, followed by irritation, and then what Sophie could only define as respect. “You sneaking minx.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You did it on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“To get me to choose a topic of discussion.”

She widened her eyes until they felt as though they might pop out. “Certainly, if you’d like to choose a topic, my lord . . . I wouldn’t deign to eschew conversation.”

He gave a little laugh and stretched his legs, propping his feet up on the bench across from them. “I shall choose a topic, then.”

She did the same, placing her feet on the bench next to his. She clutched the closed book on her lap. “I imagine it won’t be stonework.”

“It will not be.” His attention moved to their feet. “Are the boots comfortable?”

She followed his gaze, considering his great black Hessians next to her smaller grey shoes, ankle height and designed for function rather than fashion. She should dislike the previously owned footwear, but he’d procured it, and somehow that made the boots rather perfect. “Quite,” she replied.

He nodded. “I should have had the doctor look at your feet.”

“They’re perfectly fine.”

“You should have been wearing better shoes.”

“I was not planning for an adventure.”

He looked down at her then. “So you decided to head for your future husband on a whim?”

Oh, dear.

She did not wish to speak of that. She’d never really meant to lie to him. But now, she would seem ridiculous if she confessed the truth—that Robbie wasn’t the purpose of this journey. That the journey had been without purpose until it had begun to seem as though it might be for freedom.

But the Marquess of Eversley would not take well to knowing that he’d rescued her from highwaymen and bounty hunters for the whisper of freedom. So she nodded and lied. “Yes. Sometimes when an idea strikes, you must follow it.”

He raised a brow. “You are headed to, what, propose? Woo him?”

She looked down at her lap, toying at the edges of the pages. “What makes you think he has not already been wooed?”

He crossed one black boot over the other, brushing his foot against hers. “Because you aren’t headed to Mossband in a beautifully appointed carriage, your mother and sisters in tow.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle at that image.

“That is amusing?”

“The idea of my mother and sisters choosing to leave London for little Mossband, even if it were for my wedding.” She shook her head. “We haven’t been back since we left a decade ago.”

He watched her for a long while. “You haven’t seen Robbie in ten years?”

“No,” she said, feeling quite trapped.

“Have you exchanged a lifetime of letters?”

She ignored the question, rather than lie.

He pressed on, his tone softer, knowing. “Why don’t you go home?”

And still, she could not bring herself to tell him the truth. “I am going home.”

“I mean your London home. The massive town house in Mayfair.”

She shook her head. “That’s not home.”

“But a dusty town filled with farmers is?”

She thought for a long minute about that, about the quaint honesty of Mossband. About the people who lived and worked there. About the life she had before Father had become an earl. The life she could have again.

Maybe it was the rocking of the carriage, or the way King waited, with the patience of Job, or the close quarters. Whatever it was, she told the truth. “It is the only place I have ever felt free.”

Until now.

“What does that mean?”

She did not reply.

He lifted his boots off the bench and let them fall to the floor before moving to sit across from her, to get a better look, knees spread wide, fingers laced between them. “Look at me, Sophie.” She looked up to find his gaze on her, glittering in the carriage’s fading light. “What does that mean?”

She dropped her own feet to the floor and fiddled with the deckled edge of the book, uncertain of where to begin. “I was ten when my father earned his earldom. He burst through the door of our house, where I had never dreamed of more than I had, and announced, ‘My ladies!’ with a great, booming laugh. It was such a lark! My mother cried and my sisters screamed and I . . .” She paused. Thought. “They were infectious. Their happiness was infectious. So we packed our things and moved to London. I said good-bye to my life. To my home. To my friends. To my cat.”

His brow furrowed. “You couldn’t take your cat?”

She shook her head. “She did not travel well.”

“Like your sister?”

“She howled.”

“Sesily?”

Sophie smiled at the teasing. “Asparagus. Would cling to the back of the seat in the coach and howl. My mother’s nerves could not bear it.” She grew serious. “I had to leave her.”

“You had a cat named Asparagus.”

“I know. It’s silly. What’s asparagus to do with the price of wheat?”

