She did not turn around, and it occurred to King that she was stronger than she seemed, this girl who was supposed to be plain and uninteresting. She narrowed her gaze on him. “I shall do no such thing, you horrible, arrogant scoundrel. This is my bedchamber, in which you take such rapscallionesque liberties.”
He raised a brow. “Rapscallionesque isn’t a word.”
She did not hesitate. “I’m certain that those who invent words need only to meet you to see that it should be. As I imagine I would inspire them to commit unfun to the dictionary.” She paused, pulling herself up to her full height. “I suggest you find another chamber, my lord. You are not welcome here.”
Anger became her, this strange, unexpected woman. She stood before him, wet and wounded, and somehow a warrior nonetheless.
He wanted her.
And that was altogether too dangerous. For both of them.
He was here to keep her alive. And that was it.
He moved to the fireplace and poured her tea, letting silence stretch between them before he approached her, coming around the bed and closing the distance between them as she stood her ground, shoulders square, knuckles white in the fist that held the linen taut around her. He reached past her, exchanging the cup of steaming liquid with the pot of honey on the bedside table, his bare chest nearly grazing her.
It was a feat of great strength that he kept from touching her.
But in the moment, she did not back away, even as he knew her heart must have pounded as his did. She lifted her chin, but did not speak, despite the emotion in her gaze. Mistrust. Irritation. And something else he did not dare name.
“Sit,” he said, the word harsh, echoing through the chamber.
She looked askance at the bed. “Why?”
“Because I vowed you would not die on my watch.” He lifted the pot. “And I mean to keep the promise.” His attention fell to the wound on her shoulder, which still showed no signs of infection, thankfully. The mad doctor was either quite lucky or quite intelligent.
“I’m quite able to manage, my lord.”
He ignored the words. “Sit.”
She sat, the linen clutched around her as he coated his fingers in honey. Silence fell, and they both watched his fingers work, the stickiness of the honey nothing compared to the softness of her skin. King supposed he’d used enough of the salve, but he could not stop touching her, spreading it smoother and smoother across her shoulder.
Wishing it was not only her shoulder. Wishing it were the rest of her as well, on all that pristine, pretty, pink, unbearably soft skin.
The moment was getting away from him and he cast about for a safe topic. “Who is Robbie?”
There was a pause. “Robbie?”
He didn’t want to talk about the man, honestly. Not when she was here, clean and naked and fresh from a bath, smelling like summer. “Yes. Robbie. Your betrothed.”
Her gaze snapped to his at the words. Was it confusion he saw there? It was gone before he could be sure. “Of course. Robbie. We’ve known each other since we were children,” she said, the words perfunctory.
“Who is he?” he pressed.
“He is the baker in Mossband.”
A baker. Likely short in the leg and weak in the chin.
“And you will run a bookshop.” He was finished. He should stop.
She nodded, the movement stilted. “I will run a bookshop.”
It was the perfect life for her. Married with a bookshop. He imagined her disheveled and covered with dust, and he liked it far too much.
He lifted his fingers and looked down at them, glistening with honey. She looked, as well. “You should wash them,” she said quietly.
He should. There was a bathtub full of water mere feet away. And a washbasin and fresh water even closer. But he did not go to either. Instead, he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked the honey from his fingers, meeting her eyes. Willing her to look away.
Her eyes widened. Darkened. But did not waver. It was then that he knew.
If he kissed her, she would not stop him.
And if he kissed her, he would not stop.
Dangerous Daughter, indeed.
“There’s a dress for you,” he said.
“I—I beg your pardon?”
“A dress,” he repeated, turning on his heel and tossing his shirt over his head before adding, “and boots.” He tore open the door. “Wear the damn boots.”
And he left the room.
Chapter 9
SPOTTED IN SPROTBROUGH?
The pub at the Warbling Wren was fuller than one might imagine it would be at the breakfast hour, Sophie discovered as she descended from her rooms abovestairs three mornings later, dressed in the simple grey dress the Marquess of Eversley had procured for her before he’d disappeared.
She hadn’t seen him since the evening that included what she now referred to as “the bath debacle.” If she did not know better, she would have imagined that he’d left her, as she’d suggested he do, and headed north to his father. According to Mary and the doctor, however, who had been to check on his patient at the crack of dawn both ensuing days, the Marquess remained in town despite having no interest in Sophie’s recovery, evidently.
Which suited Sophie perfectly well.
She ignored the small pang of disappointment that threaded through her at the thought. In fact, she denied that it was disappointment at all. She was simply feeling better, and her empty stomach was awakening as it did every morning.
She entered the pub proper to discover him at the far end of the room, breaking his fast by the window. He did not look up at her arrival and she pointedly looked away. They were not friends, after all. They were barely acquaintances.
He saved your life.
Sophie stiffened at the thought. He did not seem to care about such a thing, so why should she?
You wanted him to kiss you.
She shuttered the traitorous thought. That particular desire had been born of exhaustion and gratitude for the bath. She was fully recovered from it now.
She barely noticed him.
She barely noticed his shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbow, and the lovely tan of his forearms, all strength and sinew, and the way his dark locks fell across his forehead. The way his green eyes saw everything beyond the window of the pub.
Why, he was practically invisible to her.
She resumed her direction with new purpose. Approaching a portly gentleman manning the pub’s taps, she said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I am searching for a messenger to carry a missive to London.”
The barkeep grunted.
She was not swayed. “I am able to pay quite handsomely.”
Mary had returned her purse yesterday, full to the brim with untouched funds. John had snatched it before the coach had been stopped. Thank heavens for the boy’s inappropriate habit, else Sophie would be without all her money.
Not her money. His money.
Guilt flared and she could not stop herself from looking to him across the room. He had opened a newspaper and was reading, as though she weren’t there. As though they’d never met. She quashed the guilt, vowing to reimburse every cent she used.
But desperate times and all that.
She returned to her barely-a-conversation with the barkeep. Lowered her voice. “Sirrah. I shall pay you and the messenger handsomely.”
He did not look at her, but replied. “Two quid.”
She blinked. “That’s an enormous amount of money.”