Page 3 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
The woman stared at her. Her cold gaze raked over Belle. Seeming to assess the quality of the fabric in her dress, soiled as it was, she scrunched her nose and gave a dismissive shake of her head. “Stealing some fine lady’s gown... I willnottolerate a thief. I run a quality establishment.”
“I amnothief.” Belle squared her shoulders, meeting the proprietor’s cold gaze. “This dress was made for me.”
The woman shrugged. “Made for ye, eh?” She chuckled. “And I’m the queen’s lady in waiting, disguising myself by stirring pots of stew every night.”
Belle held her voice steady. “Please, you don’t understand.”
The woman’s brows hiked. “I understand all I need to know.” The coldness in her expression spoke louder than her words. “I meant what I said. Move along.” She glanced behind her, at something or someone Belle could not see. “Before ye regret—”
As a fresh rumble of thunder drowned out the proprietor’s words, Belle nodded her acceptance. Turning away, defeat washed over her.
My, she’d certainly gotten herself into a fix this time, hadn’t she?
Behind her, lightning lit the sky. This time, the strike was nearly upon her. Far too close for comfort.
The faint rattle of wheels in the distance drifted to her ears. She glanced toward the sound.Oh, my.A large midnight-black coach headed toward her at a breakneck pace.
Another bolt of lightning crackled through the air. This time, the strike was close.
Too close for comfort.
Her heart and her thoughts raced. While lightning crackled against the ominous gray sky, the sounds of the carriage grew louder. Nearer. She could hear the clop of the horses’ hooves against the cobbles. At this distance, she could barely make out the man at the reins, especially the distinctive feathered cap the driver had worn like a uniform.
A thunderclap seemed to shake the air itself. The dark gray clouds opened. Suddenly, cold, wet drops pelted her face. She clutched her cloak around her, but the thin wool was no match for the downpour. She’d soon be soaked.
But that was not the worst of her problems. No, the midnight-black carriage barreling down the street once again claimed the dubious honor.
She needed shelter. And she had to find a place to hide. At least until the coach and its occupants had barreled on its way.
Suddenly, the rowdy tavern across the road did not seem so unsuitable.
Pulling her hood lower to conceal her features, Belle hurried across the street. As she rushed toward the sound of the piano player and off-key warbler, she braced herself for the worst. There was no telling what she’d encounter in a pub whose proprietor described it as a lair. And for rogues, no less.
But that didn’t matter. Not now.
Bundling her cloak around her, she pulled open the tavern’s stout door and darted inside the alcove. And promptly collided with a man. With his broad, hard-as-stone chest, to be precise.But not just any man.No.Not on this night, when her fortunes continued to spiral from bad to worse.
Tonight, it had to behim.
She stared up at the tall, dark-haired man whose powerful, immovable object of a body had halted her frantic dash.
Jon Mason.
Good heavens. My luck cannot bethisbad.
He’d rested his hands on her shoulders, gently stilling her. Those dark brown eyes of his were so very familiar. So very unforgettable.
For his part, he gazed down at her, seeming to regard her as if she had just arrived from another planet. Slowly, his brows lifted. Not quite to his hairline, but to the shock of coppery brown strands over his forehead that had escaped the style he’d neatly combed with just enough pomade. A slight semblance of a smile played on the full mouth she knew only too well.
After all, it wasn’t all that long ago when she’d kissed those very lips.
“Hello, Miss Frost.” He cocked his head in that assessing way of his, both infuriating and ridiculously appealing. “I must say, I am surprised to see you here tonight.” His dark eyes narrowed. “And in such a beautiful ensemble.”
This cannot be happening.
But it was.
Perhaps she could pretend he was mistaken. Would he fall for it if she claimed he’d confused her for someone else? Or perhaps... just perhaps... this might be a good time to feign a convenient case of amnesia.
