What a Rogue Desires Read online

  David watched him go, simmering in silence. He was quite sure the man wouldn’t have turned Marcus away like that. But then, Marcus would have left early, and most likely his horse wouldn’t have picked up a stone in the first place. Between the two of them, David was quite sure his brother had gotten more than his fair share of luck. And then, of course, made the most of it with his methodical, calculating nature.

  Swearing again under his breath, he turned on his heel and strode into the inn, just barely avoiding running down a stable boy behind him. The passengers from the coach were climbing down, and David had no desire to wait and watch them all be served ahead of him. He flung open the door, a little too roughly, and hailed the innkeeper.

  “Yes, sir? Will you be wanting a room for the night?” The man’s eyes ran over him in a split second, and he bowed, wiping his hands on his apron. “I’ve got my best room still.”

  No doubt all his rooms were his best, if they were unoccupied. “I suppose, since it appears your stable master is unable to oblige me,” David said coolly. “I must say, I’ve found this establishment rather lacking thus far, so perhaps I should examine the room before I take it.”

  The man puffed up obsequiously. “My stable master? Why, if he didn’t oblige you, sir, he must not be able to. If he simply hasn’t got the horses, he hasn’t got them. But my rooms are fine, and I vow, if you’re—”

  “No doubt.” David glanced around the room as if he found the entire inn rather lacking, although to tell the truth, it looked like many a tavern David had spent time in. He simply didn’t want to spend time in this one. “But I don’t require a room. I require a horse, for I must return to London this day, and now, due to your stable master, I shan’t be able to.”

  The innkeeper abandoned his defense of the stable master. “And I’ll speak to him about it, depend upon it, sir. He’ll have a horse for you by first light, if I have anything to say about it. But in the meantime—”

  “I don’t want another answer, in the meantime,” said David testily. The man’s mouth, still open in mid-sentence, snapped closed.

  “The only other thing I can suggest, sir, is the stage to London, just arrived and soon to depart again. Will you take a place?”

  David almost said no; he almost snapped back at the man that he would not ride the public stage like a common farmer. But he caught himself in time, realizing the innkeeper was no longer looking at him with respect and deference, but with weary impatience and even veiled contempt. Because he was behaving like a spoiled child.

  There were two choices open to him: ride the stage and reach London today, or stay the night and reach it tomorrow. If he left tomorrow, he would either be driving a strange team or a team with a tender-footed mare who couldn’t travel at any decent speed. The second choice admitted little to no chance of making his appointments. The first choice, however unpleasant at the moment, would reap benefits tomorrow.

  David sighed. “A place on the stage, then.”

  The innkeeper bowed his head. “I’ll see to it at once, sir.”

  He reached for his purse. “See that my baggage is transferred as well, if you would. I’ll send a man for the horses in a day or two. See they are well tended.” The man took the generous sum David counted out, bowed a trifle more respectfully, and hurried off. David took a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders and trying to let go of his irritation. Normally he wouldn’t have minded the delay so much; the taproom, and perhaps a barmaid or two, would have consoled him for his inconvenience. David was well used to consoling himself in pubs and taverns, and it was extremely tempting to do so again.

  But he had made a promise. It would be appalling if he broke it not even six hours after making it.

  Straightening his shoulders, he turned away from the taproom, ducking through the low doorway into the afternoon sunshine. The ostlers were changing the horses while men tossed trunks and bags off the top of the coach and secured others thrown up. Passengers, hot and dusty, brushed past David in search of a drink in the taproom or a bit of exercise in the shade. David eyed the coach with resignation. Instead of bowling along in his comfortable, well-sprung phaeton, he’d be packed in with half a dozen other souls, covered in dust kicked up by the team of six, bounced this way and that by every lurch of the heavy coach. He calculated the time until they would reach London and sighed. Being responsible was proving to be extremely burdensome.

