Page 5 of The Rogue’s Runaway Bride (Rogue of Her Own #3)

G ood God, she is a beautiful woman. Even a smudge of dirt on her face, the rain weighing down those long, honey-blonde curls, and an unflattering gown dulled by street grime could not hide that essential truth.

Even now—as she glared at him with those gorgeous blue eyes, her rosy mouth taut with a touch of anger—Belle was a true diamond.

Bloody hell, why had he questioned her so bluntly?

Why in blazes is the rotter chasing you all over the city?

He’d phrased the question too harshly. Even to his own ears, his words came off as brusque.

Perhaps even callous. He had not wanted that.

He had not wanted to hurt her. Nor to anger her. But now, he’d managed to do both.

Sometimes, even he had to admit he was an absolute arse.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. Leaning back in his chair, he looked at the scotch in his glass. Murray would soon bring her meal, and perhaps the tension between them might ease. But for now, he took a drink as she uttered a terse reply.

“I’ve already told you.” She glanced away, seeming to study the pattern on his carpet. “We had planned to speak our vows after my parents’ return. But I had a change of heart.”

“There’s nothing more to it?” he pressed.

“Nothing more?” She let out a little sigh, a flicker of anger in her gaze. “Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Jon took another drink. He’d seen the distress on her face, the way the question she posed seemed to cause her pain. “Evidently, not in the bloke’s eyes.”

“Quite so,” she agreed, her tone a bit more relaxed. “He was utterly shocked when I refused to meekly follow his dictates.”

Jon cocked a brow. “The man does not know you well, does he?”

“Truth be told, it was I who did not know him. Not at all.” She spoke the words as though they revealed an ugly truth. “But that does not matter now. I do feel I can breathe more easily now. That chapter is over.”

Jon studied her for a long moment, seeing the truth. Even she did not believe her own words.

He allowed her a moment’s pause before pressing forward. “So, do you have any idea of what comes next?”

“Not precisely.” She rose, turning about to take in all four corners of his office. As she met his gaze, a spark of inspiration lit her eyes. “Unless...”

“Belle...” He suspected he knew the direction of her thoughts. “What are you thinking?”

A smile brightened her face. “Perhaps I might stay here.”

He regarded her for a long, speechless moment. “In my office?” he ground out finally.

She offered a hopeful shrug. “It might work.” She gestured to the small sofa. “At least I would have a safe place to bed down for the night. After all, you’ve even laid out a blanket.”

“My dear Miss Frost—” He rubbed his neck, kneading out a sudden ache. “Have you gone daft?”

She hiked her chin. “It is not such a farfetched idea. Not really. After all, I don’t take up much space.”

“The volume of space you occupy does not signify.” He plowed his fingers through his hair. “I cannot vouch for your safety here. And I do not intend to spend the night sleeping on the floor, playing bodyguard.”

“That would not be necessary,” she countered. “I presume the doors have stout locks.”

“There are too many access points—too many panes of glass which could be broken by an intruder. You would be far too vulnerable.”

“Gideon does not know I am here,” she pointed out. “You saw him leave.”

He shook his head. “It is out of the question.”

“In that case, I shall have to find suitable accommodations at a hotel.” She let out another little sigh.

“However, as you know, I am currently penniless. If you might advance me the funds to cover my stay—likely no more than a fortnight—and a small amount to provide for meals and a new dress or two during that time, I would be in your debt.”

He stood and walked to the window. Mulling the idea, he peered down into the night. “You think to hide in a hotel in London?”

“I see no other option.”

“The bastard was determined to find you tonight. What makes you think he won’t keep looking?”

“I suppose I shall have to take a chance.” She pulled in a breath. “Now, will you assist me in reserving proper accommodations?”

Jon turned back to her. “Absolutely not.”

Her eyes went wide, betraying that his answer had taken her aback. She nibbled her lower lip. “Very well, then.” She looked to be holding back tears. “I suppose I should be on my way.”

“I can’t let you do that, Arabelle.” He reached for her, placing his hand gently on her forearm. “I must insist—you’re coming home with me.”

