She retreated at that, not pretending to misunderstand. “Why do you ask all the questions?”
“Because you answer them,” he replied.
“I should like to ask some.”
He nodded. “I’ll answer yours if you answer this one. Why the baker? I understand the bookshop and the freedom, but the baker—it’s been a decade. Why him, as well?”
She looked away, watching farmland beyond the window, the countryside dotted with sheep and bales of hay. So much simpler than London. So much more free. She opened the book on her lap and closed it. Again and again. And finally, she said, “He was my friend. We made a promise.”
“What kind of promise?”
“That we’d marry.”
“A decade ago.”
What had she done? Where was she going? What would come from this mad adventure? She couldn’t ask him any of that. Didn’t want him to hear it. And so she lifted her gaze to his and said, “A promise is a promise.”
He watched her for a long time, and then said, “You realize that this ends poorly.”
“Not necessarily.”
He stretched his arm across the back of the seat. “How does it end, then?”
She paused, thinking for a long moment about Mossband. About her childhood. About the world into which she’d been born and the world into which she’d been thrust. And then she answered him. “I hope it ends happily.”
He went utterly still, and she had the sudden sense that he was angry with her. When he spoke, there was no mistaking the disdain in his tone. “You think he’s been pining away for the earl’s daughter who left a decade ago?”
“It’s not impossible, you know,” she snapped. Must he always make her feel as though she was less than? “And I wasn’t an earl’s daughter. Well, I was, but not really. I’ve never really been an earl’s daughter. That’s the point. We were friends. We made each other happy.”
“Happiness,” he scoffed. “You haven’t any idea what to do with yourself now that you’re free, do you?”
She scowled. “I don’t care for you.”
“Shall we wager on it?”
“On my not caring for you? Oh, let’s. Please.”
He smirked. “On Robbie’s caring for you.”
She narrowed her gaze on his smug face, ignoring the sting of his words. “What’s the wager?”
“If we get there, and he wants you, you win. I’ll buy you your bookshop. As a wedding present.”
“What an extravagant gift,” she said smartly. “I accept. Though I have a second demand now.”
His brows rose. “More than a bookshop?”
She tilted her head. “Be careful, my lord, I might find reason to believe you are not so certain that you will win.”
“I never lose.”
“Then why not allow a second demand?”
He leaned back, “Go ahead.”
“If I win, you must say something nice about me.”
His brows snapped together. “What does that mean?”
“Only that you have spent the last week telling me all the ways that I fail. My lack of intelligence, my lack of excitement, my lack of proper figure, my lack of beauty, and now, my inability to land a husband.”
“I didn’t say—”
She raised her hand. “And you had better make it exceedingly complimentary.”
There was a long silence, after which he said, in a tone that could only be described as grumbling, “Fine.”
“Excellent. I think I might look forward to that more than to Robbie’s proposal.”
One black brow rose. “A clear indication that marrying the baker is an excellent idea.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “But don’t forget, Sophie. If we get there, and it’s a disaster . . .”
Her heart began to pound. “What then?”
“Then I win. And you must say something nice about me.”
Before she could retort, the carriage began to slow, and a wild cry came from the coachman. She stiffened, nerves chasing her triumph away. She snapped her gaze to him. “Is it highwaymen?”
“No.” King touched her ankle, the warm skin of his hand against that place that had never been touched by another person making her breath catch. “We are at the next posting inn.”
Her shoulder ached, and she was happy for the stop. “Will we spend the night?”
He shook his head. “We only change horses, and then press on. We have to put some distance between you and your pursuers.”
And then the door was open and he disappeared into the afternoon’s golden sunlight.
Chapter 11
SOPHIE AND EVERSLEY:
SEDUCTION OR ABDUCTION?
Thank God they’d arrived when they did.
A quarter of an hour longer, and King would not have been held responsible for what happened between them. Lord deliver him from long carriage rides with impossible, infuriating, remarkable women. How was he supposed to keep from kissing her? From touching her?
Every time the woman opened her mouth, he wanted her more.
And then she’d declared herself less than valued. Told him that only now, as she ran, London and her past at her heels, did she feel free. Proclaimed herself existent.
As though he’d needed a proclamation to notice her.
As though he wasn’t keenly aware of her every movement. Her every word.
Despite knowing that he shouldn’t see her at all.
She had been trouble since the moment he’d met her, at the bottom of the damn trellis at Liverpool House. And still, he seemed to never quite be able to escape her. He was the Minotaur, trapped by her labyrinth.
It was useful to have the break to remind himself of all the reasons why he didn’t want her. Why he didn’t even enjoy her.
She was the very opposite of women he enjoyed.
Except she wasn’t.
Indeed, he would have no trouble saying something nice about her. When she’d enumerated all the terrible things he’d said until now, he’d felt like a proper ass. He didn’t believe any of those things. Not anymore.
Not ever.
He began to unhitch the tired horses, quickly and efficiently, as he remained keenly aware of the fact that the men they’d encountered in Sprotbrough might be stupid enough to believe Sophie had been an ordinary footman on an ordinary carriage, but were also smart enough to realize she’d left the inn—and sooner rather than later. There would be no lingering. Which was for the best, because when she’d asked if they would be sleeping here tonight, his entire body had leapt to answer in the affirmative.
In the same room.
In the same bed.
With as little sleeping as possible.
She wanted to be free—he could show her freedom.
He could show her happiness.
Except he couldn’t.
Cursing under his breath, he handed the first of the four horses off to the coachman and made quick work of unhitching the second when she poked her head out of the door. “My lord?” she called, before returning to the shadows of the carriage.
He didn’t wish to think of her. He was too busy thinking of her.
“Bollocks,” he muttered.
Christ. Now he was swearing like her.
“My lord!” She was sounding more panicked.