  He caught a passing boy and gave him a coin to fetch a mug of ale. He would stand out here and drink it, to avoid temptation as much as to stretch his legs in anticipation of being jammed inside the coach for the next few hours. The boy returned with the mug, and David retreated into the shade of a tree to nurse his pint and study his soon-to-be fellow passengers.

  A widow in unrelieved black sat on a small trunk, her bonnet concealing her face. A tall man who was taking care to flash his shiny pocket watch was ordering the post-boys about, or trying to. A middle-aged couple in sturdy clothing was sharing a basket of food on a patch of grass. A portly man lounged on a bench near the inn, yawning and scratching himself. David tipped his mug to his mouth. Lord, there was always one. He made a mental note to avoid sitting by that man, who would no doubt smell of onions and pass gas the entire trip.

  When the call went up that the coach was departing, David went, still not at all happy. The inside of the coach looked stuffy and dusty and just as cramped as he had expected, and his mood did not improve when the middle-aged couple took their seats first and beckoned to the widow to join them. Clutching a small reticule, she came forward slowly, hesitantly. The stable boys were tossing her trunk to the top of the stage, and she seemed worried about it, stopping twice to peer up at it. At the step of the stage, she paused again, gathering her black skirts in her hands. She was a small woman, and the high step appeared difficult for her. David stepped forward and offered his hand, anxious to get this trip begun as soon as possible, all the quicker to end it. “Allow me.”

  She turned her face to him, beaming as she thanked him, although he didn’t hear a word she said. David had never seen such a face in his life. It was the face of an angel, a perfect heart shape with skin like fine china. Her eyes were a soft clear blue, her lips full and pink, and even her nose was simply perfect. Thoughts both reverent and wicked blossomed in his mind. Struck dumb, it was all David could do to nod and hand her into the coach. He climbed in after her and took a seat opposite her, all but staring.

  “Right on time, right on time!” The portly man plumped himself next to David, taking up half the seat. Distastefully David moved over as far as he could, but when the last passenger climbed aboard, he was promptly squashed again.

  The coach was off with a lurch a moment later, and David leaned his face nearer the window, only to recoil in disgust as a cloud of dust blew at him. “Best close the window, sir,” said the older lady. “Mr. Fletcher and I have been on the coach since Coombe Underwood, and the roads are very dusty, sir, very dusty. We’ll all be dust-covered.”

  And now we’ll all be suffocated, he thought grimly, tying the shade down. The man beside him moved, squishing from side to side, and David caught a whiff of, indeed, onions. He angled himself a little more in the corner, trying to find a more comfortable position, and winced as the coach hit a rut and bounced him backward. The seat was too narrow; he felt perched on the edge. But his legs were too long, and he couldn’t stretch them out to brace himself. He had to draw up his knees to avoid kicking the woman opposite him.

  Now there was the only attractive thing about this ride. Wedged between the window and the fat man, dust drifting between the window frame and the curtain to cover his coat, unable to move or sleep, David took full advantage of the opportunity to admire the young widow. He had seen pretty girls before, and more than a few beautiful women. Women in artfully designed gowns that showed off their figures, women with cosmetics that emphasized their good features and covered their flaws, women who used flowers and jewels and perfume to enhance their appearance. He
couldn’t recall seeing someone dressed so shabbily and primly who looked so breathtaking.

  It might be her eyes. As blue as the summer sky, he thought, amused at his own poetical turn. It might be the soft pink color that bloomed in her cheeks as she talked with the older woman beside her. The shy smile that followed showed a trace of dimple in her cheek, and lifted her mouth into a perfect curve. A hideous bonnet covered most of her hair, but the bit that peeped out around her temples was a light brown. If she wore perfume he couldn’t smell it, although she might have bathed in it and he wouldn’t know, thanks to his neighbor. Every other inch of the woman was covered in black, from the scuffed toes of her boots peeping out from under her skirts to the black lace mitts on her hands.

