The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(53)

He opened one eye. “You want me to vomit in my hat.”

“I realize that it’s not the best option,” she said, “but desperate times and all that?”

He shook his head and put the hat back on the seat next to him. “I’m not going to be sick. Carriages don’t make me ill. They make me wish I was not inside carriages.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“I am . . . uncomfortable . . . in them.”

“So you don’t travel?”

He raised a brow. “Of course I travel, as you can see.”

“Yes. But long journeys must be difficult.”

There was a pause. “I don’t wish to be difficult.”

She chuckled at that. “You think your aversion to carriages is what makes you difficult?”

He smiled at her jest, a tiny quirk in his otherwise flat mouth. “I think you are what makes me difficult, these days.”

“Surely not,” she teased. “I am easy as church on Sunday.”

He grunted and closed his eyes. “I do not attend church.”

“Shall I pray for your eternal soul, then?”

“Not if you’re looking for someone to listen to you. I’m a lost cause, scoundrel that I am.”

They rode in silence for a long while, King growing progressively more fidgety and unhappy. Finally, Sophie said, “Would you like to ride on the block with the coachman?”

King shook his head. “I’m fine here.”

“Except you made it clear that you dislike traveling companions. You said as much when we were on the road to Sprotbrough.”

“Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.” The carriage bounced and she slid across the seat, knocking her shoulder against the wall of the coach and gasping in pain.

He swore harshly; he reached for her, lifting and turning her as though she weighed nothing, and settled her on the seat next to him. She was caged by his body and his legs before she could even consider what had happened.

She snapped her head around to his, where his eyes remained closed. “Let me go.”

He kept his eyes closed and ignored her, resuming his relaxed position. “Stop moving. It’s bad for your shoulder and for my sanity.”

Well, being so close to him was not good for her sanity.

Not that he seemed to mind.

She closed her own eyes and put him out of her thoughts. It worked for several seconds, until his warmth enveloped her, beginning where their thighs touched and spreading through her until she wanted nothing but to lean into him. Instead, she kept as much distance as she could, and cast about for something to say that was not Kiss me again, please, if you don’t mind so very much.

Although she wondered if he would do just that if she asked very nicely.

She stiffened, as though posture could dispel errant thoughts. “What about your curricle?”

“What about it?” he replied, not looking at her.

“Why not drive that instead of sitting inside this coach?”

“My curricle is dismantled and headed to Lyne Castle.”

Her eyes went wide. “Why?” Surely it was not for her benefit. She enjoyed the company, but he should be enjoying his life.

“It lacks proper wheels,” he said, dryly.

Of course it did. “I am sorry.”

His eyes opened again, surprise in the green depths. “I think you might be.”

She nodded. “Is that surprising?”

“People rarely apologize to me,” he said, simply. “Even fewer do so without artifice.”

She did not know how to reply to that, so she changed the subject, returning to something safer. “I’ve never seen anyone drive a curricle with such recklessness.”

“Did it seem reckless?”

“You tipped onto one wheel. The whole thing could have toppled over.”

He looked away. “It’s happened before. I survived.”

She imagined him tossed on the side of the road, broken and bleeding. She did not like it. Her brow furrowed. “You could have died.”

“I didn’t.” There was something in the words, something darker than she would like. She wished his eyes were open, so she could make more sense of him.

“But you could have.”

“That’s part of the fun.”

“The threat of death is fun?”

“You can’t imagine that?”

“Considering I nearly died of a gunshot wound several days ago, I do not.”

He did look at her then, and there was no humor in his gaze. “That’s not the same.”

“Because it was not at my own hand?”

“There are many who would say that, yes.” The carriage bounced over a rough patch of road and he gritted his teeth.

“Are you afraid you might die? Now? Is that why you dislike carriages?”

He paused. “This is a very small carriage.”

It was a perfectly ordinary-sized carriage. “Why?”

For a moment, his gaze darkened, and she lost him to thought—something that seemed unpleasant. Haunting. She resisted the urge to put her hand on him. To soothe whatever that memory was. She didn’t expect him to answer. And he didn’t, despite shaking his head and saying, “I don’t care for them.” He paused. “And I do not wish to discuss it further.”