Page 16 of Pride: The Rogue
Mr. Felchin’s mouth moved like he wished to put up a protest, but then wisely closed it, and hastened off in the opposite direction.
When he’d gone, Latimer fished the rusted room key from his pocket and inserted the small bit of metal into the equally rusted hole.
Hesitating, he leaned his right ear close to listen. The medieval oak boards, however, blocked out any hint of sound on the other side.
After a moment, he let himself in.
The same way the aged lock and key made a silent entry impossible, so too did the noisy hinges that’d probably not been creased in the nine hundred or so years since the inn had been constructed.
Still, for Latimer’s best-efforts at a stealthy entry, it should turn out, he needn’t have bothered,anyway.
A deep, juddering, snore filled the room.
The bloody bastard, cozy, comfy, and happily dreaming in Latimer’s goddamned bed, was dead to the world.
Nottheroom. “Myroom,” he muttered to himself.
A healthy fury sizzled within him. That was the way of these bloody bastards. Be them nobs whocalledthemselves friends or made themselves partners to men outside their lofty ranks, at the end of a long, London day, they ultimately took what they wanted.
And in this case—he sharpened his gaze on the mounds of covers—this particular lord, had availed his fat, lazy arse of Latimer’s beds.
He allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkened space.
Latimer looked to the dwindling fire.
The fancy guest Mr. Felchin had so proudly touted, hadn’t even bothered to stoke the bloody fire, which’d nearly gone cold. More likely, the bastard didn’t knowhow.
The small table in the far corner remained littered with the leftovers of the veritable feast Felchin welcomed him with.
A glass of claret sat empty. The bottle beside it, half empty.
Latimer’s empty belly grumbled recalling all the many times he’d been hungry over the years and had to steal and fight for stale and rotted scraps tossed as refuse into the streets.
Now this fat, drunken, lord, with his corpulent belly full, lay dead to the world.
Another loud, unbroken snore filled the quiet, the sounds of which breathed into Latimer, a fresh round of hatred for all noble lords and ladies.
This time, Latimerdidn’tworry about the noisy groan of floorboards as he approached the tosser who’d robbed him of a room and nicked his bed.
When he reached the rickety wood frame, he stopped. Even with Latimer towering over him, the drunken nob slumbered like a babe.
But then, whywouldn’the?
Latimer’s lip peeled into a reflexive sneer. While he’d been out rescuing an ungrateful lad—a lad who in hindsight was clearly employed by thegentleman—thisbastard had gorged himself on wine and food until he’d collapsed into his present stupor. All in the comforts of Latimer’s own rooms, no less.
His fury welled. With fingers numb from the freezing rain, he snatched a corner of the stack of blankets—blankets that’d beenintendedfor Latimer.
“Wakey, wakey. You’ve stolen the wrong man’s room,” he snarled, tugging at the covers. “Do you hear that, Your Royal…Hi…” Latimer froze with the blankets halfway off the slumbering nob.
The sleeping bastard wasn’t a nobleman, at all…but a delicate, modestly-attired, lady.
Bloody hell.
Chapter 4
“Wakey, wakey…”
Livian attempted to blink the thick haze of sleep away.
