The Rogue Not Taken
Page 41

Not that he would act on them.
He did not want Lady Sophie Talbot, dammit.
Well, he wanted her. But he did not want to want her.
“That’s a semantic argument.”
Had he spoken aloud? No. She meant the looking.
“Madam,” he said in his most serious tone. “No man in his right mind would honor that promise.”
She pulled the towel more tightly around herself. “A gentleman would.”
He laughed, frustration making the sound hoarse. “I assure you, he wouldn’t. Not even the most pious of priests.”
Her lips flattened into a thin line. “You are wet. I suggest you find yourself some dry clothes.”
He’d been dismissed. By a haughty miss in nothing but a strip of linen.
A lesser man would take his leave. And Lord knew King should. He should give her time to dress and climb beneath the covers. Allow her a few moments to enjoy her cleanliness. Fetch her food. Get decent.
A gentleman would.
But King was no gentleman. As if it weren’t bad enough that he’d had to suffer the temptation of the sounds of her bath, he then had to hold her, quite nude, and pretend to be unmoved by the experience when he was, in fact, very moved, as his soaking trousers did little to conceal.
He hadn’t asked for this.
For her.
She riled him. And now, even as he knew he shouldn’t, he wanted to rile her in return.
“Dry clothes it is,” he said, enjoying the way she nodded, victory in her blue eyes right up until he untucked his shirt and pulled it over his head, and victory dissolved into shock.
“What are you doing?” she fairly shrieked.
“Donning dry clothes.”
“It might work better if you did so in your own chamber!”
He pointed to the small trunk at the wall. “This is my chamber.”
Her eyes went wide. “You have been sharing my room?”
“More than that,” he goaded her. “There’s only one bed.”
She scowled at him. “You didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” he conceded. “The stench, remember?” It was a lie. He’d been too worried that she might not wake to even consider sleeping. But she need not know that.
She was too irritating for him to tell her. Instead, he reached for the fall of his trousers, enjoying the way her gaze followed his hands. “A lady wouldn’t look, Sophie.” She immediately snapped her attention to his face, her cheeks blazing crimson. If he weren’t so damn frustrated with her, he’d be positively gleeful. “I believe it’s time for you to turn around.”
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.