I Kissed a Rogue (Covent Garden Cubs) (23 page)

It was ridiculous, a figment of her imagination. She’d allowed her emotions to cloud her other senses, just as she had when she’d been a child and read love poems and the Arthurian legends with their romance between Guinevere and Lancelot. Upon discovering Lila devouring the story of Arthur for a third night in a row, her governess had pointed out that Lancelot and Guinevere’s love had not ended well.

The lesson seemed to be that strong emotions only caused trouble.

Lila believed that more than ever. She had to rein in her emotions for Brook Derring or she would fall helplessly in love with him. The problem was she did not know how to prevent doing so. If he would only act like an overbearing tyrant—as he had that morning when he’d threatened to drag her out in only her dress—she might be able to hate him.

But he insisted on catching her when she fell, rescuing small kittens, and kissing her senseless. Even when he was overbearing, it was for a good reason. He wanted to protect her. Lila was no Guinevere, but even Lila’s defenses could not withstand that sort of assault.

The worst of it—as though all of this wasn’t bad enough—was that he did not seem to care. He didn’t catch her or protect her because he was in love with her. He did it because it was the sort of man he was. She’d wanted to believe it was out of a sense of duty, but how did duty account for the mother cat and the kittens? How did duty account for the fact that he’d covered her up last night so she wouldn’t grow cold while she slept?

Dratted man. If only he still loved her a little!

But, of course, she’d ruined that. Just as she’d ruined everything else in her life. She’d alienated every friend she’d ever had. She’d thought herself better than every man who ever proposed. And Lila had angered her mother by spending too much, snubbing her friends, and refusing to marry the man her mother had chosen for her.

And then her mother had died.

Lila had realized, too late, that life was fleeting. She’d understood only at the end of her mother’s life that kindness and compassion were more valuable than beauty or cutting wit. When one lay on a deathbed, no one cared if you’d been a diamond of the first water or turned down a half-dozen marriage proposals. If you had no friends, no love, you died alone.

Lila’s mother had not died alone. Lila had not left her side, and Colin had come as often as he could.

But her father had stayed away. Lila had wanted to believe it was because his wife’s illness tore at his heart. Later she came to realize he had already been courting his next bride. He’d never loved his duchess. Their marriage had been an alliance between two great families, nothing more.

Lila had vowed, at first, never to marry. It was a ridiculous vow because after her year of mourning, she wasn’t invited to any of the Season’s events anyway. All of her “friends” from the past had married, and the new crop of debutantes could have cared less about her. Her father’s choice to marry again when his old duchess was barely in the grave had created something of a scandal, which meant the Duke of Lennox was not at the top of many guest lists.

Her father hadn’t cared. He had a new duchess to keep him busy.

Lila was the one who had suffered. She’d been lonely and made desperately unhappy by her father’s new marriage. She hadn’t bothered to hide her dislike of her stepmother, and she’d been exiled.

Now, against all odds, she found herself married to one of the men she’d rejected. Only he didn’t want her any longer, and she was in very real danger of being either killed or set aside via annulment.

Lila wasn’t certain which option was worse.

Lila raised her head at the sound of hoofbeats. On the road ahead, a coach charged toward them. Brook pulled her to the side of the road, using his body to shield her from mud spatters. He raised his hat to the coachman and walked on.

When the posting house came into sight, Lila wanted to sag with relief. Her injured wrist shot streaks of white-hot pain up her arm, and her hand felt heavy and swollen. Brook maneuvered her through the muddy yard of the posting house, with its strong smell of horse manure, and into the warm common room. The heat was almost stifling after the brisk breeze of the last couple hours. Brook spoke with the proprietor and requested the use of a private room. Finally, she was able to sit by the fire and warm her shivering body.

The proprietor promised to return with tea and cakes, then left them alone. Brook took the seat beside Lila.

“Let me see your wrist.”

Lila hesitated, wanting to keep it close and protected, but she finally lay in on the table.

Brook pushed up the sleeve of her pelisse and pressed lightly at the top of her glove. She hissed in pain.

