The Rogue Not Taken

MISTREATMENT BY MAIL: NORTH ROAD? OR NORTH RUDE?

Mail coaches were decidedly uncomfortable.

Sophie shifted in her seat, doing her best to avoid eye contact with the legions of others piled around her in the once massive, now all-too-small conveyance. Unfortunately, there was very little room to shift, and even less to avoid eye contact.

The space was filled with women and children, none of whom seemed particularly interested in making conversation, despite the close quarters. Sophie met the gaze of a young woman across the small space between the benches of the coach. The woman looked down at her lap instantly.

“Oi!” a boy cried out as Sophie accidentally elbowed him, extracting a watch from the inside pocket of her livery.

“I do apologize,” she said.

He blinked up at her, then down at her watch. “Wot’s that?”

She looked down at him, surprised. “It’s a timepiece.”

“Wot’s it for?”

She wasn’t quite certain how to answer. “To tell the time?”

“Why?” This was from a small girl on the floor by Sophie’s feet. She craned to look at the watch face.

“To know how long it’s been since we left.”

“Why?”

Sophie returned her attention to the boy. “To know how close we are to our destination.”

The girl on the floor looked perplexed. “But won’t we get there when we get there?”

“Aye,” the boy said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. “Seems a waste of time to think about how long it will take.”

Sophie had never met two more fatalistic children in her life.

Though, she had to admit, she wasn’t exactly telling the truth. She wasn’t simply curious about when they might arrive at the next stop along the mail coach’s route—she was calculating the distance between her and the Marquess of Eversley, who would no doubt be furious when he discovered that she’d sold his carriage wheels for coach fare north.

She highly doubted that he would believe that he deserved it.

Nor would he care that it was not theft, per se. She fully intended to pay him back.

But she had to get north, first.

North.

The decision had been made in the dead of the previous night, as she’d tried to sleep in the too-bright hayloft, beneath old newsprint that had been left for a makeshift blanket. Unable to find slumber, she’d sat up to find that the newspaper was a scandal sheet from several months earlier. DANGEROUS DAUGHTER DISCOVERED WITH DRURY’S DEREK shouted one headline, the story recounting a particularly scandalous moment in which Sesily was speculated to have been in the rafters at Derek Hawkins’s theater. SESILY SECRETLY SCANDALIZING STAR OF THE STAGE? questioned a second story. As though there were enough to say about the afternoon.

Which there wasn’t.

Sesily had been doing nothing scandalous that day. Sophie knew it, because she had been there as chaperone, listening to Derek Hawkins’s endless droning about his unparalleled talent, alternating between declaring himself “the greatest artist of our time” and “a genius for the ages.” At one point, the awful man had actually suggested he might be well considered for the role of Prime Minister. And he’d been serious.

The most brazen thing Sesily had done was to ask if Hawkins considered her his muse. To which he’d replied that he was beyond need of a muse; indeed, his muse came from within. He was his own odious, insufferable muse.

If there had been scandal that afternoon, Sophie might have found the whole experience more palatable.

But the gossip columns didn’t care for truth. They cared for TALBOT TATTLING, as the papers referred to the headlines about her sisters. And her sisters adored it. She recalled Sesily reading this particular article aloud.

Sophie, however, did not adore it. Instead, she had crumpled the paper with fervor and considered the options that lay before her. Not options. Option. Singular. Because the truth was that women in Britain in 1833 did not have options. They had the path upon which they tread. Upon which they were forced to tread. Upon which they were made to feel grateful they were forced to tread.

There she had stood in the pebbled drive of the Fox and Falcon, watching the Marquess of Eversley, portrait of superciliousness, march away from her, somehow impeccable even while missing a boot. And that man—a man so arrogant he called himself King—had made her decision for her.

She wasn’t returning to that path. She was forging her own.

North.

To the place where she had never been judged, where she had lived far from the threat of insult or injury or ruination. To the place she’d been allowed to be herself, not the plainest, least interesting, unfun Talbot sister, but simply Sophie, a little girl with dreams of being the proprietress of a bookshop.

She’d live out her days far from the glitter and gossip of London’s ballrooms, far from the scandal sheets, far from the aristocracy. And she would do so happily. Without men like the odious Marquess of Eversley setting the standard of right and proper.

