Page 53 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
I had to escape . . . I ran.
Belle’s words had cut like a rusted knife. He’d heard the distress in her hushed voice. The fear.Escape.Propelled by desperation. She’d rushed into the night. Into the unknown. Did the blighter intend to compromise her, to coerce her into speaking her vows?Bloody hell.
Belle had become a bit reserved after the revelation. In his gut, Jon knew there was much she had not told him. It had all been too fresh. Too hard for her to bear.
He hadn’t pressed for more. Her trust was so very fragile. Not that he could blame her. He certainly had not proven worthy of it in New York, had he?
The only thing that mattered now was earning her confidence. As long as she had faith that he would be there for her, he could keep her safe.
Whatever it took, he would protect her. From Kentsworth. And from himself.
He couldn’t deny his hunger for her, even as he stared down a bitter truth—they were tempting fate. By thunder, he wanted her. In his arms. In his bed. But giving in to desire would lead to consequences neither of them were ready to face.
But bloody hell, it was a challenge to pretend he wasn’t absolutely mad for her. Since he’d become a man, he had encountered his fair share of women. Flirtatious socialites. Pretty dollar princesses. Sophisticated widows. But none ofthem—not a blasted one—could hope to compare to Arabelle Frost.
She was a diamond, a true treasure. In his eyes—in his heart—she was utterly incomparable.
At the moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d fallen for her. Hard. And fast. He had always considered himself a logical man—a man who’d believed the notion of love at first sight to be sentimental drivel—but damned if he hadn’t had the wind knocked out of him when he looked into her sapphire eyes.
He’d soon discovered she deserved better than a man like him. Their civilized but far from amicable parting had been proof of that.
But that was then. Now, Belle was here. He would defend her, no matter the cost. And perhaps he might truly repair the trust he’d so foolishly shattered.
Chapter Fifteen
Following a quietevening and a restless night filled with dreams of a seductive swashbuckler—no doubt inspired by Ellie’s talk of her own swaggering seducer—Belle awakened to two rather startling realizations. First, the pirate in her hazy fantasies had been the same tempting buccaneer who’d strolled into her waking daydream. While his face had been hidden by shadows, the mysterious raider’s dark hair, broad shoulders, and husky voice bore an undeniable resemblance to the man who’d once shattered her heart.How very maddening.
And secondly, as she stirred from sleep, she became aware that the soft, rhythmic snoring drifting to her ears was not a product of her dreams.
She was not alone.
Sitting up in bed, she glanced about the room.Good heavens.Spying a lump beneath the bedcovers at the bottom of the bed, she chuckled to herself as she quickly identified the culprit.Cleo.Curled beneath the quilt, the cat continued to snore in what seemed to be feline bliss. Had she slept there all night?
Shaking herself out of the remnants of a light, drowsy fog, Belle slid from under the covers. Selecting a practical cotton dress in a vibrant shade of teal, she prepared for the day ahead, then went to assist Mrs. Gilroy.
The housekeeper was already up and about when Belle made it to the kitchen. Bustling about with pans and pots as she prepared the morning meal, Mrs. Gilroy appeared not to hearBelle as she approached. Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, Belle watched with a growing sense of curiosity as the older woman moved about with steps she might actually have described as spry.How very curious.
Appearing to sense Belle’s presence, Mrs. Gilroy startled, then spun abruptly to face her. “Oh, I’m so glad to see ye, lass,” she said, looking as if she’d nearly dropped the empty pot in her hand. “Will ye be a dear and fetch my cane? I left it in the pantry and could not summon the energy to go back for it.”
“Of course.” Moments later, she returned with the walking stick in hand. Mrs. Gilroy flashed a quick smile, then made a slight wince as she leaned on it, favoring her left leg. “This dratted knee of mine.”
Was it a trick of Belle’s memory, or had Mrs. Gilroy’sbadknee been on her right side the day before? She decided against giving voice to the question. With all that had taken place, she didn’t doubt she might’ve mixed things up. Still, her curiosity nagged at her, if only a bit.
“If ye’d like to be of help, I’ll ask ye to prepare these for tonight’s stew,” Mrs. Gilroy said, handing Belle a bunch of carrots.
“I’d be happy to,” Belle said. Taking the vegetables to the chopping board, she searched her mind, trying to remember how her family’s cook had approached the task. As a child, she’d watched Ginny slice and dice and peel vegetables with ease. But it had been such a long time since Belle had paid any mind to what went on in the kitchen.
Surely it could not be so much of a challenge. She pulled in a breath, as if that might invigorate her confidence, and set about the task.
Belle had chopped only one carrot—slicing it into thick chunks that truly did appear a bit too large for a respectable stew—when Mrs. Gilroy placed a gentle hand on her sleeve.
“Did ye forget to peel them, lass?” Mrs. Gilroy’s brow furrowed. “Or do they not do that in America?”
Belle shook her head. Now that she mentioned it, she clearly remembered watching Ginny skillfully prepare the carrots she’d used in her recipes. “Drat, I did neglect that step, didn’t I?” Peeler in hand, she reached for one of the chunks on the cutting board. “I’ll fix it.”
Mrs. Gilroy stilled her hand. “Lass, the way ye’re holding that thing... well, ye’re likely to slice yer finger. We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
Again, Belle shook her head. “Truth be told, I don’t have much experience using a knife.”