*

Belle jerked away from his touch as if his hand had transformed into a scorpion’s stinging tail. “Coming home?” she repeated his words like a confused parrot. “With you?”

The slightest hint of amusement touched his lips. “Doubting your own ears again, are you?”

Squaring her shoulders, she pulled in a breath. “I do wish someone had informed me that you’d gone mad.”

“Mad?” His gaze trailed over her dress. “Fine words coming from a woman running about London in a wedding gown.”

“Well, this woman in a wedding gown is walking away. I knew you were quite full of yourself. But I had not believed you to be a complete heel.”

He met her accusation with a deliberately bland look. “So now I am a heel?” he said. “I rather preferred mad. It’s infinitely more interesting.”

“Oh, you are mad as a hatter.” She shot him a scowl. “But I’d never believed you were a scoundrel who would seek to capitalize upon... my desperate circumstance.”

“Scoundrel? I rather like the sound of that.” A faint smile curved his full mouth. “But we both know it would take more than this fix you find yourself in to drive you to desperation. You’re like a blasted cat with nine lives.”

“And I am only on my first.” She snatched her cloak off the hook and went to the door, but he stood before it, blocking the space.

Why, the absolute gall of the man.

He slowly shook his head. “Leaving now would be a mistake.”

“You think to stop me?” She planted her hands on her hips. “Have you forgotten you are not dealing with a fragile English rose?”

“Ah, an American princess, well-acquainted with the mean streets of New York.” His voice was low and edged with gravel. “How could I ever forget?”

“Surely you do not think to keep me here against my will.”

“Good God, no,” he said as if the idea were the most idiotic notion he’d ever heard. “Nothing so theatrical.”

Belle met his eyes. “Well, you don’t have to act as if the possibility is so very absurd.”

“The very thought of holding a woman against her will—any woman, much less a dollar princess from Buffalo—is bloody exhausting. If I wanted to keep you here with me, I could find a more efficient means of persuasion.”

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” She hiked her chin. “Always so very sure of yourself.”

“One of my better qualities, or so I’m told.”

Standing this close, she could detect the subtle notes of shaving soap on his throat, could see the bristles of new beard darkening the strong line of his jaw. “I’d hoped you might wish to help me, if only out of a sense of chivalry.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Do I look like a blasted knight?”

No, as a matter of fact, he did not. Dash the luck .

Jon Mason was infinitely more appealing than any image she’d ever conjured of Sir Lancelot.

With his lean and sleekly muscular physique, Jon wore his immaculately tailored linen shirt and wool jacket with an utter lack of conceit, despite the way the garments displayed the powerful build of his broad shoulders and chest. It tasted like too-tart lemon to admit it, even to herself, but the man was a dashingly handsome specimen of masculinity, a man who did not need to cloak himself in a suit of clunky old armor.

But she certainly couldn’t reveal that truth, now could she?

“My inclination to help you is not rooted in chivalry,” he went on. “As far as persuading you to stay as a guest in my home, it would appear I have a simple technique at my disposal.”

“Do you, now?”

“Before you further question my motives, I suggest you take a look.” He crossed the room to the window. “But stand to the side, behind the curtain.”

“Very well,” she agreed. Slipping the drapery to the side, she peered through the glass to the street below. “There’s nothing there.”

“Look to the alley.”

Her gaze tracked the street from the tavern to the café across the road. Gaslight illuminated what looked to be a large, exceedingly sturdy horse. Precisely the kind that pulled Gideon’s carriage. Trailing her attention along the street past the café, she spotted the silhouettes of two men.

Oh, dear.

The driver with his substantial nose and distinctive cap stood out, even in shadow. Another man walked at his side. Not Gideon. This ox of a man was taller, broader, and in his hand, he carried what looked to be a patrolman’s nightstick.

Her heart raced. For the first time that night, a sense of defeat washed over her. Gideon wasn’t going to give up. And now, he’d enlisted a brute who might even wear a lawman’s badge.

Suddenly, the room seemed to tilt beneath her feet, if only a bit. The cloak in her hand fell to the floor. Jon’s hand pressed gently to her waist, his fingers splaying against her ribs to steady her.

