The Rogue Not Taken

SOPHIE SHOT. SEARCH FOR SURGEON STARTS

She woke half naked in a carriage careening hell-for-leather down what had to have been the worst road in Christendom.

The coach hit a particularly unpleasant patch in the road, and the whole thing bounced, sending a wicked pain through her shoulder. She opened her eyes, a squeak of discomfort turning quickly into one of shock.

She was in the Marquess of Eversley’s arms. In his lap. In a dark carriage.

She scrambled to sit up.

He held her with arms of steel. “Don’t move.”

She tried to move again. “This isn’t exactly . . .” Another pain hit, and she gasped the rest of the sentence. “. . . proper.”

He cursed in the dim light. “I told you not to move.” He pressed a bottle to her lips. “Drink.”

She drank the water without hesitation, until she realized it wasn’t water. She spat out the liquid that threatened to set her throat aflame. “It’s spirits.”

“It’s the finest scotch in Britain,” he said. “Stop wasting it.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want it.”

“You’ll be grateful for it when the surgeon is digging about in your shoulder in search of a bullet.”

The words brought memory with them. The mail coach. The children. The brute who came looking for them. The pistol. Eversley, tearing her clothes from her.

She looked down to find his hand against the bare skin of her shoulder, covered in blood.

Oh, dear.

She took the bottle and drank deep until he removed it from her grasp.

“Am I dying?”

“No.” There was no hesitation in the word. Not a breath of doubt.

She returned her attention to the place where his hand stayed firm, covered in her blood. “It looks as though I am dying.”

“You’re not dying.” She read the words on his lips as they echoed around her in the enormous carriage. Everything about him underscored their certainty. Squared jaw, firm lips, unyielding touch. As though she wouldn’t dare die because he had willed it.

“Just because you call yourself King does not make you my ruler.”

“In this, I’m your ruler,” he said.

“You’re so arrogant. I have half a mind to die just to prove you wrong.”

He met her gaze then, his green eyes snapping to hers in surprise and what one might define as horror. He watched her for a long moment before replying, soft and threatening, “If you’re trying to prove that you don’t require a ruler, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”

The carriage fell silent, and she considered her future. Possibly short. Possibly long. She might not see her sisters again. She might die, here, in the carriage, in the arms of this man, who did not care for her.

At least he hadn’t left her alone.

Tears threatened to spill over, and she sniffed, hoping to keep them at bay.

“What’s north?” he said, clearly attempting to distract her.

It took a moment for her to focus. “North?”

“Yes. Why are you headed to Cumbria?”

A future. Far from her past. “London doesn’t wish to have me any longer.”

He looked out the window. “I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t wish to have London any longer.”

“That sounds much more likely,” he said. “Is there a reason for your rather urgent timing?”

She imagined that it didn’t matter if she confessed the events of the garden party to him, as she was likely to die anyway. “I called the Duke of Haven a whore. In front of the entire assembly.”

He did not reply with the grave concern she expected. Instead, he laughed, the sound rumbling beneath her. “Oh, I imagine he was furious.”

She considered telling him about the rest of the events of the afternoon, but the universe intervened, sending the carriage into a tremendous rut, launching it into the air for a moment before crashing back onto the road. Wicked pain shot through her—bright and sharp enough for her to cry out. Eversley cursed in the darkness and gathered her to him, pulling her tight against him. “We’re nearly there,” he promised through clenched teeth, as though he were in pain himself, and their conversation was over, reality returned.

“Nearly where?” she asked after the pain had passed enough to find words.

“Sprotbrough.”

She had no idea what Sprotbrough was, but it didn’t seem to matter. They fell silent again, and she searched for something to discuss, to keep her mind from her certain death. “Is it true you deflowered Lady Grace Masterston in a carriage?”

He cut her a look. “I thought you did not read the scandal sheets.”

“I have sisters,” she said. “They keep me apprised.”

“If I remember correctly, Lady Grace Masterson is now Lady Grace, Marchioness of Wile.”