He smiled at that. “That’s the second time you’ve used that phrase.”

She smiled, too. “My father,” she said simply.

“I’ve always liked him, you know.”

Her brows rose. “Really?”

“You’re surprised?”

“He’s crass compared to the rest of London.”

“He’s honest compared to the rest of London. The first time we ever met, he told me that he didn’t like my father.”

She nodded. “That sounds like Papa.”

“Go on. You left Asparagus.”

She looked out the window again. “I haven’t thought about that cat in years. She was black. With little white paws. And a white nose.” She shook her head to clear it of the memory. “Anyway, we left and we never came back. There is a country seat in Wales somewhere, but we never go there. My mother was too focused on our making a new, aristocratic life. That meant visiting other, more established country seats filled with aristocratic young women who were supposed to become our friends. Who were to help us find a place for ourselves. To climb.

“She swore that in a few years, we’d fit in perfectly. And my sisters do. They somehow realized that their perfect beauty would lead to the gossip pages adoring them, which would lead to the ton adoring them. Against its better judgment. They are expert climbers. Except . . .”

She trailed off, and he had to prompt her to finish. “Except?”

“Except I am not. I do not fit in. I am not perfectly beautiful.” She gave him a half smile. “I am not even beautifully perfect. You’ve said it yourself.”

“When did I say it?” he asked, affronted.

“I’m the plain one. The boring one. The unfun one.” She waved a hand down at her livery, the clothing that had driven him to call her plump. “Certainly not the beautiful one.” He cursed softly, but she raised a hand before he could speak. “Don’t apologize. It’s true. I’ve never felt like I belonged there. I’ve never felt worth the effort. But in Mossband—I felt valued.

“In escaping London, I have become more than I ever was there.” She smiled. “And when those men came looking, when you ferreted me out, I’ve never felt more free.” She paused, then added, softly, “Or more valued. You never would have helped me escape before.”

“That’s nonsense,” he said, and the tone brooked no refusal.

“Is it? You left me standing in a hedge with your boot,” she pointed out.

“That’s not the same. I left you there because you had value.”

“No, I had a title. Those aren’t the same thing.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she stopped him, unable to keep her frustration at bay. “I would not expect you to understand, my lord. You, who have such value to spare. Your name is King, for heaven’s sake.”

Her words circled the carriage, fading into heavy silence. And then he said, “Aloysius.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Aloysius Archibald Barnaby Kingscote. Marquess of Eversley. Future Duke of Lyne.” He waved his hand in a flourish. “At your service.”

He was joking.

But he did not appear to be joking.

“No,” she whispered, playing the name over in her head, and her hand flew to her mouth, desperate to hold in her response. But it was too much. She couldn’t stop herself. She began to laugh.

He raised a brow and leaned back in his seat. “And you are the only person to whom I have ever offered it. This is why, in case you were wondering. Because even I have my limits of supercilious pomposity.”

She caught her breath, unable to stop herself from laughing again before she said, “It’s so—”

“Horrible? Ridiculous? Inane?”

She removed her hand. “Unnecessary.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “That, as well.”

She giggled. “Aloysius.”

“Be careful, my lady.”

“Others don’t know?”

“I imagine they do. It’s there in black and white, in Burke’s Peerage, but no one ever brings it up in my company. At least, they haven’t since I was in school and made it clear I did not wish to be called such.”

“The boys at school simply acceded to your request?”

“They acceded to my boxing training.”

She nodded. “I suppose they weren’t expecting you to be very good at that, what with being named Aloysius.”

He put on his best aristocratic tone. “In some circles, it’s very royal.”

“Oh? Which circles are those?”

He grinned. “I’m not certain.”

She matched his grin. “I confess, I would call myself King, as well.”

“You see? Now you should feel sorry for me.”

“Oh, I do!” she said so quickly that they both laughed, and Sophie was suddenly, keenly aware that she liked the sound of his laughter. She liked the look of it, as well. And then they were not laughing anymore. “You are not uncomfortable,” she said quietly, leaning forward. The motion of the carriage no longer unsettled him.

