Page 61 of Pride: The Rogue
“Yes, well, that is something we can both agree upon.”
They shared another one of the intimate smiles that came frighteningly easy to Livian.
Without a word, Lachlan held Bertha’s note out.
She glanced from Lachlan to the page, and then back again at Lachlan. “What—?”
“I don’t need your letter, Livian. I’m not looking for collateral.”
Because he trusts me…
The unspoken meaning behind his words sent fresh waves of warmth cascading over her.
Livian held her palms up. “I still want you to have it.”
“I don’t need it.”
“I know,” she said at his insistence. “I just…want you to.” Because giving him that small, important piece of her mattered. In his keeping it, there’d be a piece he’d carry of her, and in that, she’d be with him.
That she wished to, scared the everlasting hell out of her.
Latimer, with a gaze opaque she could make nothing out of it, tucked her note inside the front of his jacket, placing the page close to his heart.
And her own, beat wildly in response.
“It’s late, darlin’,” he murmured. “We should get some rest.”
Rest? “Yes.” As if she could with him lying next to her, and everything they’d shared swirling in her mind.
Except, curiously, the moment she climbed into bed, and rested her head on the pillow—this time, facing Lachlan, and Lachlan facing her, Livian’s eyes grew heavy, and a peaceful calm sent her into a deep, welcoming, sleep.
Chapter 11
The following morning, Latimer attempted to open his eyes. The moment he did, a flash of sharp, piercing, light, briefly blinded him.
With a groan, he promptly shut them to ward the brightness off, but specks of white orbs specked his vision.
What in hell?His mind muddled, Latimer scrubbed his hands up and down his face and pressed his palms against his eyes to get his vision right again.
He let his arms fall to his side and attempted to open his eyes. This time, he did so with greater care.
That still bright glare met him and proved to be nothing other than the goddamned, golden sun; big, bright, and high enough east to gather the late morning hour.
Cursing, Latimer rolled his shoulders, stretching the tight muscles.
Christ, he’d never had a harder time getting to sleep, which given the miserable places he’d found himselfrestingthroughout his life, was sayinga lot.But then, when he’d finally drifted off last night, he’d slept like the actual dead.
As such, he now found himself struggling to make sense of his surroundings.
His bags rested next to him.
A small table with a wooden plate, filled with eggs and crusty-looking bread sat in the corner.
His gaze slid to a perfectly tidied bed; one so immaculately made it gave no indication there’d been anyone to sleep there.
Latimer went still.
But…there had been someone.