She’d apprise her family of the decision and settle in Cumbria. Happily. Her father would send her funds and she’d begin her life, free from Society.

Happily.

She leaned back against a particularly uncomfortable case, the corner of which gouged into the back of her neck. Not that she cared. She was too busy imagining this new, fresh life. Away from the cold, uncaring eyes of Society.

She’d rent the rooms above one of the shops on the high road in Mossband. They would remember her there—they’d welcome her home. The haberdasher, the butcher, the baker. She wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Lander were still at the bakery—he with his wide smile and she with her wide hips—and if they still made breakfast buns laden with cinnamon and honey.

She wondered if Robbie was still there.

The baker’s son had been long and lean, with a winning smile and a teasing gleam in his eye. He’d been two years older than she, and her playmate in the afternoons, when he’d stolen away from the bakery with one of those buns, sticky and sweet, and they’d licked sugar from their fingers and whiled away the hours until supper with plans for the future.

They would marry, Robbie had promised her when they were too young to understand the meaning in the word. One day, he would be the Mossband baker, and she the woman who ran the bookshop. And they would rise before the sun and work a full, happy day, the smell of those buns clinging to hair and clothes and books.

It had taken Sophie no time to decide that without the yoke of London and the ton, she would have that bookshop. Her father would send her funds, and she would make Mossband the most lettered town in the North Country. There wasn’t a bookshop for miles—books had arrived by post from London when she was a child, or had been purchased in bulk when her father traveled to Newcastle to negotiate coal prices. He’d always remembered “his girlies,” as he liked to refer to his daughters, and he’d returned with gifts for them all—hair ribbons for Seraphina, elaborate clothes for Seleste’s dolls, silk threads in every possible color for Sesily, sweets for Seline. But for Sophie, it was books.

Her father wasn’t a reader—he’d never learned how, despite having an uncanny head for numbers—so the crate of books he brought home with him was always eclectic: texts on animal husbandry, economic dissertations, travelogues, hunting manuals, four separate versions of the Book of Common Prayer. Once, he’d come home with an obscure collection of etchings from India that her governess had promptly snatched away and never returned.

To any other young girl, her father’s boxes would have been boring. But to Sophie, they’d been magic. The books had been leather-bound adventures, pages and pages of distant worlds and remarkable people and learning. And simple, unadulterated happiness. They’d piled up in her bedchamber, first on shelves, and then on the floor, and then, finally, in the armoires her mother had installed so the books could be hidden. But the book shipments had never stopped, so Sophie had always imagined that her mother hadn’t minded her opinions so very much. Until the Liverpool summer soiree, when her mother had been horrified by her opinions. Just as the rest of London had been.

Cold memory pooled inside her—London’s most powerful members simply turning their backs on her, as though she didn’t exist. Exiling her. Worse. Disappearing her.

She couldn’t go back; so she would go forward. And she would forge her own future by returning to the dearest memories of her past.

And if Robbie was still there, perhaps he’d make good on that long-ago promise. Perhaps he’d marry her. An ache began in her chest at the thought—at the idea of being married. Of being loved. Robbie had had a lovely smile. And he’d always listened when she told him about her books and her ideas.

If they married—well, there were worse things than marrying an old friend.

And if they didn’t—she’d have her bookshop. And there were much worse things than that.

She opened her eyes, meeting the gaze of the young mother in the seat opposite. Instead of looking away in embarrassment this time, however, the young woman tilted her head slightly, revealing her curiosity. The woman’s gaze slid down Sophie’s face and throat, stilling on the place where her coat buttons strained against her breasts, and Sophie couldn’t help but look down as well, following the perusal.

Discovering the button that had come undone, revealing a white chambray shirt and a swell that was decidedly unfootmanlike.

Sophie snatched the coat together, fastening the button once more, and met the woman’s eyes again. She nodded in the direction of Sophie’s cap. “You’re coming loose.”

Sophie reached up to find a long brown curl escaped from its moorings.

Sophie opened her mouth to explain, then closed it when she could not find the words. She shrugged.

The woman smiled, let in on her secret, then leaned forward to whisper, “I wondered why a fancy servant was riding by mail.”