“Bloody hell.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“I’d like to see if you don’t curse when we have to pull that glove off. That wrist is either badly sprained or broken.”

Lila glanced down at her glove. The fabric had stretched slightly to accommodate her swollen wrist. She’d always had slender, graceful wrists. The sudden doubling in size alarmed her.

“Would you like me to do it, or would you rather have a go?”

Lila considered the glove and said, “I’ll do it.”

With her good hand, she tugged on the fingers, wincing when her wrist protested at even the slightest movement. She paused when the pain threatened to make her sob and closed her eyes. She was exhausted from walking in the cold on an almost-empty stomach and now by the effort of removing the glove. Finally, she pried the glove off and dropped it on the table. Brook took her hand in his, twisting it this way and that.

“Forgive me,” he said, pressing his fingers against the swollen flesh lightly then turning her wrist to and fro.

Lila bit her lip to stifle the cry of pain, but it was bearable. Brook did not mean to hurt her. He flinched when she made a sound of distress, and his touch was as gentle as if she was a Sevres vase.

“It’s not broken,” he declared finally. “At least I don’t think it is. If it is, the fracture is small.”

“It certainly hurts as though it’s been broken.”

He glanced up at her with a wry smile. “Have you ever broken a bone?”

“No.”

“An expert then. It hurts because you’ve sprained it. Badly. I’ll need to ask the proprietor for linen strips to bandage it. The less you move it, the better, for the next few days.”

Lila nodded, wishing she’d injured her left wrist instead of her right. Eating or sipping tea with her weaker left hand would be difficult.

“I inquired after a gig and a horse so the postboy might drive us back, but the gig has a broken axle and that carriage that passed us took the last of the fresh horses. I’ll ask if the proprietor has a room available.”

“Rooms?” Lila felt as though a wash of sun spread over her. She might sleep in a comfortable bed tonight and dine on real food. Perhaps the posting house had a hip bath she might make use of.

“Room. We only need one.”

He would insist on one room. But did he do so in order to protect her or because he wanted her close?

“While we’re here, you’ll need to stay out of sight. I’d prefer to go back to the cottage tonight, but I’d be a brute to make you walk back when you’re in so much pain.”

Lila bit back the retort that he was a brute most of the time anyway. She would accept this kindness graciously. Perhaps they might even stay at the posting house until this Beezle was caught and his employer ferreted out. She would never have seen a posting house as anything other than a brief stop on a journey, but compared to the hovel in which Brook had hidden her, the accommodations here were luxurious.

“Oh.” Lila frowned in concern.

“You don’t want to stay?”

“I do,” she said. “I just thought about the mother cat and her kittens. I hope they aren’t too cold or hungry tonight.”

Brook stared at her, the fire making his dark eyes look like polished mahogany. “You are concerned about the cats?”

When he put it that way, it seemed rather silly. “I…I suppose they will be fine.”

Brook sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. He regarded her so long she began to squirm. Thankfully, they were interrupted by a quick knock at the door when the proprietor, who Brook called Mr. Nicholson, brought hot tea and a plate of small sandwiches and cakes. Brook inquired after a room, and the proprietor assured them his finest was available—did any innkeeper ever possess a room
not
his finest?—and hurried away to bid the maids to make it ready for the couple.

Lila reached for the teapot with her left hand and grasped it rather awkwardly. To her surprise, Brook waved her away and poured the tea himself, inquiring whether she wanted milk or sugar. She took neither and wasted no time blowing on the tea and sipping it.

If her mother looked down on her from heaven right then, she would have been most displeased at seeing her daughter blow on tea like a common scullery maid. Lila was too hungry to care. After she sipped the hot tea, she snatched a cake and took a large bite. It was so delicious, she finished it off with another bite and reached for a second.

Lord, but how she had missed these small civilities.

Brook was either not as hungry as she or had better manners because he took his time choosing a sandwich and waited for his tea to cool before sipping it. Lila knew he watched her with those hawk-like eyes, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t as though, after what he’d done to her the night before, he had any remaining illusions about her being a proper lady.

