Page 5 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
She gave a quick nod, and he saw her throat constrict. “Eventually.” Her gaze slid back to the window. “Now, I need a place to hide.”
“What in blazes do you mean?”
Her attention darted to the tavern’s stout front door. “Precisely what I said. I must find somewhere to go... somewhere I won’t be seen... and quickly.”
Through the thick window glass, he heard the sounds of horses shuffling with restless energy. Yet, he saw no carriage. Bloody peculiar.
A tall, stone-faced man in a caped coat came into view. Walking with brisk steps toward the tavern, he turned his headto say something to a burly man in a plain coat and a driver’s cap who struggled to keep pace.
As she glanced toward the window, the color drained from her face. Clearly, she had recognized the men.
“I’ll be in a true fix,” she whispered. “I must go. Now.”
“Come with me.” He caught Belle’s hand in his and ushered her through the alcove, past the painted door which led to the tavern floor. The pub was filled with their regular patrons. Some of the blokes were singing along with the piano player, while most of the others were engaged in boisterous conversation. Still, it wouldn’t do for curious men to get a good look at the conspicuously dressed new arrival. Angling his body to shield her from question-filled eyes, he quickly led her to the back of the tavern and up the stairs to his private office on the second floor.
Despite her cumbersome dress, she made quick work of the steps. For the life of him, he could not figure out how women managed to maneuver the layers of skirts and petticoats without taking a tumble. But she moved at a feverish pace, unhindered by the abundant fabric swishing about her ankles.
As they reached the landing, the loud creak of the tavern door below had the effect of an alarm. She stiffened and turned to the noise. The notes of a deep, decidedly cultured male voice drifted to their ears.
Belle froze.
Her eyes widened, and she went unnaturally still. As an instinctive, rather confounding desire to protect her reared its head, he gently tucked an arm around her. Motioning to the room at the end of the corridor, he led her to his private office and escorted her inside. Since he’d become an investor in the tavern, he’d kept this particular space as a quiet sanctuary, a retreat from the chaos of his everyday life. Now, the small chamber would serve as a hiding place for a woman he’d neverthought to see again after the morning when he’d boarded a steamer and sailed out of New York harbor.
Life was indeed bloody strange.
He closed the door behind him and turned to Belle. Her complexion had pinkened a bit, an improvement on her ghostly pallor. But the tense set of her features betrayed her fear.
“Who are those men?” he asked.
“One of them is the driver of the coach. His name is Roderick.”
“And the other?”
She laced her fingers nervously, her gaze dropping to the loose knot of digits. Her lips thinned to a slash. “Lord Gideon Kentsworth.”
The name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Not that it mattered. He didn’t give a damn about his title. Judging from the effect the smug-faced stoat had on Belle, the bastard had no place here. He wouldn’t hesitate to toss him out on his pretentious arse.
“It’s clear the man is not here to sample our ale.” Jon searched her face. “What does he want?”
“Well, you see... he is the groom.” She brushed a damp curl behind her ear and appeared to gulp a nervous breath. “And he’s come after me.”
*
Groom.Seldom hada word tasted as bitter on Belle’s tongue as that single syllable. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to meet Jon’s questioning gaze.
His brown eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if he debated whether his own ears had deceived him. “The groom?”
“He intended to become a groom,” she said. “But he has not yet succeeded... not this time.”
“Notyet.” Jon rubbed the back of his neck as if he’d developed a sudden ache. “And notthis time.”
“It’s a rather complicated story. There’s no time to explain. Not now.”
His dark brows drew together. “But you are still... Miss Frost?”
“Most definitely,” she said, allowing herself a little smile. “I would not wed the cur if he were the last man in London. On the planet, for that matter.”
Jon nodded his understanding. “But he thinks to change your view on the subject?”
