Page 14 of Pride: The Rogue
“Fuck ye.”
An equally frail, but slightly taller boy, came stampeding over. “They’re ’ere, Caleb! Arrived they did more than an hour ago.”
A muscle worked in Latimer’s jaw. “Over an hour?”
The pair of like-coloring and like-looking boys ignored him outright.
“Mayhap closer to two,” the still nameless lad clarified.
“You were out in those hellish elements over two hours?” Latimer growled.
“Bloody Saints in Heaven be praised,” Caleb whispered.
Relief, the first emotion young Caleb had shown other than rage, washed over the sharp plains of his face.
Latimer, on the other hand, felt a fresh stirring of fury. “You’re praying over the wrong people, lad,” he advised.
Caleb’s vitriolic hate returned in full force. “Yer expecting my gratitude fer hauling my arse back?”
Latimer smirked. “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Who isthis?”
That whispered query came from the more well-spoken boy, brought Latimer’s attention over.
“I take it this is your brother?” he drawled.
“Aye.” The boy nodded. “Eadric.”
“Don’t answer ’im!” Caleb exploded. “He’s a goddamned bastard, ’e is.”
Without a backward look, the littler brother grabbed Eadric’s hand and tugged him away.
Latimer cupped his hands around his mouth. “You’re welcome,” he shouted after the pair.
Caleb lifted a single digit high over his head. “Fuck ye, ye blighter.”
The bigger brother cast an apologetic glance in Latimer’s direction.
The moment they’d lost themselves in the crowd, Latimer gave his head a rueful shake.
Drops of water went spraying everywhere, which reminded him all over again he’d braved that godforsaken weather for a miserable shite who needed far more help than just being plucked from a storm.
The balding, buck-toothed, proprietor, Mr. Felchin, who’d enlisted Latimer’s help, joined him at the entrance.
“It’s been quite the evening, Mr. Latimer,” he gayly greeted, smiling as if he hadn’t sent Latimer on a thankless assignment.
Latimer shrugged out of his soaking wet cloak.
“So many guests,” Mr. Felchin continued, all too happy to carry on a conversation with Latimer, thelastman to ever want a bloody conversation. The proprietor’s smile deepened. “And so many surprises, t—oomph.”
Mr. Felchin grunted and staggered under the weight of Latimer’s heavy cloak.
“I want a bath readied.” Without looking back, Latimer headed upstairs, issuing directives as he went. “A bottle of brandy. A boiling pot of coffee.”
There came a solid thwack and the rapid patter of the smaller man’s footfalls as he struggled to catch Latimer. “Er…uh…yes, Mr. Latimer. You see—”
“The only thing I need or want to see is my bath, brandy, and coffee.” No. Correction. “My boiling pot of coffee,” he amended when he reached his rooms.
