Page 12 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
“I have come up with a plan,” he said in that direct way of his. “But you will have to trust me.”
She took a sip of tea. “It would appear I have no choice.”
“There is always a choice. But know this, Belle. You will be safe.” He regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “He won’t hurt you. On that, you have my word.”
Chapter Four
As a youngman at university, Jon had engaged in numerous bouts of fisticuffs. In truth, brawling would’ve been a far better word to describe the sport. Bare-knuckled. Uncivilized. Fueled by ale and a need to work off the relentless steam of his existence. He had—for a time, that is—used his fists and the occasional elbow to best his most surly opponents. Rules be damned. Though he now preferred the more civilized environment of the gentleman’s boxing club he and his business partner had established, he’d certainly taken his fair share of blows over the years. But now, while escorting Belle to his carriage to depart for his home, he wondered if those long-ago punches had led to some latent madness that might explain what he was about to do.
Not even in a fever dream would he have imagined the Frost Princess dashing through the door of the Rogue’s Lair with the devil at her heels. For a moment, he’d marveled at yet another unexpected twist in his life—in the ironic sense of humor the universe possessed that had seen her end up nearly in his arms. Again.
Until he’d seen the fear in her eyes.
Belle hadn’t fully explained what in blazes had driven her into the dreary London night—in a drenched bridal gown, of all the blasted things. But whatever had taken place in the hours before she’d sought refuge in the pub had forced her to put aside herdistaste for his very presence,as she’d phrased it not-so-delicately nearly two years earlier when he’d walked out of her life. What had gone between them in the past was of no consequence now.
He would not leave her in harm’s way. Whatever the man she’d run from was after, Jon knew full well that love had nothing to do with it. Over the years, he’d seen enough of theheiress hunters—as his sister had dubbed them in the days when she’d been pursued by greedy nobles—shamelessly chasing after a woman as if she were the golden goose.
At the moment, Belle sat across from him in the coach, draped in a coat far too large for her—his overcoat was the only thing on hand at the tavern that could possibly disguise her gown. She’d tucked her hair beneath the flat-brimmed cap the barkeep had offered to conceal her thick, honey-gold tresses. Glancing up from the tightly laced fingers she held in her lap, she met his gaze. Her rosy mouth set in a frown, her expression as glum as one of Henry VIII’s unlucky brides on her way to the Tower.
The crack of the reins in the carriage driver’s hands drifted through the closed window. Slowly, the wheels rumbled over the cobbles as they departed the tavern. For a time, they rode in silence, though neither was lost in their own thoughts. Rather, he couldn’t think of a blasted thing to say. Pressing her on the nature of her predicament would be bad form, and the taut, unyielding set of her mouth made it clear she wasn’t ready for anything resembling conversation.
Hours earlier, he could not have imagined this turn of events. Shortly after he’d taken dinner at his residence, he’d headed to the tavern for a brief respite from the newfound chaos that had upended his once orderly existence. He wasn’t entirely surprised to encounter her in London. But the circumstances were certainly unexpected.
Given Belle’s expression, her thoughts followed a similar path. No wonder, that. Nearly twenty-four months had passed since the days—and nights—when they’d enjoyed a brief interlude while he was in New York. When he’d informed her of his imminent return to England, departing on a steamer within the week, Belle had called him cold-blooded. She’d deemed him a stiff-necked bigwig, so utterly devoted to his family’s enterprises that he would not—could not—open his heart to a woman.
Not even to her.
She’d been mistaken on that count. The invisible scar in the vicinity of his chest was proof of that. At times since he’d last laid eyes on her beautiful face—especially during the quiet times at night, when he was alone with his thoughts and a tumbler of whisky—the memories of what he’d left behind taunted him. But he’d learned how to drown them out. There hadn’t seemed to be any other choice.
When Belle had bid him farewell, he’d heard the tremor in her voice. He’d seen the sheen of tears in her eyes, tears she’d refused to shed in his presence. He hadn’t intended to hurt her. The sight and sound of her pain had cut through him like a dull knife.
But in the end, his parting with the lovely heiress had been rather civilized. No tearful pleas. No dramatic scenes. Nothing beyond a chilly dismissal from her presence.
At the time, he’d brushed aside his every doubt. He’d been so bloody certain he was doing the right thing. His responsibilities lay an ocean away from Manhattan. He’d been honest with her. He’d made her no promises. From the start, he’d made no secret of the fact that his time in America would not be long. Business was business, after all.
Perhaps more correctly, business was his life.
And his life ran best when it was free of complications.
Bloody hell.The sheer irony of the thought gave him a rueful chuckle. If the last months had proven anything, it was that life possessed a blasted warped sense of amusement. Since he was a lad, he’d strived to keep his path even and steady. While his heiress-hunter-averse sister’s antics had no doubt brought about a few of the gray hairs on his head, his day-to-day and night-to-night existence had run as precisely as a Swiss clockmaker’s gears.
Few detours and distractions. Even fewer surprises. His keen focus on the tasks ahead had kept his life on an efficient course.
Yet since the crisp mid-September day on which he’d marked his thirtieth birthday, the universe had tossed handfuls of sand into those once-precise gears. His orderly life had become anything but. And this—Belle’s arrival at the tavern doorstep, dressed as a soggy bride on the run, no less—was the jam on top of the scone.
The carriage hit a rut in the pavement. The soft jolt stirred him from his thoughts. A ray of light from a flickering streetlamp fell over Belle’s face, revealing widened eyes that suggested she’d also been jarred from an inner dialogue. She pressed her lips together, as she tended to do when she was deep and thought, then lifted her gaze to his.
“I do appreciate your assistance,” she said, her velvety voice quiet. “I’m not accustomed to needing to be rescued.”
“I would hardly describe this as a rescue,” he countered. “Even if you had not run into me, I suspect you would’ve landed on your feet.”
“I’d like to think so.” The notes of uncertainty in her voice seemed very unlike the unflaggingly confident woman he’d known in New York. Her mouth pulled tight with a wry imitation of a smile. “I imagine my brother will enjoy the fact that I am suddenly thescandalous one.”
Scandalous.He glanced away, out into the night, trying not to grit his teeth at the thoughts whipping through his mind.Bloody hell.Was she concerned the events of this night would tarnish her good name?
“What’s the worst that could happen?” he said, keeping his tone light. “A proposal of marriage?”
Belle sat bolt upright on the bench, her only sound a little gasp he suspected she’d tried to suppress.
