Page 69 of Pride: The Rogue
His mistress who’d also had a brutish stranger—granted, it’d been Latimer, but it could have been any other worse fellow—invade her rooms, and not only disarmed her but had her under him.
That, when those drunken men in the taproom would most likely not have managed restraint, because, well, all men thought with their nobs and weren’t to be trusted around any women—forget the spirited, golden, temptress, Livian Love—
“Fuck,” he snapped, sending startled willow tits flying from the trees overhead.
Not allowing himself to think back on his actions, Latimer set Fortune into a full gallop toward The St. George Inn.
The moment he reached the courtyard, an efficient Moira was already there to greet him.
“Back already, sir,” she cried happily, taking his reins the moment he swung down.
“Miss…Mrs… the woman I was speaking with earlier. Has she left?”
The girl shook her head. “No, sir.”
“No.”
“No,” Moira repeated.
Fuck.
He knew it.
Fury and frustration formed a pebble in his stomach. Through gritted teeth, he spoke as calmly as he could. “What of her driver?”
“The driver left some hours earlier, by horse,” Moira informed.
His entire mood blackening, Latimer slanted a furious look at the inn. He didn’t know if the delectable, proud Livian Lovelace was brave, stupid, or a combination of the two.
Growling, he headed to find the chit. By God, if she were sitting in the taproom with all those bloody men—
“Won’t find her there, Mr. Latimer,” Moira called after him.
Confused, he glanced over at the girl who now lovingly stroked Fortune’s neck.
“Went that way, she did.” With her spare hand that held the reins, Moira pointed west. “On foot.”
“On foot?”
She nodded.
What the hell was it about Livian Lovelace that had him repeating himself like a bloody stupid parrot?
“Right after you left, Mr. Latimer.”
Latimer suspected the young girl possessed more secrets and knowledge than all the London gossips combined. Moira’s however, proved far more helpful and valuable.
He gritted his teeth.
He scraped a hand through his hair and knocked his hat off. Bending down, he swiped it from the ground. “And—”
“She was alone, sir,” she answered, correctly anticipating his next question.
He fetched another purse from his pack and gave it to the little girl. “You’re going to have me bankrupt before I’m done in this corner of England, Moira.”
Her laughter following behind him, Latimer set out in pursuit of the infuriating minx.
At least, one of them found amusement this day.