“The finest hotel in London will not be safe. Not now,” he said, leading her back to the settee. “Not until I arrange proper security.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted, nervously arranging her skirts as she settled upon the cushions. “This is worse,” she managed. “Much more difficult than I’d expected.”

He gazed down at her, his brow furrowed, but without a look of judgment. “When you left, did you think he would come after you?”

“I didn’t think. ” Swallowing against a fresh rush of emotion, she met his dark eyes. “I simply ran.”

“Bloody hell,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Are you going to tell me why?”

She couldn’t speak the words. Couldn’t share the ugly truth with this man who’d suddenly somehow become her safe haven in the storm.

“As I told you, I had a change of heart.”

His eyes flashed, and he looked like he was trying not to scowl. “Then tell me the truth. Why is the blighter pursuing you?” His tone was low and gruff. “A man trying to win over a reluctant bride would not send two ruffians to hunt her down like a thief on the run.”

Belle pressed her fingers to her temples to massage the growing ache. “I’d truly never imagined you possess a flair for the dramatic.”

“You know blasted well that I’m right.”

She glanced down at the third finger of her left hand. She’d tossed the emerald betrothal ring in Gideon’s smug face.

She wanted nothing from him.

The cad had deceived her, well and truly. His promises had been empty. The tender words he’d spoken had been nothing but lies.

“I have no illusions. The man is neither lovestruck. Nor desperate,” she said with a forced calm. “It’s quite different from that.”

“Then what is it?”

She pulled in a low, calming breath. “Gideon is not accustomed to defiance. He is a powerful man.”

This time, Jon did scowl. “And judging from the look on your face... a dangerous one.”

Goodness, he’d always been able to read her expression. And heaven knew she possessed little talent for hiding her emotions. Her brother had once advised her against playing card games where strategy and secrecy were factors. Her features blurted out the secrets she struggled to conceal.

“I suspect that may be the case.” She gulped a small breath. “I do not wish to test the theory.”

A sharp rap upon the door cut into her words. She jolted, alert for danger, but Jon’s slight smile and brisk nod reassured her she had no reason for concern.

“It’s Murray,” a man announced in a brusque tone.

“Very good.” Jon ushered in an older man who carried an elegant silver tray laden with what appeared to be a late supper.

Tall and lean, with keen eyes and graying hair, the man’s gaze swept over Belle’s gown.

He eyed her with a slightly puzzled expression, as if a question poised on the tip of his tongue.

Giving a small shrug, he placed the tray on a side table and gestured toward the thick slices of bread, cheese, and a frosted glass brimming with tea. “I hope this is to yer liking, Miss.”

“I thought you might be hungry,” Jon explained. “I took the liberty of requesting something plain, but filling.”

My, he’d remembered her fondness for simple fare. How very surprising.

“Thank you,” she said to both men. “It looks delicious.”

“You’re quite welcome,” the gray-haired man said with a smile. “Do let me know if ye require anything else.”

“Thank you, Murray,” Jon said as the older man went to the door. “Keep an eye out for the nob and his driver or any other unfamiliar ruffians. Let me know if they return.”

“An unpleasant bloke by any measure.” Murray’s mouth thinned at his words. “Ye can count on me.”

“Very good,” Jon said as Murray closed the door behind him.

The aroma of food triggered Belle’s hunger. Forgoing any pretense of a dainty appetite, Belle took a few hearty bites. While she ate, Jon went to his desk and began to quickly pen notations upon a thick tablet.

When she’d finished the last of the food, he looked up from whatever he’d been writing.

Nibbling her chips, she studied his carved features.

There was something about the intensity in his eyes that had always drawn her to him.

And tonight, as he met her gaze, that intensity was as potent as she’d ever seen it.

“I have come up with a plan,” he said in that direct way of his. “But you will have to trust me.”

She took a sip of tea. “It would appear I have no choice.”

“There is always a choice. But know this, Belle. You will be safe.” He regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “He won’t hurt you. On that, you have my word.”