  He slouched lower in his seat, his eyes sliding over. Her traveling cloak had fallen open, and he was quite sure she had a nice figure. Her bosom was nicely rounded, under the high-necked dress, and his imagination filled in other nice curves: the gentle flare of a waist, the rounding of a hip, the slim line of a leg. And that exquisite mouth. He could imagine quite a bit about that mouth, and what he might teach her to do with it that could make this trip pass much, much more enjoyably.

  She caught him looking at her then, her eyes meeting his for a moment before she looked away. She wasn’t afraid, he thought, but on guard. So she’d be a challenge to seduce; David rather liked the prospect. He felt the beginnings of a lazy smile on his face before he remembered himself.

  Good God, he was nothing more than a tomcat if he could sit here and imagine seducing a woman he didn’t know anything about, had never seen before, and probably would never see again. They were strangers on a stagecoach, crammed in with four other people, and he was thinking of having her naked.

  What kind of man was he, precisely? Whatever was left of his smile vanished at the question. Had he learned nothing in the last few months? This was not responsible, respectable behavior; this was not part of his vow to reform himself. Was he to be the sort of man who grew old alone, reduced to ogling women’s ankles with his quizzing glass as they laughed behind their fans at him? The lecherous old man, they’d whisper. It was bad enough what they whispered about him now.

  He pushed back further into his corner, turning his gaze away from her. She was safe from him. No matter which sensual direction his imagination ran, he would not act on it.

  They rattled onward for some time. David made good on his vow not to stare at the pretty widow, but only by closing his eyes and pretending to rest. From time to time he would take a quick look out the window, and usually also stole a quick glance at her, catching the smooth pale curve of her cheek as she chatted with the other woman, the flash of her smile. That much he was helpless to resist. He told himself he could just as easily be stealing glances at the other woman, although why anyone would do that, he couldn’t imagine.

  He heard bits of their conversation, too, over the rumbling of the wheels. The older woman introduced herself as Mrs. Fletcher, and seemed to take great delight in drawing out the quiet young widow. Her voice was often too low to hear, but what David heard was soft and gentle. She had the accent of gentry, and he pieced together a tale of genteel near-poverty, then her husband’s death. She must be on her way to relatives, he thought, wishing he had anything else to do but think about her. He was behaving himself, but it would be easier if the other men were of a sporting inclination. Or if he hadn’t so recently vowed to become an upright model of respectability; he and his friend Percy had once taken the reins of a coach and driven it on a mad race for a smashing good run. There was no time to think about women while careening along atop a coach. Percy and the other rogues David kept company with would roar with laughter to see him wedged respectably, boringly, inside the coach, opposite a luscious young widow and not doing a blessed thing to seduce or even flirt with her. Even though he had imposed it on himself, David was beginning to think his penance was extraordinarily harsh.

  The noise and the shaking were mind-numbing. Incredibly enough, the man beside him had gone to sleep, his head lolling on his broad chest, his mouth agape. David leaned further away in disdain. He finally closed his eyes, determined to try to sleep as well, when he heard a distant crack. A sharp, ringing report almost like a gunshot. In fact, very like a gunshot. He opened his eyes.

  “What, what?” The man next to him jerked up abruptly. “We’re stopping!” he said indignantly.

  “Indeed,” said David dryly, pushing up the shade and putting his head out the window as the coach shuddered from side to side, swaying like a sapling in high wind but most definitely slowing down. He could see nothing on his side of the vehicle, but heard shouts, and then another shot, much closer and this time unmistakable.

  “We’re being robbed!” cried the older woman opposite. “God have mercy on us!”

  How utterly splendid: highway robbery. The only thing lacking in his day so far.

  As Mrs. Fletcher continued calling out to God, David mentally said a few choice words to that deity himself. The two men beside him began arguing over the best way to proceed, and Mr. Fletcher had his head out the window, spurring his wife to latch onto his back and plead with him to be cautious and not get himself shot. The young widow sat motionless, her eyes wide, and her reticule clutched in her hands. She looked petrified.

  David leaned forward. “Are you going to be ill?” he asked. His boots were directly in front of her, and he could ill afford to replace yet another pair.

