Page 10 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
“Well, thiswoman in a wedding gownis walking away. I knew you were quite full of yourself. But I had not believed you to be a complete heel.”
He met her accusation with a deliberately bland look. “So now I am a heel?” he said. “I rather preferred mad. It’s infinitely more interesting.”
“Oh, you are mad as a hatter.” She shot him a scowl. “But I’d never believed you were a scoundrel who would seek to capitalize upon... my desperate circumstance.”
“Scoundrel? I rather like the sound of that.” A faint smile curved his full mouth. “But we both know it would take more than this fix you find yourself in to drive you to desperation. You’re like a blasted cat with nine lives.”
“And I am only on my first.” She snatched her cloak off the hook and went to the door, but he stood before it, blocking the space.
Why, the absolute gall of the man.
He slowly shook his head. “Leaving now would be a mistake.”
“You think to stop me?” She planted her hands on her hips. “Have you forgotten you are not dealing with a fragile English rose?”
“Ah, an American princess, well-acquainted with the mean streets of New York.” His voice was low and edged with gravel. “How could I ever forget?”
“Surely you do not think to keep me here against my will.”
“Good God, no,” he said as if the idea were the most idiotic notion he’d ever heard. “Nothing so theatrical.”
Belle met his eyes. “Well, you don’t have to act as if the possibility is so very absurd.”
“The very thought of holding a woman against her will—any woman, much less a dollar princess from Buffalo—is bloody exhausting. If I wanted to keep you here with me, I could find a more efficient means of persuasion.”
“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” She hiked her chin. “Always so very sure of yourself.”
“One of my better qualities, or so I’m told.”
Standing this close, she could detect the subtle notes of shaving soap on his throat, could see the bristles of new beard darkening the strong line of his jaw. “I’d hoped you might wish to help me, if only out of a sense of chivalry.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Do I look like a blasted knight?”
No, as a matter of fact, he did not.Dash the luck. Jon Mason was infinitely more appealing than any image she’d ever conjured of Sir Lancelot. With his lean and sleekly muscular physique, Jon wore his immaculately tailored linen shirt and wool jacket with an utter lack of conceit, despite the way the garments displayed the powerful build of his broad shoulders and chest. It tasted like too-tart lemon to admit it, even to herself, but the man was a dashingly handsome specimen of masculinity, a man who did not need to cloak himself in a suitof clunky old armor. But she certainly couldn’t revealthattruth, now could she?
“My inclination to help you is not rooted in chivalry,” he went on. “As far as persuading you to stay as a guest in my home, it would appear I have a simple technique at my disposal.”
“Do you, now?”
“Before you further question my motives, I suggest you take a look.” He crossed the room to the window. “But stand to the side, behind the curtain.”
“Very well,” she agreed. Slipping the drapery to the side, she peered through the glass to the street below. “There’s nothing there.”
“Look to the alley.”
Her gaze tracked the street from the tavern to the café across the road. Gaslight illuminated what looked to be a large, exceedingly sturdy horse. Precisely the kind that pulled Gideon’s carriage. Trailing her attention along the street past the café, she spotted the silhouettes of two men.
Oh, dear.
The driver with his substantial nose and distinctive cap stood out, even in shadow. Another man walked at his side. Not Gideon. This ox of a man was taller, broader, and in his hand, he carried what looked to be a patrolman’s nightstick.
Her heart raced. For the first time that night, a sense of defeat washed over her. Gideon wasn’t going to give up. And now, he’d enlisted a brute who might even wear a lawman’s badge.
Suddenly, the room seemed to tilt beneath her feet, if only a bit. The cloak in her hand fell to the floor. Jon’s hand pressed gently to her waist, his fingers splaying against her ribs to steady her.
“The finest hotel in London will not be safe. Not now,” he said, leading her back to the settee. “Not until I arrange proper security.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted, nervously arranging her skirts as she settled upon the cushions. “This is worse,” she managed. “Much more difficult than I’d expected.”