It hadn’t occurred to her that the livery might draw attention to her in this world, when it made her so invisible in the world from which she’d come. “I suppose it’s obvious that I’m not a servant.”

“Only to someone who is looking. Most people don’t look,” the young woman said, before looking at the boy on the seat next to Sophie. “Give it back, John.”

Sophie looked down at the boy, who was grinning up at her, dangling her watch from his fingers. “I weren’t really going to take it.”

“No one knew that,” the woman said. “And you promised no more pocketing.”

“Yer not my mum, you know.”

The woman scowled at him. “Just the closest thing you’ve got to one.”

The boy returned the watch.

“Thank you,” Sophie said, belatedly realizing that she really shouldn’t be grateful for the return of her rightful possession.

“You’re welcome,” John responded with a smile before leaning forward and adding, “If I were going to steal something, I’d vie for your satchel.”

Sophie reached down and lifted the satchel between her feet to her lap. “Thank you for the warning.”

John tipped his cap.

The woman across the coach pushed one of her curls back behind her ear and laughed, the sound short and barely there, reminding Sophie that there wasn’t much humor to be had in a crowded mail coach. Meeting Sophie’s gaze, the other woman said, “I’m called Mary.” She extended her chin at the girl on the floor. “That’s Bess.” Bess smiled, and Mary indicated the boy. “And you’ve met John.”

Sophie nodded and opened her mouth to introduce herself before the other woman raised a hand and said, “And you’re a fancy servant.”

It was a reminder that to the rest of the coach, she looked the part of a footman. Sophie nodded. “Matthew,” she said, with a silent apology to the footman whose identity she was quietly appropriating.

Mary leaned back against her seat. “Pleased to meet you.”

Smell and crowd aside, the mail coach was not so bad as she’d imagined. Perhaps things would go smoothly, after all.

The moment the thought floated through her mind, the carriage began to slow. The girl at her feet sat up. “We’re there!”

“You don’t even know where ‘there’ is,” John snapped.

She scowled. “I know that if we’re stopping, we must be somewhere,” the girl said smartly.

“Shush, both of you,” Mary whispered, craning to look over the two sleeping women obstructing the view out the carriage window. Sophie followed her gaze, the trees at the edge of the road coming to a stop. “We’re nowhere.”

A muffled conversation came from outside as the other woman checked the opposite window before turning to Sophie. “Is it possible someone is looking for you?”

Considering she’d borrowed a significant sum from him without his knowing, Sophie imagined that the Marquess of Eversley would, indeed, be looking. She sat forward. “I hope not.”

“Out of the carriage!” a man’s voice boomed.

“Christ,” the other woman muttered.

“I know you can hear me!”

Dread pooled in Sophie’s chest. Eversley had found her. And once he had his hands on her, he would collect his money and march her back to London without hesitation. If he was feeling magnanimous there would be marching to London, she realized. If he was furious, he could easily leave her on the side of the road to fend for herself. Again.

And he hadn’t seemed overly magnanimous at their last meeting.

Of course, she had called him arrogant, vapid, and unintelligent. That did not engender magnanimity, to be honest.

“Let’s go, girl! We haven’t got all day!”

Sophie thought the “girl” was rather rude and unnecessary, but Eversley didn’t exactly eschew rudeness, in her experience.

Around the coach, women and children were stirring, asking questions about who was outside and what was happening. There would be no hiding for Sophie. She might as well not be a coward about the whole thing. Squaring her shoulders, she came off the seat, stepping gingerly around the little girl on the floor and reaching for the door handle.

“Wait!” Mary called out.

Sophie turned back. “There’s nothing to be done. He’s here for me.”

“Don’t open that door,” the young woman said ominously. “Once it’s open, it can’t be shut.”

Sophie nodded, sadness creeping through her at the thought that this woman, whom she’d known for no more than a quarter of an hour, was attempting to protect her. “I understand that. But I wronged him. Several times. And he wants his revenge.”

And then she opened the door to reveal Eversley.

Except the man outside wasn’t Eversley.

The men outside weren’t Eversley.

Relief was quickly replaced by trepidation. While the trio were not her pursuer, these men were decidedly less well dressed than the marquess, and decidedly more nefarious-looking than he. She blinked. “Who are you?”