“Yes,” she said. “But she was to be Lady Grace, Duchess of North.”

“The Duke of North is old enough to be the woman’s grandfather.”

“And the Marquess of Wile is poor as a church mouse.”

He tilted his head and considered her for a long moment. “She cared for him nonetheless.”

“I don’t think her father cared for his lack of funds.”

“I don’t think her father should have a say in the matter.”

Several seconds passed, and Sophie said, “You ruined her for the duke.”

“Isn’t it possible that I ruined her for the marquess?” There was something in the words that she should understand, but the pain in her shoulder kept her from it. She tried to sit up, putting a hand to his thigh, momentarily distracted by the leather that encased it.

She looked down at the slick fabric. “Your breeches.” His brows rose and she blushed. “I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to notice breeches.”

“No?”

“It’s not proper.”

He cut her a look. “You’re in my lap, bleeding from a gunshot wound. Let’s dispense with propriety for the moment.”

“They’re leather,” she said.

“Indeed they are.”

“That seems scandalous.”

“In all the best ways, darling,” he drawled, the words eliciting a blush as he continued. “You need boots.”

Her head spun with the change of topic. “I—”

He reached for her slippered feet, running his fingers over the ruined, threadbare silk. “You shouldn’t have left without boots. You should have taken the footman’s.”

She shook her head, looking down at the dirty yellow silk slippers. “I didn’t fit. My feet. They’re too big.”

He pulled her tighter to him. “We’ll find you a pair when we get there.”

“Did you find one for yourself?”

“Luckily, my valet is exceedingly conscientious.”

“Why isn’t he here?”

He looked out the window. “I don’t like traveling companions. He was to meet us at the next inn.”

“Oh.” She supposed he quite disliked this, then. “Where is Sprotbrough?”

He took her change of topic in stride. “The middle of nowhere.”

“It sounds just the place to find a team of qualified surgeons languishing.”

He looked down at her, and at another time, she might have been proud of herself at the surprise on his face. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a sharp tongue?”

She offered a little smile. “Not so boring after all, am I?”

He was all seriousness. “No. I wouldn’t call you boring. At all.”

Something flickered in her chest, something aside from the pain of the bullet lodged deep in her shoulder, something aside from the fear that—despite his brash assurances—she might, in fact, die. Something she did not understand.

“What would you call me?”

Time seemed to slow in the carriage, a path of red-gold sunlight casting his face into brightness and shadow, and suddenly, Sophie wanted desperately to hear his answer. His lips pressed into a straight line as he considered his reply. When he finally spoke, the word was firm and unyielding. “Stupid.”

She gasped. She hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly hadn’t been that. “I beg your pardon. That horrible man was going to take that boy and do God knows what to him. I did what was right.”

“I did not say you were not also exceedingly brave,” he said.

The words warmed her as exhaustion came on an unexpected wave. She took a deep breath, finding it difficult to fill her lungs. She couldn’t stop herself from resting her head on his shoulder, where it had been before she’d regained consciousness. “Do I detect a note of respect?”

His chest rose and fell in a tempting rhythm before he said, softly. “A very, very soft note of it. Perhaps.”

Darkness had fallen before the carriage arrived in Sprotbrough, which could barely be called a town considering it consisted of a half-dozen clapboard buildings and a town square that was smaller than the kitchens in his Mayfair town house.

They would have a surgeon, though. If he had to summon the man from nothingness, this ridiculous, barely there town would have a damn surgeon.

He cursed, the word harsh and ragged in the blackness as he threw open the door and tossed the step out of the conveyance. John Coachman materialized in the space, lantern in hand, the yellow light revealing Sophie’s utterly still, unsettlingly pale figure.

“I still don’t believe she’s a girl.”

King had held her for more than an hour, staying the blood from her wound, staring down at her long lashes and full lips and the curves and valleys of her body. He couldn’t believe anyone wouldn’t see that she was a girl immediately. But he said nothing, rearranging her on his lap for the next leg of their journey.

“Is she—” the coachman continued, hesitating on the word they both knew finished the sentence.

