Page 10 of Road Trip With a Rogue (Her Majesty’s Rebels #3)

Daisy was up bright and early, impatient to be on the road. She’d slept fitfully, her dreams interrupted by an obnoxious number of lurid fantasies that all seemed to feature a dark, sardonic rake. She hadn’t needed to see his face to know his identity. Damn him.

The servants had washed and dried her breeches and shirt, and she’d packed a small bag with some extra clothes for the days ahead.

The idea of spending two nights in the far more intimate confines of a public inn with Vaughan was unsettling, to say the least, and she was determined that her identity as a woman would remain undetected.

Mrs. Jennings had miraculously produced two spare white shirts, stockings, and an extra pair of breeches for her. The shirts were so fine they must have been ordered for Justin, but the breeches had doubtless come from one of the smaller stable lads.

Daisy had debated whether to pack a dress, then decided against it, and instead included the small stoppered flask of laudanum that Ellie had once given her.

Tess had used the same concoction to subdue a man in order to search his house for clues as to who was blackmailing Princess Charlotte, and Daisy felt better knowing she had it as a secondary kind of insurance.

If she found herself needing to escape Vaughan, for whatever reason, she would have no compunction about drugging him.

To her surprise, he was already in the breakfast room when she went downstairs, and she tried not to notice how good he looked with his face freshly shaved, and his dark hair curling against the perfect folds of his snowy cravat. He’d probably slept like a log, the brute.

He toasted her with his coffee cup. “Good morning, Dorothea.”

“ Daisy ,” she growled. “Although you should avoid even calling me that when we’re on the road.”

“You’re right, I should think of another name for you,” he said. “Several come to mind, but none I’d want to repeat in polite company.”

She gulped down a scalding sip of coffee while he regarded her with a gaze that made her wish she could read his mind. Or maybe not.

“Perhaps I’ll call you brat,” he murmured. “Or whelp.”

“Perhaps I’ll stab you in your sleep,” she countered sweetly.

He smirked. “As I said, you’re welcome to try.”

She bit into one of Mrs. Ward’s delicious apple puffs to avoid answering him, but the damned thing was so flaky that several pieces dropped to her plate and several more clung to her lips.

She wiped them away self-consciously with her fingers, and glanced up to find him watching her with an intense expression that sent a shivery little thrill through her.

She licked her lower lip, testing with her tongue to be sure she hadn’t missed any bits, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.

He put down his coffee cup with slightly too much force. “I’ll see you outside.”

Daisy finished her breakfast, then went to say goodbye to the staff. Mrs. Ward and Mrs. Jennings, who were sisters, both came into the hall to wave her off.

“You take care now, Miss Hamilton,” Mrs. Ward said with a stern look in her eye. “I’ve had Betsy pack you a hamper of food. And Lawrence has already put your bag in the coach.”

“Thank you,” Daisy smiled. “And would you please send this to Her Grace as soon as possible?” She pulled the letter she’d penned to Tess from her jacket pocket.

She and Ellie were probably worrying themselves sick about where she might be.

They would have been expecting her back at Lincoln’s Inn Fields with Violet and Peregrine in tow yesterday.

As was usual when they corresponded, Daisy had given only the briefest details of the situation:

First attempt unsuccessful. Have engaged the services of a mutual acquaintance and expect to arrive at the Blacksmith’s before the undesired event takes place.

Tess and Ellie would understand the reference to the fact that most Gretna Green marriages took place over an anvil, presided over by the local blacksmith, rather than officiated by any member of the clergy.

Daisy had debated whether to mention Vaughan by name, or at least by allusion, as the scandal sheets did, the D—of C—, but decided against it.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she kept the information to herself.

Perhaps it was for the same reason she’d never actually told Tess and Ellie about the night Vaughan had kissed her.

Which was odd, now she came to think about it.

The three of them had discussed almost everything else, including details of far more graphic and scandalous experiences, but she’d always kept the dark, shameful secret of that evening locked deep inside.

Finch sent her a look that was neither friendly nor unfriendly as she stalked out to the carriage, and she supposed he was trying to decide whether she’d turn out to be trouble for his master. She rather imagined it would be the other way around.

A clatter of hooves revealed Vaughan mounted on a handsome black horse she recognized as Apollo, a slightly skittish gelding from Justin’s stables.

“I would have liked to ride,” she said crossly.

He glanced down at her, his brows drawn in a line. “You can’t ride sidesaddle dressed like that. You’d reveal yourself as a girl.”

“I can ride astride,” she countered. “It’s much easier than with a stupid sidesaddle.”

She sent him a challenging stare, just daring him to say something obnoxious about women riding like men, but he merely calmed the circling horse with an effortless move.

“I didn’t think of that. I apologize. If you still want to ride at the next stop, I’ll arrange it for you.”

He urged Apollo forward, leaving her open-mouthed. She watched him for a moment longer, begrudgingly appreciating the natural grace of him in the saddle—she supposed he’d ridden for days at a time during the war—before she climbed up into the coach.