She’d reached for a third cake and was about to begin nibbling it when Brook rose to pour her more tea. “I left the kitchen door open,” he said.

“What?” Lila asked, around a mouthful of food. She could all but hear her mother’s voice, urging her not to speak with her mouth full and to say
pardon
.

“For the cats,” he said, raising the teapot. “If they grow cold or it rains, the kitchen building is open. It won’t have a fire, but at least they’ll be inside.” He glanced down at the plate. “You’ve eaten all the cakes.”

She stared at him, in her shock, unable to apologize.

“I’ll call for more.” He went to the door, and she swallowed the lump of cake. She couldn’t taste it anymore. She couldn’t even feel the pain of her sprained wrist. Her head spun and her heart thudded.

Long before she’d ever considered the cats, he’d thought to leave the kitchen open for them. He hadn’t thought her silly for mentioning the mother cat and kittens. He probably wondered why her thoughts turned to them so belatedly.

As Lila watched Brook speak with the proprietor, his head bent so he might look the man in the eye, with his broad shoulders shielding her from view, one thing became perfectly clear.

She was in love with Brook Derring.

Fourteen

Brook had vowed to leave Lila alone that night. He’d sit in the common room, listen to the talk of travelers and locals alike, and return to the bed chamber when she was almost certainly already asleep. Her wrist pained her, and the walk had almost done her in. He hadn’t thought about how little she’d eaten in the days before they’d arrived at the cottage and in the days since they’d been there.

Of course, she’d never complained of hunger. She actually complained very little, which was rather unexpected. He thought she’d be quite vocal about everything and everyone—including him—being quite beneath her.

That was the Lila he remembered.

He didn’t know this Lila who blinked back tears when injured, who worried over stray cats, and who flushed like a pink rose when he touched her.

He didn’t need to know that Lila. In fact, he thought a bit of distance wise. Unfortunately, that was before he heard her request hot water and a hip bath from the maid. Now, instead of listening to the conversation of the two men who were passing through on their way from London to Bridgwater, he was thinking about Lila, wet and naked.

He imagined walking in on her, seeing her rise from the bath, the water sluicing off the pale pink tips of those gorgeous breasts. He would touch her there then allow his hand to skim down to the dip of her waist and out to the flare of her hip.

And then… If he didn’t stop imagining what he would do next, he would embarrass himself here in the common room. Brook sipped his ale and focused on the acrid taste of it. It was truly awful, and he had a passing acquaintance with bad ale from his time in the gin shops of Tooley Street.

“Rumor is,” one of the Londoners said, causing Brook to glance his way, “the Bow Street Runners have been hard at work ferreting out the rabble down in Covent Garden.”

“I saw it myself,” the other, a stout man with wispy reddish hair, concurred. “I know an abbess in Covent Garden, and I paid her a call the other night. Half the men in the streets was in an uproar, making for this hidey-hole or other so the Runners wouldn’t catch them.”

“The Runners go too far when a respectable man can’t have a bit of fun,” his companion said amiably.

Brook did not think visiting an abbess—the name for the owner of a bawdy house—would qualify as a respectable activity in most quarters, but the description of the chaos in what was most likely Seven Dials or somewhere nearby interested him.

Beezle was the arch rogue there. If the Runners had caught him, chaos might certainly ensue as other rogues vied for the top position. On the other hand, he’d watched the Runners chase after their shadows more than once. Beezle had a dozen hidey-holes. He could wait the men out.

“My question,” piped up the redhead, “is where the devil is Sir Brook? Fitzsimmons, that MP, was buried a few days ago and guards posted to keep the Resurrection Men away. Derring was said to be after the murderer, but now he’s all but disappeared and his Runners are running amok.”

Both men laughed at this play on words. Brook sipped his ale. He was commonly thought to be a part of the Bow Street Runners, but though he often worked with them, he did not work for them. He was an investigator and quite independent of Bow Street.

“I heard he got himself leg-shackled and retired to the country for a bit ’o sport. If you know what I mean.” This from the man Brook could not see clearly.