Page 101 of Pride: The Rogue

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The eventuality of his marrying Argyll’s mercenary stepmother, and being tied to that duchess, repulsed him—but as it was, the Duchess of Argyll was a necessary evil.

With that reminder, Latimer searched around for something to write with.

His gaze landed on that book Livian had clutched protectively close in the taproom. Heading over to the leather volume, Latimer hesitated.

Another soft snore filled the room.

He stole a look at the lady’s sleeping figure to confirm she still slept and returned his attention to her book.

It wasn’t that he was snooping. Curious, maybe? But that didn’t account for the reason he found himself opening the old, leather-worn copy to the page where Livian eft a pencil as a placeholder.

A Red, Red, Rose

By Robert Burns

“O my Luve is like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June;

O my Luve is like the melody

That’s sweetly played in tune.”

He skimmed the rest of that poem, written in the small, but flourishing, scrawl of Livian’s hand.

“And fare thee weel, my only luve!

And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my luve,

Though it were ten thousand mile.”

A pit formed in his gut.

Latimer immediately slammed the book shut.

Thwack.

He glanced back.

Livian, however, continued sleeping.

With a rapidly increasing ill-sensation, Latimer made himself open the book again.

“…If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench…”

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