“I’ll be askin’ the questions, boy,” the one farthest away announced. “It’s nice you’re willing to be all hero-like, but just step aside and give us what we want.”

Understanding dawned. “You’re highwaymen.”

“Not exactly,” he said.

“You stopped a mail coach on its journey north with the intent of robbing us and, I can only imagine, leaving us for dead,” she pointed out, ignoring the gasps and shrieks that came from inside the conveyance at the words. “You’re highwaymen.” She looked up at the driving block. “What have you done with the driver?”

“He ran like the coward drivers always are.”

Oh, dear. That was not ideal.

“Don’t let them kill us!” came a little cry from inside the coach.

The leader stepped forward. “I didn’t have plans to kill you. But now you’re irritatin’ me. And I don’t like being irritated.” He met her gaze, his eyes cruel and ice blue. “I ain’t lettin’ some nob’s errand boy stand between me and what I want. Get out of the way before I decide to kill you to get to it.”

Sophie did not know where her bravery came from. “What is it you want?”

“He wants me.” The answer came from inside the coach, from Mary. She looked past Sophie to the man outside, her voice even as she said, “Don’t hurt anyone, Bear.” But Sophie saw the fear in the woman’s eyes.

“I don’t want you,” the man called Bear said, disgust in his voice. “I want the boy.”

John.

Sophie’s gaze flickered past the woman to where the child had been. The seat next to hers was now empty—the boy nowhere to be found. Mary descended from the carriage. “He’s not here.”

“Bullshit,” Bear spat, and Sophie inhaled deeply at the foul language. “You took him. And I’m still using him. He’s my best drunk blade.”

“I’m telling you, he’s not with me.”

The man got close. “But the little one is.”

Sophie heard the threat in the words, the cool implication that if he did not get what he wanted, he was not above hurting Bess. She descended the carriage, coming to stand next to Mary and face the monster. “I suggest you step back.”

He turned to Sophie, eyes wide. “Or what?”

Sophie was in over her head, but her father’s voice echoed through her—Bluster until it’s real. She squared her shoulders. “Or else you shall regret it.”

Bear smiled, looking up and away before he turned back, all anger. “I think you shall be the one who regrets it.”

The blow came fast and furious and unexpected, stars and pain exploding at her temple. She was flat on the ground before she could think. Mary retreated, pressing herself against the open doorway of the carriage. “Dammit, Bear, I said don’t hurt anyone.”

“Next time, find a protector who’s strong enough to take a punch,” came the reply. “I told you. I’ll be havin’ my cutpurse.”

Sophie opened her eyes at that, her location making it impossible to miss the little body curled beneath the coach. John. His eyes were wide and full of fear and tears, his gaze locked on Mary’s feet.

“And I told you,” Mary said, “he’s not here.”

Sophie heard the blow Bear delivered; it landed with a wicked crack against Mary’s cheek, and though the young woman cried out in pain, she did not lose her footing. Bess screamed from inside the coach, and John closed his eyes at the sound. “I told you, you bastard,” Mary repeated, protecting the boy. “He’s not here.”

The beast called Bear hit Mary again, harder, and this time, she did fall.

At the edge of Sophie’s vision, John moved, and she knew what he was up to. He was going to show himself, to turn himself in to save Mary. Sophie wasn’t about to allow that. “Wait!” she called out.

John stopped. Thankfully.

Sophie pushed herself up to her feet before the man could climb over Mary to search the carriage.

He turned back to her. “Stop playing the hero, boy. You won’t win.”

She approached, putting herself between the villain and the unconscious Mary, arms akimbo, not knowing how she would stop him, knowing only that she couldn’t let him hurt another. “I shall stop playing the hero when you stop playing the monster.” She paused, lifting her chin. “But that won’t happen anytime soon, will it?”

He laughed again. “You’ve a death wish, it seems.”

She allowed her hatred into her gaze. “Only if it is your death of which we speak.”

He turned away from her, arms spread wide, meeting the gazes of his two companions with a quiet chuckle before reaching into his waistband to extract his pistol and returning his attention to her.

Sophie went utterly still.

“I’ve had enough of you,” he said before raising his arm and taking perfect aim at her head.

She closed her eyes, expecting terror to overpower her. But the terror never came. Instead, she was flooded with a single, calm thought.

