How a Lady Weds a Rogue by Katharine Ashe Read Free Book Online Page B

stern lecturing. Or perhaps only a stern word or two, but the lads had scattered readily enough. Rescue overstated the episode.
    “Your valuables, if you will?” He gestured back toward her luggage.
    “I wonder if that is what highwaymen say when accosting a lady on a road.”
    “I doubt it.”
    “Do you?”
    “Miss Lucas.”
    “My valuables.” She opened the trunk and repacked the bandbox efficiently. “Will we walk?” she asked as he attached the bandbox to Galahad’s saddle.
    “Unless you have a magic carpet hidden in that trunk.”
    “If I had a magic carpet I would be in Calais already.” Her eyes were troubled. But it was well after noon and the edge was pressing at his blood, his limbs unsteady again and his temper no better. So he left her to her ruminations and they walked in silence until the posting house came into view.
    “This one is not very grand, is it? The inn in that village yesterday was so comfortable.”
    “The taproom here is no less so.” Whiskey could be gotten within.
    “Walking is invigorating, but truth be told I am simply . . .” Her gaze fluttered past his mouth. “ . . . famished.”
    Drawing a slow breath, he scanned her bedraggled cloak and the muddy hem of her gown. She was an unusual girl, or perhaps despite her noble family merely a country girl accustomed to such walks. And with her cheeks flushed and brow damp from exertion, she was damnably pretty.
    Inside the posting house, he went to the bar and ordered food for her, and whiskey. Across the rough-hewn taproom peopled with laborers, a single patron appeared out of place. A slim man, garbed all in brown and still wearing his rain-spattered hat, sat in the farthest corner with his back to the wall. Familiar. He’d seen this man on the road to recover Lady Priscilla.
    Wyn paid for the bottle and glanced again. The man lowered his gaze.
    “The Hereford and London Coach is to stop here shortly,” he said when he returned to the table.
    “Perfect. Will there be time to eat first?”
    He withheld a smile. “Miss Lucas, you must reconsider your program. Although it astounds me after last night, I think you cannot be fully aware of the dangers of the road.”
    “Those are what you are here for, of course. As you were last night in that stable.” Her eyes flared with a joyful sort of intention. Then, for a moment, confused awareness shadowed them. Wyn could do nothing to ease her discomfort; his hands and lips still remembered her and he was again without speech. His friends would be astonished were they to witness him now, struck silent by a pair of blue eyes and the memory of a soft feminine body pressed to his.
    The barman set a plate of food before her. Her eyes twinkled. “How did you know shepherd’s pie is my favorite, Mr. Yale?”
    She swung so easily from thoughtful stillness to animated delight. Both attitudes made him want to haul her against him and caress considerably more than one round buttock. It was damned provoking.
    “I did not,” he managed to reply. “But I feared ordering the roast, as you might be disappointed by comparison.”
    “You are considerate. Or merely teasing. But you are not eating again.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you only drink?”
    “When I am escorting young ladies about the countryside against my will, yes.” Never, even when he was doing so voluntarily. But Diantha Lucas was not a Falcon Club assignment. She was apparently his own personal sort of torture.
    She seemed to study him as she chewed. Finally she set down her fork and pushed the plate toward him. “Try some. It’s excellent.”
    “Thank you. I will take your word for it.”
    “You look at least a stone lighter than the last time I saw you.” She glanced at the bottle of brandy. “My father used to drink prodigiously. He rarely ate too.”
    “Ah. Then you and I have something in common.” The words came without thought. More unprecedented behavior.
    Her brows perked. “Your father