Page 2 of The Rogue’s Runaway Bride (Rogue of Her Own #3)

With that, he snatched at the purse she’d tethered to her wrist by its braided cord.

When she pulled away, he caught her arm, twisting hard until a soft cry of pain escaped her.

Seizing the moment, he deftly sliced through the cord.

A cold-eyed grin pulled at his mouth as he dangled the velveteen bag before her.

“You can’t take that,” she blurted out, shocking even herself with the force of her words.

He flashed the folding knife as he leered at her. “Ye’re bloody lucky I don’t take more.”

Raw laughter burst out from the ruffians in the alley.

The hoodlum flashed an ugly parody of a smile before he turned away, his prize in hand, and bolted down the alley.

The young lad she’d believed lost ran along with the toughs as swiftly as his little legs could carry him until one of them scooped him up and they continued on their way.

Good heavens.

Belle’s heartbeat hammered in her ears. Only then, after the ruffian had dashed away with her last shilling, did the shock of what had happened hit her with full force.

She’d been in true danger—danger far beyond the loss of her meager purse.

While she had faced the threat, her fear had lingered beneath the surface, not fully showing itself until now.

Her knees felt suddenly weak. The sounds of her pounding heartbeat and the thief’s crude laughter lingered in her ears.

Thankfully, the ruffian and his accomplices had been concerned with stealing her coins and nothing more.

She’d been quite vulnerable, more than she’d realized.

If they’d had other foul deeds in mind, she might well have ended up cold and dead in the alley.

The very thought chilled her. She had allowed herself to be drawn into a trap. The sweet-faced tot had been nothing more than a lure.

Oh, she’d been such a fool. But how could she have ignored a young child, alone and teary-eyed?

Truth be told, she worried over the lad, even now.

What kind of life could a little boy experience on these streets, used as bait by a thief and his rowdy companions?

Would the thief use the coins he’d stolen for food?

Or would the stolen funds be used for far more nefarious purposes?

Thoughts racing through her mind, she dragged in a breath, and then another, as if that might calm her.

A day earlier, she would have willingly pressed money into a hungry lad’s hand for nourishment and shelter.

But now... now she could not even afford a bed upon which to rest for the night.

Nor a meal to fill her own empty stomach.

The door to the café creaked open. A woman with a tumble of gray hair pinned atop her head stood arms akimbo, eyeing Belle as though she were some sort of vermin set to infest the establishment.

“Move along, miss.” Her voice was gruff and hard. “I don’t need yer type bothering my customers.”

Yer type? Belle blinked. What was this ruddy-faced woman insinuating?

Hours earlier, the woman would’ve welcomed Belle into her modest café.

But now... well, heaven only knew what she thought Belle was up to.

Throwing a quick glance toward the dirt-crusted hem of her once pristine silk dress, she could scarcely fault the proprietor for the misunderstanding.

Another crackle of lightning lit the sky. “I’ve been robbed,” Belle said, thinking she might inspire a touch of compassion. “Might I come in... until the storm passes?”

The woman stared at her. Her cold gaze raked over Belle. Seeming to assess the quality of the fabric in her dress, soiled as it was, she scrunched her nose and gave a dismissive shake of her head. “Stealing some fine lady’s gown... I will not tolerate a thief. I run a quality establishment.”

“I am no thief.” Belle squared her shoulders, meeting the proprietor’s cold gaze. “This dress was made for me.”

The woman shrugged. “Made for ye, eh?” She chuckled. “And I’m the queen’s lady in waiting, disguising myself by stirring pots of stew every night.”

Belle held her voice steady. “Please, you don’t understand.”

The woman’s brows hiked. “I understand all I need to know.” The coldness in her expression spoke louder than her words. “I meant what I said. Move along.” She glanced behind her, at something or someone Belle could not see. “Before ye regret—”

As a fresh rumble of thunder drowned out the proprietor’s words, Belle nodded her acceptance. Turning away, defeat washed over her.

My, she’d certainly gotten herself into a fix this time, hadn’t she?

Behind her, lightning lit the sky. This time, the strike was nearly upon her. Far too close for comfort.

The faint rattle of wheels in the distance drifted to her ears. She glanced toward the sound. Oh, my. A large midnight-black coach headed toward her at a breakneck pace.

Another bolt of lightning crackled through the air. This time, the strike was close.

Too close for comfort.

Her heart and her thoughts raced. While lightning crackled against the ominous gray sky, the sounds of the carriage grew louder.

Nearer. She could hear the clop of the horses’ hooves against the cobbles.

At this distance, she could barely make out the man at the reins, especially the distinctive feathered cap the driver had worn like a uniform.