If only the Countess of Liverpool hadn’t liked fish so much.

There was nothing in the world that King loathed more than coaches.

He tugged at his cravat, desperate for air in the enclosed space, and added this ride to the long list of things for which Lady Sophie Talbot should be punished. As it was, she had thrown a serious complication into his plan—a race to Cumbria with his curricle-driving mates, followed by a short, final audience with the father who had ruined his life. He had visions of approaching the duke’s deathbed, of leaning down and taking the final victory in their decade-long battle. The line ends with me.

And he would bury his demons. Finally.

Instead, thanks to Lady Sophie Talbot, troublesome scandal and thief, he was not racing north. He was inside a massive, empty coach that had a distinctly coffinlike feel. If it weren’t for the clattering of wheels on the terrible road, King might not have been able to hold the panic at bay.

Instead, he leaned back against the plush cushion of the carriage and released a long breath, hating the way the small space closed in on him.

He should have saddled a horse and ridden. Yes, he would have had to change horses constantly, and risked the English weather, but at least he would have had fresh air. Growing more uncomfortable by the minute, King shucked his coat and removed his cravat altogether. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths, leaning into the sway of the vehicle. “It’s a carriage, you idiot,” he muttered into the darkness. “It’s moving.”

For a heartbeat, he thought it might work, thought that if he kept his eyes closed, he might be able to keep his sanity. And then the coach hit a particularly deep rut in the road, and he was tossed to one side, and his eyes opened to a small, dim space.

It was going to crash.

She was going to die.

And it would be his fault.

Panic consumed him and he moved to bang on the roof, unable to stop himself. Before he could make contact, however, the carriage slowed, as though the great, hulking mass of wood and metal understood his madness.

He had the door open and was on the ground before it stopped.

The coachman looked down at him, curiosity turning quickly to surprise, and King hated the wash of warmth that flooded his cheeks. He didn’t want the man witnessing his discomfort and panic. “Why are we stopped?” he snapped, eager to redirect any attention from his madness.

The driver did not flinch. “There’s someone in the road, m’lord.”

King turned in the direction of the coachman’s gaze to find a man, out of breath and waving his hands madly in the air. “My lord, please! We’ve been set upon by highwaymen!”

King hesitated at the words—knowing that this precise turn of events had fleeced any number of travelers on this road. Trick a man with a false sense of heroism into hieing off to save the day, and empty his carriage of his belongings. Not that there was anything in King’s carriage worth stealing. Sophie Talbot had made sure of that.

Either way, the man in front of him was either a tremendous actor, or legitimately concerned. “The mail coach is filled with women and children,” he panted. “They’ll be hurt. Worse.”

The mail coach.

Christ.

Even if he could have ignored the impending doom of a collection of women and children, he’d be willing to wager half his fortune that Sophie Talbot was on that exact mail coach. He met the heaving man’s eyes. “Is there a servant riding with you? Wearing livery?”

Surprise flared. “As a matter of fact—”

King was in motion before the driver could finish his sentence. She had annoyed the hell out of him, that much was true, but he couldn’t leave her to the nefarious doings of highwaymen on the Great North Road. Dammit, she was a lady of breeding. Of questionable breeding, certainly, but ladies of any kind of breeding did not take well to highwaymen, he imagined. She had probably begun shrieking like a lunatic the moment the coach had been stopped. That was if she hadn’t fainted dead away from the shock of the situation.

With any luck, she’d fainted.

That would keep her out of trouble.

Criminals were less likely to murder unconscious females than they were to murder difficult, meddling ones.

But if any woman was skilled at being difficult and meddling . . .

King began to run faster.

He’d get to her, he promised himself. He’d get to her, and he’d get her to safety. And once he got her out of there, she’d be begging him to return her to London. He supposed that was the silver lining in this damn inconvenient cloud.

When he rounded the bend in the road to find the mail coach stopped dead in its center, however, it was to find that there were no silver linings whatsoever. Indeed, the cloud became a hurricane.

Lady Sophie Talbot was neither unconscious inside the northbound mail coach, nor a source of shrieking from within. She wasn’t inside the mail coach at all.

Lady Sophie Talbot stood at the center of a criminal tableau, wearing Eversley livery and her ridiculous yellow slippers, hands on her hips as though it was a perfectly ordinary afternoon.