She refused to long for his company. As they rejoined the road, she took the chance to make a thorough search of the interior and discovered not only that the two wall-mounted pistols had been reloaded, but also a stack of books stashed in a compartment under the seat next to the wicker basket of food Mrs. Ward had provided.

It was an intriguing glimpse into Vaughan’s interests, several of which coincided with her own.

Some were predictable: a well-thumbed copy of Homer’s Iliad —no surprise that the subject of warfare should feature in his reading matter.

She snorted in amusement at the translation of The Prince by Machiavelli, ignored a two-week-old copy of The Times , and raised her brows at the copy of Byron’s Corsair .

More intriguing was the cloth-bound copy of Sense and Sensibility by A Lady; Daisy would bet fifty pounds Vaughan had never looked inside.

Perhaps it had been left by a previous female inhabitant.

A mistress? A tiny pang of envy pierced her.

She finally settled on a book on fencing by the great master Domenico Angelo and sat back to read.

Vaughan’s broad-shouldered figure would occasionally come level with the window, but she did her best to ignore him.

She most certainly was not looking at the way his strong thighs flexed as he controlled the powerful horse, or how his black-leather-gloved hands rested so easily on the reins.

No indeed.

At the next stop he dismounted and came to the window. “Do you wish to ride?”

She shook her head. The sky was looking rather gray, promising rain. “Maybe tomorrow.”

He shrugged, and after instructing that Apollo be returned to Wansford Hall, he joined her in the carriage.

The space immediately felt suffocatingly crowded. He gestured to the book she’d abandoned on the seat. “Dreaming of new ways to skewer me?”

“Just giving myself a little refresher. I’ve read it before. In fact, I’ve taken lessons from his son, Henry Charles, at Soho House.”

To his credit, Vaughan didn’t sneer at the idea of a woman learning to fence, but Daisy had the lowering thought that the graceful, precise movements she’d learned in the practice room would be of little use in a real battle, like those in which he’d been involved.

They trundled through several more villages, until the silence became unendurable. She tilted her chin at the swinging sign of an inn.

“Tess, Ellie, and I always play games whenever we’re on a long journey together.”

His brows rose in partial interest. “Like what?”

“Well, we try to see how many different animals we can collect from all the different pub signs we pass. I swear, sometimes you can make a whole menagerie. We’ve already passed The Old Bull, The Red Lion, The Eagle, The Bay Horse, and The Fox and Hounds.”

She realized she was babbling, and flushed. He’d doubtless think such games incredibly childish. He probably spent his journeys debauching his female companions and calculating the extent of his ducal holdings to the nearest hundred thousand pounds.

“I can’t say I’ve ever played that game,” he said mildly.

Infuriating man. Still, she’d promised to provide him with interesting conversation during the journey, and she would do just that. Even if it killed her.

She cast around for another subject. “Did you know that this stretch of the Old North Road is particularly famous for its highwaymen?”

His lips twitched. “Here? Not the woods just north of Hampstead Heath?”

She ignored the taunt. “Dick Turpin is said to have galloped along here on Black Bess on his way to York.”

“And every inn between here and Harrogate claims he stopped for a pint.” His tone was gently sardonic. “If that were true, he’d have taken considerably longer than his famed fifteen hours.”

Daisy bit back a smile. She’d always thought the same thing. “Some people say it wasn’t Turpin who made the ride at all, but a man called Swift Nick, fifty years before, to establish an alibi. But everyone loves a good tale. Especially if it involves a bit of romance.”

Vaughan’s brows rose in astonishment. “ Romance? There’s nothing remotely romantic about almost being shot dead in the road, Hamilton.”

“Of course there isn’t. But people never focus on the unpleasant realities. Just look at the legend of Claude Duval.”

“A Frenchman,” Vaughan snorted.

“People romanticize him because he rarely used violence and because of the tale that he once changed his mind about robbing someone when the lady agreed to dance a courante with him.”

“They still hanged him, though, didn’t they? And that knave they called Sixteen String Jack.”

Daisy sighed. “They did.”

She worried her lip with her teeth. The man she’d shot might not swing on the gallows, but he might still end up dead, like his two companions, if his wound became infected.

“Stop thinking about it,” Vaughan said harshly.

“What?”

“That bastard you shot. He chose that profession. And he would have killed Geordie. In fact, you probably saved his miserable life, because Finch or I wouldn’t have spared him.”

She nodded, knowing he was right—but slightly disturbed by the fact he always seemed to know what she was thinking.

The rain that had been threatening finally arrived, tapping against the windows and making the inside of the carriage seem even cozier and more private than before. Vaughan leaned back negligently in his seat.

“You promised to keep me entertained with conversation, and as fascinating as I find the subject of highway robbery, there’s another topic I’d prefer to discuss.”

Daisy eyed him warily. The silky, drawling tone of his voice immediately put her on guard. “And what’s that?”

“I’d like to dispute a comment you made yesterday. You said you’d never use the word noble to describe me. And while that may be true for the most part, I believe there was one occasion, five years ago, when I acted with almost breathtaking nobility and restraint.”

Her stomach somersaulted as she caught his meaning. Oh, God, were they really going to discuss this? Now? When she couldn’t escape?

The man truly was a fiend.