King wouldn’t hear it spoken. “No.”

He’d promised her she wouldn’t die. And this time, it would be the truth. He would not have another girl die in the dark, on his watch, because he wasn’t able to save her. Because he was too reckless with her.

Because he couldn’t protect her.

He gathered her close and moved to exit the coach, her weight putting him slightly off balance. The coachman reached to help him. To take her from his arms. “No,” he said again. He didn’t want anyone touching her. He couldn’t risk it. “I have her.”

Once on the ground, he straightened, finding the curious gaze of a young man several yards away, no doubt surprised that anyone had found this place, let alone a peer and an unconscious lady. “We require a surgeon,” he said.

The boy nodded once and pointed down the row. “Round the corner. Thatched cottage on the left.”

They had a surgeon. King was moving before the directions were finished, not hesitating as he looked to the coachman. “Find an inn. Let rooms.”

“Rooms?” the servant repeated.

King did not mistake the question. The other man doubted that a second room would be necessary. He doubted Sophie would survive the night. King shot him a look. “Rooms. Two of them.”

And then he was turning the corner and putting everything out of his mind—everything but getting the woman in his arms to a doctor.

Sophie made knocking impossible, so he announced his arrival with his booted foot—kicking the door of the cottage, not caring that the movement was loud and crass and utterly inappropriate considering he was looking to secure the help of the doctor. Money would make amends. It always did.

When no one replied to his knocking, he tried again, harder this time, and by the third kick, his anger and frustration brought enough force to do what such blows were often intended to do—the door came out of its moorings, collapsing into the house.

King added the damage to his bill and stepped through the now-open doorway as a tall, bespectacled man came into view. The man was younger than King would have imagined, barely five and twenty, if he had to guess. And exceedingly handsome.

“I require the doctor.”

Wasting precious time, the young man removed his spectacles and cleaned them. “You’ve broken my door.”

He wasn’t old enough to have hair on his face, let alone save lives.

“I shall pay for it,” King replied, moving closer. “She’s hurt.”

The doctor barely looked at her. “I’d rather you’d not broken it in the first place.” He indicated the wooden dining table in the next room. “Put her there.”

King did as he was told, ignoring the twinge of discomfort he felt when he released Sophie from his grasp. Ignoring the fact that as he moved down the table, from her head to her feet to give the other man access to her wound, he couldn’t help but trail his fingers along her leg, as though, somehow, touching her could keep her alive.

The doctor replaced his spectacles and leaned over her. “There’s a great deal of blood. What happened?”

“She was shot.”

The surgeon nodded, rolling Sophie to one side, inspecting her back. When he returned her to the table, Sophie’s head lolled. “The bullet remains inside.” He moved to a large leather bag nearby and extracted a bottle and a long, thin instrument that King did not like the look of. “I don’t like that she’s unconscious.”

“Neither do I,” King replied, watching as the doctor peeled away the fabric to inspect the wound.

The young man waved a hand to a nearby cupboard. “There’s a collection of linen in there. And a bowl of water on top. Fetch it. She’s going to bleed quite a bit when I’ve extracted the bullet.”

King didn’t like the sound of that. He retrieved the cloth and the basin and, once he returned, asked, “Are you the only doctor in the town?”

The man looked up at that. “I’m the only doctor for twenty miles.”

King scowled. “Where did you learn your trade?”

“You broke down my door, sir. I don’t believe you are in a position to question my skills.”

King swallowed, knowing the man was correct. “You’re very young.”

“Not too young to know that your . . .” He paused, his gaze tracing Sophie’s outrageous clothing. “Footman?”

“Wife,” King said without hesitation.

“Of course.” The doctor pushed his spectacles up his nose. “—that your wife has a bullet lodged in her shoulder that needs to come out. Would you like to wait outside for a more seasoned doctor to happen by?”

The point did not require a response.

“Will she die?” He hated the question and the edge of uncertainty in his tone when he spoke it. She would not die. Would she?