As though a man was not calmly lifting a pistol and pointing it at her head.

Goddammit.

King increased his speed, no thought in his head save one—he had to get to her.

“No!” he shouted, hoping for nothing other than to distract the villain long enough for Sophie to escape, but before the man with the weapon could turn to face him, a small creature launched itself from under the coach toward Sophie.

King thought he heard a child’s “No!” echoing his own, but he would never be certain, as it was difficult to hear much over the pounding of his heart and the rushing of blood in his ears.

It was also possible that he heard Sophie’s “No!” as she immediately turned, ignoring the fact that there was a pistol pointed at her head, and captured the living projectile, turning to put herself between the little thing and the weapon, as though she were impermeable to bullets.

King’s exclamation became an incoherent roar as he pushed himself closer. Faster. But he couldn’t get there in time. He knew as much the moment the barrel of the gun tracked her to the ground. Things slowed, and he would imagine later that he could see the hammer on the weapon cock, move in slow motion over what would seem like minutes or hours before the pistol’s report sounded, tearing through the English countryside and taking the air with it.

And still, he could not reach her.

Someone screamed. Perhaps more than one person. He’d never know, as he arrived at the scene of the crime a heartbeat too late, tackling the large man to the ground with a mighty roar, coming down on top of him with several quick blows to the face before rendering him unconscious.

Standing up, he turned on his victim’s compatriots, making quick work of one before the other turned tail. King considered going after him, wanting nothing more than to brutalize each of the three men for what they had done. Threatening women and children. Shooting at them.

Dear God.

Shooting them.

Had she been shot? King turned back to the scene playing out at the foot of the carriage, ignoring the half-dozen faces peering out the door now that the immediate danger had passed. He raced toward the collection of bodies there—a prone female who appeared to be regaining consciousness and two additional figures fully entangled.

Sophie crouched low at the base of the conveyance, clutching what King now recognized as a young boy who could not be more than seven or eight. “Are you hurt?” he heard her ask as he closed in on them, and Sophie’s words—the fact that Sophie could speak words—was enough to send relief threading through him with staggering power. Relief was quickly replaced by fury.

He paused, attempting to control the irrational anger that coursed through him as she ran her hands along the boy’s arms and legs. “Are you certain? He did not shoot you?”

The boy shook his head.

“You aren’t hurt?” she repeated, and King understood why. He was repeating a similar litany in his own mind. She was worried for the boy, which meant she hadn’t been shot, either.

Breathing restored, King made quick work of instructing his coachman and the driver of the mail coach to tie up the two men he’d rendered unconscious before turning back to Sophie as her charge squirmed in her arms, embarrassed by the attention. “Stop!” the boy cried, pulling away from her touch. “I’m unharmed!”

“Don’t you dare take a tone, Jonathan Morton,” the woman on the ground said smartly, sitting up. “She saved your life.”

The boy blinked up at Sophie. “She?”

Sophie smiled. “You saved my life, too. Now that we are friends, I suppose it is only fair that you know my secret.”

The boy’s brow furrowed. “You’re a girl.”

She nodded. “I am, indeed.”

Respect chased away confusion. “You stood up to Bear,” he said, looking to the still unconscious man on the ground by King. “To protect us.”

She followed the direction of his attention, until she found King’s boots and looked up to meet his gaze. The skin around her right eye was swelling, already turning black and blue, already forcing her eye closed. She’d been struck. Fury came again, this time directed at another. He wanted to knock the blighter unconscious again.

He took a step toward her. She turned from him, returning her focus to the boy. “I suppose I did.”

“But you don’t even know us.”

“You didn’t know me, and you tried to save me, did you not?” Sophie looked at him for a long while. “We don’t need to know a person to know how to do right by them.”

That seemed to make sense to the boy, and after a pause, he nodded and rose, going to help the young woman who appeared to have received a terrible blow to the head.

King could no longer hold himself back. He stepped forward and said the first thing that came to mind, words fueled by panic and fury. “That was an incredibly stupid thing to do.”

Sophie pushed herself to her feet slowly. “I was feeling nostalgic for your insults.” He ignored the guilt that came unbidden at the words. After a long moment, she sighed. “I suppose you came for your money.”