A thunderclap seemed to shake the air itself. The dark gray clouds opened. Suddenly, cold, wet drops pelted her face. She clutched her cloak around her, but the thin wool was no match for the downpour. She’d soon be soaked.

But that was not the worst of her problems. No, the midnight-black carriage barreling down the street once again claimed the dubious honor.

She needed shelter. And she had to find a place to hide. At least until the coach and its occupants had barreled on its way.

Suddenly, the rowdy tavern across the road did not seem so unsuitable.

Pulling her hood lower to conceal her features, Belle hurried across the street.

As she rushed toward the sound of the piano player and off-key warbler, she braced herself for the worst. There was no telling what she’d encounter in a pub whose proprietor described it as a lair. And for rogues, no less.

But that didn’t matter. Not now.

Bundling her cloak around her, she pulled open the tavern’s stout door and darted inside the alcove. And promptly collided with a man. With his broad, hard-as-stone chest, to be precise. But not just any man. No. Not on this night, when her fortunes continued to spiral from bad to worse.

Tonight, it had to be him.

She stared up at the tall, dark-haired man whose powerful, immovable object of a body had halted her frantic dash.

Jon Mason.

Good heavens. My luck cannot be this bad.

He’d rested his hands on her shoulders, gently stilling her. Those dark brown eyes of his were so very familiar. So very unforgettable.

For his part, he gazed down at her, seeming to regard her as if she had just arrived from another planet.

Slowly, his brows lifted. Not quite to his hairline, but to the shock of coppery brown strands over his forehead that had escaped the style he’d neatly combed with just enough pomade.

A slight semblance of a smile played on the full mouth she knew only too well.

After all, it wasn’t all that long ago when she’d kissed those very lips.

“Hello, Miss Frost.” He cocked his head in that assessing way of his, both infuriating and ridiculously appealing. “I must say, I am surprised to see you here tonight.” His dark eyes narrowed. “And in such a beautiful ensemble.”

This cannot be happening.

But it was.

Perhaps she could pretend he was mistaken. Would he fall for it if she claimed he’d confused her for someone else? Or perhaps... just perhaps... this might be a good time to feign a convenient case of amnesia.

No. She dismissed the panic-driven notions as quickly as they flitted into her brain. Jon Mason did not possess a gullible bone in his body. A West End thespian could not pull off a ruse on this man who prided himself on his razor-sharp logic.

So, as she usually did—before she’d met the scoundrel who now chased her through the streets of London, at least—Belle met the truth of the situation head-on.

“Hello,” she managed through half-gritted teeth. “I am feeling a touch of shock as well.”

His keenly intelligent eyes gleamed with curiosity as he tilted his head a bit more. At this rate, he risked getting a crick in his neck.

Dropping his hands to his sides, he took a step back and allowed his gaze to rather boldly sweep over her.

For a moment, he idly stroked his chin, affecting the look of a man deep in thought.

His attention settled on the delicate lace trim on the sleeves of the dress peeking out from beneath her plain cloak.

“Tell me this, Arabelle,” he said, the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. “Are my eyes deceiving me, or are you wearing a... a wedding dress?” A little frown crinkled the area between his dark brows. “A rather soggy one, at that.”

Good heavens. Every time she’d believed this night could not get any worse, it had done precisely that. Well, there was no point trying to evade the question.

“Why yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” She lowered her voice even as she held her tone steady. “Given the pouring rain, I don’t expect I will need to explain the soggy state of the fabric.”

Nodding his agreement, he scratched his chin. “I suppose the detail that puzzles me is the very fact that you’re wearing such a gown in the first place.”

Through the leaded glass window behind Jon’s broad back, she caught a flash of black beneath the gas lamp. A sudden jolt of apprehension coursed through her. Had the driver spotted her when she made her way to the tavern?

“It’s quite a long story.” She dropped her voice nearly to a whisper and moved to stand by the window.

“Undoubtedly,” he said, joining her there. “Looking for the groom?”

Raising up on her toes, she peered into the night. The telltale whinny of horses permeated the thick glass. Oh, dear. Her stomach sank. She could not see the conveyance. Had the driver maneuvered it out of sight?

The taste of fear rose to the back of her throat. If the driver—and the occupant of the coach—had concealed the carriage in the darkness of the alley, they likely knew she was here.

And they would come after her.

Her mind raced. A season earlier, Jon Mason had been the last man on earth she would’ve turned to for.

.. well, for anything. She would not have asked the arrogant cad to pass the sugar bowl so that she might sweeten her tea.

The man was a rogue—a rogue who’d kissed her breathless, then walked away to attend his precious business as if she’d meant absolutely nothing to him.

But that was then. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

At the moment, Jon was her best hope.

Heaven help her.