Page 62 of Pride: The Rogue
Then the fog of sleep lifted, and it all came rushing back.
Livian Lovelace.
First, the fight between them, then the taproom, and the night passed, speaking.
There was no indication she’d ever been here, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d merely imagined the beautiful, spirited, proud minx.
He jammed a hand inside his jacket and felt about; his fingers collided with an older sheet of parchment, and he froze.
Real.
She’d been all real. Unlike any woman he’d ever known, but very much, flesh and blood and decidedly the reason for his particularly painful morning erection.
Frowning, Lachlan got himself up into standing and glanced about.
She’d just…left?
Granted, that’d been what she’d always intended to do, just as he had originally planned.
And Latimer had just slept right through it. There’d been no goodbye. His frown deepened. Just as he’d intended to do, she’d slipped out, before anyone was wiser to the fact they’d shared a room…but not before, leaving a plate for him—which he wasn’t sure he’d have been considerate enough to do, because he, well, hell, he’d been looking after himself for so long he wasn’t accustomed to looking after others.
Not that he neededtolook after Livian Lovelace, or she him.
But shehad. She’d been the first—and would be the only—person, in his entire life who’d thought to look after him the way she had. Livian’s was a small, but intimate, gesture. Having never been a recipient of that care, he found himself grappling with the unlikely discovery of how bloody nice it actually—
“Fuuucck.” Confounded, Latimer swiped his hands up and down his face. “I need to get the hell out of here.”
Even more than that, he needed to purge Livian from his goddamned head. He had business matters to finalize, amarriage to see to—marriage to a cool, haughty, pampered duchess.
A fate that’d already been unpalatable now left an appallingly bad taste in his mouth.
Determined to put Livian from his thoughts once and for all, Latimer went about his daily ablutions, and even that casual task froze him in his tracks.
Two, not one, but two, porcelain pitchers rested there: one empty, the other full. One empty basin. The other filled with filmy water.
He reached for the chipped, porcelain pitcher and while he filled the bowl, his gaze remained locked on the one Livian had used.
Did she rinse a cloth and wipe it over her face or splash that cold water upon her—
Latimer dunked his whole head under the freezing depths. Opening his eyes, he stared with blurred vision to the bottom of the bowl.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he mumbled, more bubbles than sound releasing from his lips.
Latimer remained that way until the only option other than air, was death by drowning. At the last possible moment, he wrenched himself free from the water. Clutching the edge of the table, he puffed and wheezed for breath.
Latimer gave his head several hard shakes, sending drops splattering and scattering. Stripping off his clothes, he tossed the rumpled garments aside, ignored the crisp, dry, folded cloth in favor of the damp, and also perfectly folded one, beside Livian’s pitcher.
This time, he didn’t let his mind dwell on why. He hurried through the rest of his morning routine.
A short while later, clean, properly attired in new garments fit to meet his future wife, the duchess, Latimer snatched the hunk of crusty bread and stuck it between his teeth.
His old, leather pack strapped on his back, and a saddle bag in hand, Latimer found his way to the taproom.
When he arrived downstairs, he glanced about. Unlike the peaceful calm shared with Livian, the room bustled as it had when he’d taken refuge from the storm. The difference being, last evening’s occupants, as evidenced by the quiet in which they sat and the dearth of conversation among them, now sported the effects of their overindulgence.
Latimer’s gaze wandered to the fireplace.
With his spare hand, he removed the bread Livian had left for him from between his teeth.
