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.