“The shoulder is not a vital locale,” the doctor said. “She’s lucky in that regard.”

“Then she won’t die,” King said.

“Not from the gunshot. But as I said, I don’t like that she’s unconscious.” The doctor raised the bottle over Sophie’s shoulder, “This should help.”

“What is it?”

“Gin.”

King stepped forward. “What in hell kind of medicine is that?”

“The kind that hurts like a son of a bitch.” Before King could stop him, the doctor poured half the liquid in the bottle onto Sophie’s shoulder.

Her eyes shot open and she sat straight up on the table with a wild scream. “Bollocks!”

The doctor smiled at that. “Well. That is quite a greeting.”

Sophie’s eyes were wild and unfocused. “It stings.”

“Indeed it does,” the doctor said. “But you are with us. Which makes me rather happy.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“He’s the surgeon.” King replied.

She looked to him. “He does not look like a surgeon.”

“I’m not certain of his skill.”

She returned her attention to the doctor. “Do try not to kill me, sir.”

The other man nodded. “I shall do my best.”

“And is it entirely necessary to pour that on my wounds?” she added, “I didn’t care for it.”

“There is some speculation that the alcohol helps with infection,” the doctor replied. “I do hope that’s the case, as I would like to think that I haven’t wasted a half a bottle of gin.”

Neither Sophie nor King found the jest amusing. The doctor did not seem to mind, choosing that moment to raise his strange device and say to King, “Please hold her down,” before saying to Sophie, “I’m afraid this is also going to sting.”

King’s hands were barely on her when the doctor began the bullet extraction, Sophie screaming, blood oozing, and King feeling a thousand times the ass for allowing this entire situation to happen. She protested his grip, writhing beneath him, and it took all King’s residual energy to hold her still rather than pull the doctor from her and end her pain.

“Finished,” the doctor said eventually, removing the forceps and showing the bullet to King before mopping up the river of blood that he’d summoned and moving to his bag once more.

King was riveted to Sophie, who had returned to the table, eyes closed, with a sigh that became a low whimper, and the sound nearly broke him. He resisted the urge to strangle the handsome man-child who called himself a surgeon. And he might have, had the doctor not returned with needle and thread. “Madam, would you like a drink before I stitch you up? It might well dull the pain.”

Sophie, already pale, blanched further and nodded. The doctor thrust his chin in the direction of the sideboard. “There is whiskey there.”

That, King could manage. He grasped the bottle and uncorked it. “As this is for business rather than pleasure, I’m not going to put it in a glass,” he said, putting the bottle to her lips. She tilted her head back and drank deep. “Good girl,” he said quietly before she coughed, the alcohol no doubt stinging down her throat.

She shook her head. “Bollocks!”

He smiled at that. “You say that word like it is second nature.”

She looked at the needle. “More coal miner’s daughter than Society lady.”

He laughed, but the sound was cut off by her gasp of pain as the doctor began stitching. King did his best to distract her. “Do you miss it?”

Her blue gaze found his. “Life before London?” He nodded, and she turned away, watching the needle do its work. “I do. I’ve never felt quite right there.” She smiled. “Now I can’t go back. They’ll never have me with a bullet wound.”

He smiled at that, imagining that if Sophie Talbot decided to return to London, she could make them take her back. “What happened at the Liverpool party?”

She met his eyes. “I shall tell you what happened to me if you tell me what happened to you.”

His brows rose. “You know what happened to me.”

“Before that.”

“I imagine you can guess,” he hedged.

“I suppose I can,” she said, and there was something soft in her tone. Censure. Disappointment.

It wasn’t as though King hadn’t been on the receiving end of such disdain before; he had. He’d just never cared. He made his reputation on it. But somehow, this woman made him feel like an insect, despite having done nothing at all wrong.

“Excellent,” said the doctor, seemingly unaware of the discussion around him, snipping the string on his perfect row of stitches and halting King’s thoughts as he produced a pot of honey.

“What is that for?” King asked.

“For her wound,” the man said, simply, spreading the golden stuff over the wound as though it was perfectly normal.