He seemed startled by the reminder. “I am not. You are a welcome distraction.”

Her cheeks warmed as he, too, leaned forward. She considered retreating, but found she did not wish to. When he lifted his hand to her cheek, she was very grateful for her bravery, his warm hand a welcome temptation. They were so close, his eyes a beautiful green, his lips soft and welcome and just out of reach. She wondered what might happen if she leaned forward. Closed the distance between them. And then he spoke, the words on a whisper. “He doesn’t even know you’re coming, does he?”

She retreated at that, not pretending to misunderstand. “Why do you ask all the questions?”

“Because you answer them,” he replied.

“I should like to ask some.”

He nodded. “I’ll answer yours if you answer this one. Why the baker? I understand the bookshop and the freedom, but the baker—it’s been a decade. Why him, as well?”

She looked away, watching farmland beyond the window, the countryside dotted with sheep and bales of hay. So much simpler than London. So much more free. She opened the book on her lap and closed it. Again and again. And finally, she said, “He was my friend. We made a promise.”

“What kind of promise?”

“That we’d marry.”

“A decade ago.”

What had she done? Where was she going? What would come from this mad adventure? She couldn’t ask him any of that. Didn’t want him to hear it. And so she lifted her gaze to his and said, “A promise is a promise.”

He watched her for a long time, and then said, “You realize that this ends poorly.”

“Not necessarily.”

He stretched his arm across the back of the seat. “How does it end, then?”

She paused, thinking for a long moment about Mossband. About her childhood. About the world into which she’d been born and the world into which she’d been thrust. And then she answered him. “I hope it ends happily.”

He went utterly still, and she had the sudden sense that he was angry with her. When he spoke, there was no mistaking the disdain in his tone. “You think he’s been pining away for the earl’s daughter who left a decade ago?”

“It’s not impossible, you know,” she snapped. Must he always make her feel as though she was less than? “And I wasn’t an earl’s daughter. Well, I was, but not really. I’ve never really been an earl’s daughter. That’s the point. We were friends. We made each other happy.”

“Happiness,” he scoffed. “You haven’t any idea what to do with yourself now that you’re free, do you?”

She scowled. “I don’t care for you.”

“Shall we wager on it?”

“On my not caring for you? Oh, let’s. Please.”

He smirked. “On Robbie’s caring for you.”

She narrowed her gaze on his smug face, ignoring the sting of his words. “What’s the wager?”

“If we get there, and he wants you, you win. I’ll buy you your bookshop. As a wedding present.”

“What an extravagant gift,” she said smartly. “I accept. Though I have a second demand now.”

His brows rose. “More than a bookshop?”

She tilted her head. “Be careful, my lord, I might find reason to believe you are not so certain that you will win.”

“I never lose.”

“Then why not allow a second demand?”

He leaned back, “Go ahead.”

“If I win, you must say something nice about me.”

His brows snapped together. “What does that mean?”

“Only that you have spent the last week telling me all the ways that I fail. My lack of intelligence, my lack of excitement, my lack of proper figure, my lack of beauty, and now, my inability to land a husband.”

“I didn’t say—”

She raised her hand. “And you had better make it exceedingly complimentary.”

There was a long silence, after which he said, in a tone that could only be described as grumbling, “Fine.”

“Excellent. I think I might look forward to that more than to Robbie’s proposal.”

One black brow rose. “A clear indication that marrying the baker is an excellent idea.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “But don’t forget, Sophie. If we get there, and it’s a disaster . . .”

Her heart began to pound. “What then?”

“Then I win. And you must say something nice about me.”

Before she could retort, the carriage began to slow, and a wild cry came from the coachman. She stiffened, nerves chasing her triumph away. She snapped her gaze to him. “Is it highwaymen?”

“No.” King touched her ankle, the warm skin of his hand against that place that had never been touched by another person making her breath catch. “We are at the next posting inn.”

Her shoulder ached, and she was happy for the stop. “Will we spend the night?”

He shook his head. “We only change horses, and then press on. We have to put some distance between you and your pursuers.”

And then the door was open and he disappeared into the afternoon’s golden sunlight.