  Cornflower blue eyes turned in his direction, but she made no sign she understood him. She was completely terrified.

  The coach door flew open barely a moment after the coach jerked to a halt. “Out,” grunted a mountain of a man. He wore a long black coat, a dark hat pulled low on his head, and even his face was dark. Blackened with soot or dirt, David decided as the man raised a pistol in threat. It was difficult to make out his features in the encroaching dusk, as shadows slanted across the road. Silently the passengers climbed from the coach. Mrs. Fletcher clung to her husband’s arm, her face twisted with fear. The tall gentleman stood aloof, frowning furiously, and the portly fellow looked as though he would wet himself with terror. The young widow stood mute and pale, her huge eyes fixed on the highwayman. David remained at the back of the group, wary but resigned.

  “The baggage,” called a voice. There were three robbers, it turned out: the large man who stepped into the coach’s doorway and sliced through the baggage traps with a wicked-looking knife; another man, seated on his horse several yards away who appeared to be the leader and who kept his own pair of pistols trained on the driver and outriders; and a tall, thin man who moved toward them as the first man began kicking open trunks and rifling the contents. All wore dark clothing and had their faces blackened.

  “Your valuables, if you please,” said the thin one, holding out a sack. “Jewels and money.”

  “This is intolerable,” burst out Mrs. Fletcher with a sob. “You brigand! You thief!” Her husband quickly put his arm around her and turned her into his side, silencing her. Without a word he fished a pocket watch from his waistcoat and dropped it into the bag.

  “Any jewelry?” asked the thief. His voice was very young, David thought, and perhaps Irish, from the faint lilt to his words. He raised a pistol at Mrs. Fletcher. “Any rings, mum?”

  She clutched her hands together, and sobbed louder, but her husband spoke into her ear, and she wrenched off a glove and added a thin gold band to the bag. The portly man tossed in a silver snuffbox and his purse, and the tall man handed over a purse, thin-lipped with anger.

  “You, mum? Give it over,” said the thief to the widow. For a moment, she hesitated, her eyes flitting around the group. Slowly she opened her reticule and dug out a single shilling. She dropped it into his sack with trembling hands, and David felt an unexpected burst of outrage that she’d been robbed of her last coin. The highwayman turned glittering eyes on him.

  “Hand it over, guv,” he said with quiet menace. Silently David took out his
pocket watch and purse. He pulled the pearl stickpin from his cravat and dropped it in the sack, too. He never took his eyes from the young thief’s face. The highwayman’s eyes scanned up and down. “And the ring,” he ordered.

  David glanced down involuntarily. He’d forgotten about the signet ring on his hand.

  “Oh, no! Not such a ring!” the young widow whispered then, sounding horrified. David looked at her in surprise. Color had returned to her cheeks in two bright pink spots. Why she was protesting the loss of his ring after the thief had relieved her of her last shilling, David couldn’t guess, but he wished she hadn’t. He wasn’t about to lose this ring, but he didn’t want to see her get hurt over it.

  “Hand it over,” repeated the highwayman. The pistol wavered in his grip, and sweat beaded his upper lip. “All valuables.”

  David curled his hand into a fist, never taking his eyes off the man. “No.”

  The thief’s eyes widened; he hadn’t expected to be denied. “Do you want me to shoot you?” he exclaimed.

  The widow gasped. “No! Oh, please don’t shoot him! Over a ring? Have some compassion!” She put out her hand beseechingly. The robber started as she touched his arm, whirling about and bringing his arm up, catching her across the body and knocking her backward into the dirt. She hit the ground with a soft thud and didn’t move. Instinctively, David stepped toward her.

  “Hie!” shouted the man on the horse. “Hie, there!” The highwayman spun around again, his throat working. The other bandits were retreating, pistols still trained on them. The rifled baggage lay strewn about the ground, and the driver and his men still had their hands on top of their heads. The widow lay in a huddled heap on the ground, and David glanced at her again. The lady had stood up for him, defended him to an armed bandit, and now she lay senseless at his feet.