“She’s not toast.”

“The ancient Egyptians used it to stave off infection.”

“I suppose I’m to think that’s a good enough reason to do it now?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

King did not like this man. “Does it work?”

The doctor shrugged. “It can’t hurt.”

King blinked. “You’re mad.”

“The Royal College of Surgeons certainly thinks so.”

“What do they know about you?”

“My membership was rescinded last year. Why do you think I’m in Sprotbrough?”

“I see now that it’s because you’re as foolish as the name of this place.” King grabbed the man by the neck. “Let me be clear. She shan’t die.”

“Killing me won’t help with that,” the doctor said, utterly calm.

Goddammit. King released him. Spoke again. “She shan’t die.”

“Not from the gunshot,” the doctor said.

King heard the repetition. “Not from the gunshot. You keep saying that.”

“It’s the truth. She will not die from the gunshot.”

“But?”

There was a long silence while the doctor dressed the wound. Once finished, he turned away to wash his hands in a nearby basin and said, “I can’t guarantee she won’t die of what comes next.”

Sophie opened her eyes and focused on the doctor, a small smile on her face. “He won’t like that.”

The doctor looked down at her with a smile. “I gather not.”

She blinked. “You’re very handsome for a surgeon.”

The man laughed. “Thank you, madam. Of course, I would have preferred that compliment without the ‘for a surgeon.’”

She inspected him for a long moment before she nodded. “Fair enough. You’re very handsome. Full stop.”

King wanted to break something when the doctor laughed. “Much better.”

It was nonsense, obviously. King didn’t care if she flirted with the damn doctor. She could live here forever if she wanted. It would make everything easier for him. He could leave her and head north and live a life without her troublesome—

The doctor put his hand to Sophie’s forehead, and King could not help but want to hurt someone. Someone specific. “Is it necessary that you touch her so much?”

Unruffled, the doctor said, “If I’m to judge if she has a fever, I’m afraid so.”

“Does she?”

“No.” The doctor turned and exited the room without further comment.

It was not every day that King was dismissed so easily, and he had half a mind to follow the young man and tell him precisely whom he was disrespecting. But then he looked down at Sophie. And everything changed.

She was watching him, her blue eyes seeing everything. Her lips twitched in a little half smile. “You see? The universe does not bend to your every whim after all. I might, in fact, die.”

“Of course you’re smug about that.”

“Better smug than the other.”

He shouldn’t ask. Later, he would wonder just what it was that made him ask. “The other?”

The emotion in her eyes was clear and unsettling. “Afraid.”

The word struck at his core, and he was reminded of another time. Another girl. Equally afraid, standing before him, begging him to save her. But he’d been a boy then, not a man. And while she had died, Sophie wouldn’t. “You won’t—”

She shook her head, interrupting the insistent assurance. “You don’t know that.”

“I—”

Her gaze found his again, full of certainty. “No. You don’t. I’ve seen fevers, my lord.”

He remained silent, his gaze flickering to the bandage on her shoulder, to the blood dried on her clothes, on her skin—that smooth, unsettlingly soft skin. It shouldn’t be bloodstained. She was young and wealthy, the daughter of an earl. She should be clean and unscathed. She should be laughing with her sisters somewhere far from here.

Far from him.

He turned his attention from her, hating the guilt that flared, dipping a long length of linen in the basin of water, now pink with her blood. Wringing it out, he began to tend to her stained skin.

At the first touch of the cloth, she started, and he imagined she would have pulled away at the sensation if she’d had the strength. Or the room. Instead she lifted her good arm and captured his wrist, her fingers cool and stronger than he would have imagined, considering the events of the last several hours. “What are you doing?”

“You’re covered in blood,” he pointed out. “I’m washing you.”

“I can wash myself.”

“Not without moving, you can’t.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and he wondered if she would let him help her. He bit back the words that he was somehow desperate to speak. Let me take care of you.

She wouldn’t like them. Hell. He didn’t like them.

But damned if he didn’t want to say them.

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.