I came to save you, you madwoman, he suddenly, irrationally wanted to say. I came to keep you safe.

But it wasn’t true. He’d come to get his money back. To exact his revenge for her childish behavior the night before.

He’d come thinking that she was not his problem.

And, thankfully, she was unharmed and remained not his problem. “Among other things.”

She shook her head. “I can’t give it all to you. I need some of it. To get me north. To keep me until my father can send more.” She paused. “I shall pay you back. With interest.”

He crossed his arms. “You shall pay me back right now. And I will pay your passage back to London. Today. No mail coaches. I want you safe in a carriage and I don’t want you setting foot on terra firma until you reach the city limits. Far from me.”

She lifted her chin. “No.”

He shook his head. “You don’t have a choice. You stole from me. We’re going to have to call the magistrate for these idiots,” he said, indicating the men tied up at his feet. “We’ll kill three birds with a single stone, if we need to.” He leaned forward and whispered, “I wonder what they do to thieves out here in the middle of nowhere?”

She stiffened. “You wouldn’t.”

He narrowed his gaze. “Try me.”

“You’re ruining my plans.”

He spread his arms wide, enjoying the way she paled at his threat. “It’s what I do, darling.”

She stumbled then, and he noticed that she was not simply pale. She was white. Dread pooled as he stepped forward to catch her as her gaze lost focus for a long moment, then returned to him. “Sophie?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t given you . . . permission . . . to be so familiar.”

“You’re definitely not going to like what comes next, then,” He held her in one arm and opened the buttons on her liveried coat.

She batted his hands away. “Are you mad?”

He ignored her, pushing the fabric aside. “Shit.”

“And now you are cursing in front of me.” She closed her eyes again. “I don’t feel well.”

“I imagine you don’t, as you’ve been shot.”

“What? No I haven’t.” She struggled as he guided her to the ground and worked her coat off. She clasped his hand firmly, forcing him to meet her insistent gaze. “I haven’t been shot.”

“All right,” he said, returning his attention to his work. “You haven’t been shot.”

“I would know if I’d been shot.”

“I’m sure you would.” He clasped both edges of the linen shirt beneath, rending the fabric in two to get to the wound.

“Stop!” she shrieked, her hands coming to cover her bare skin. “Scoundrel! You cannot simply access women’s bosoms whenever you please!”

He would have laughed at the words if he hadn’t been so worried. “I assure you that I rarely have to resort to tearing clothing in order to access women’s bosoms.”

She looked down. Paused. “I’m bleeding.”

“That’s because you’ve been shot,” he said, extracting a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it firmly to the wound in her shoulder. He pulled her forward to look at the back of her. “The bullet is still inside. We have to get you to a surgeon.”

She didn’t reply, and he looked up to find her unconscious. “Shit,” he said again. “Goddammit. Sophie.” He tapped her good cheek with his hand. “Sophie. Wake up.”

She opened her eyes for a moment, then let them fall closed.

Goddammit.

“No!” cried the other woman. “She can’t be hurt! She was fine! She was talking!”

There was a great deal of blood for someone who was fine.

Christ.

This was his problem.

She was his problem.

“She can’t die!” the girl cried.

She would not die.

“She’s not dying,” King said, pulling her into his arms, gathering her to him, marching her back to his coach, calculating the distance to the nearest town. The nearest surgeon.

“Oi!” the young woman called after him. He did not look back. She followed, her footsteps audible on the packed dirt road. “Where are you taking her?”

“She needs a doctor.”

“She’s our friend. We’ll take her.”

He turned to look at the girl, who had caught up with him at this point. “You don’t know this woman.”

“I know her well enough to know that she saved John’s life. Mine, too.”

“Don’t worry, I’m going to keep her safe.”

“How do we know she’s safe with you?”

There was no time to be offended by the suggestion that he was a criminal. That he was not to be trusted. Sophie required medical attention. “She’s safe with me.”

“Yes. But how do we know?”

He looked down at the unconscious woman in his arms, who had been trouble since the moment he’d met her, and said the only thing he knew would end the conversation. The only thing that would pacify them. It didn’t matter that it was a lie, or that it would come back to destroy them both.

“Because she’s my wife.”