Page 13 of Pride: The Rogue
This particular night had just become a good deal better.
Chapter 3
This godforsaken night couldn’t get any fucking worse.
The downpour that’d stalled Latimer’s travels to meet his future wife, hadn’t bothered him. After all, rain, more rain, and even more rain seemed to be the only variation in English weather. Hell, he’d welcomed any delay of his inevitable—but valuable—fate of becoming the husband of a widowed duchess.
But this? This was a bloody bridge too far.
Soaked from head to toe, Latimer wrestled with the burden tucked under his right arm. As he made his way through the deep puddles covering the cobblestone path, Latimer dodged the tiny fists of fury pummeling away at him and continued his determined approach to The George Inn.
“Quit you’re damned squirming,” he muttered.
“Put me down, you miserable son of a cod sucker,” the lad spat in return.
If Latimer weren’t so drenched, cold, and fucking miserable he’d have grinned at the mouth on this one.
Alas, as he pressed the old handle of The George Inn to let himself inside, Latimer couldn’t muster a single damn.
A warm rush of warm and cheer-filled revelry came up to greet him.
The smaller—and useless—pair of villagers who’d gotten Latimer tohelpretrieve the boy, trailed in slowly behind them.
The moment the sheepish pair were inside, they scurried past Latimer and made for the bar. By their harried expressions and stunned eyes, they’d rather have faced the raging tempest than the raging, foul-toothed lad.
In fairness, the scamp had been nothing short of a pain in the arse.
“That’s right,” the child shouted with an impressive force that nearly penetrated their busy surroundings. “Better run, ye bastards.”
The angry boy grew in Latimer’s estimation.
Only for a moment.
The scrawny child brought his foot forward and nearly managed to publicly unman Latimer.
“Ye bloody fucking bastard.”
Latimer grunted. “Aye. I’m all those things.” And more. “But you’re an ungrateful, little shite.”
“Let me go, yer daft bugger.” The drenched boy wrestled to be free. “Told ye and those other two sods enough times, I need to be out there lookin’ fer me master’s carriage.”
Sharp teeth managed to pierce Latimer’s wool cloak, jacket, and shirt, and Latimer cursed. “Would you stop your blubbering,” he growled, and then set his burden down on his feet.
Latimer expected the scamp to run. Instead, he marched right over until the tips of their both fine—surprisingly on the lad’s account—leather boots touched.
“Blubbering? Blubbering? Oi ain’t some lad.” He slapped a fist against his narrow chest. “Oi’ve got fifteen years on this miserable earth.”
He gave him a look-over. Aye, waif-thin, undernourished, the lad had London streets imprinted on every part of his gaunt, cynical, features. “You’ve got some loyalty to the master who left you behind.”
“He didn’tleaveme behind.” Rage tightened the boy’s hard mouth. “There weretwobloody carriages.” The boy stuck up two digits and waved them angrily. “I was travelin’ with Her Ladyship’s younger sister. When we stopped at an inn a way’s ahead and the other carriage never arrived, she became all distraught; wanted to go back and search. I volunteered to take amount with my brother, head to this inn, and look. If she wasn’t at the other, she’d be here.”
It was actually an even greater testament to the lad’s devotion to his employers that he deigned to answer Latimer, a man whom he’d happily send to the devil.
“And the other driver didn’t think to double-back?” Latimer drawled.
“And leave the young miss unattended or put her in danger.” The loyal lad looked at him like he’d sprung horns. “Ye ain’t too smart are ye?”
“This from the boy who offered to wait outside, in the pitch black, in the middle of a tempest, to try and flag down a carriage that might or might not be coming by?”
