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Authors: The Rogue's Return
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yelled. Dominick leaned to toss the coins at them, while Davies flicked the coach whip over the team.
It was not until the carriage began to move that Anne remembered her gown. “I’ve got to go back!” she cried, reaching for the door.
Deveraux grasped her from behind and pulled her back. “The devil you do.”
“No, no, you don’t understand! My dress!”
“Buy you another one,” Bertie reminded her.
“With what?”
Reddening, the younger man turned to Deveraux. “Got a point—got no blunt, you know. Must’ve lost m’purse when I was bumped at the Blue Bull. You got enough for a gown?”
“Yes,” Dominick snapped. “Miss Morland, there is no time.” When she appeared to sit back, he relaxed his grip on her. “Before we get to Nottingham, we’ll manage something for you to wear on the mail coach. Until then, you’ll have to remain a boy, I’m afraid.”
But she slipped Bascombe’s boots from her feet, then bolted again, managing to open the door and jump. Muttering a curse, Dominick threw himself after her. As the carriage gained speed, Bertie leaned precariously to pull the handle closed.
This time, when Dominick caught her, he jerked her shoulder angrily. “You little fool!” he shouted. “The dress is ruined!”
She whirled around, shaking free of him. “It’s mine!” Two tears trickled down her face, streaking it. “I don’t want to leave it!”
“Damn!” He lifted his hand, and for a moment she feared he meant to strike her. Instead, he stared hard, then backed away, dropping his arm. “I ought to leave you here, Miss Morland,” he managed through clenched teeth.
Her chin came up defiantly. “Leave me, then. If you run, you can still catch Mr. Bascombe.”
He looked up and saw the carriage disappear around the corner. When his gaze returned to her, it was murderous. “What now, Miss Morland?” he asked with deceptive softness. Even as he spoke, the first drops of cold rain spotted his cloak.
She swallowed. “I could not leave my gown, sir. Tis the finest thing I have.”
“ ’Tis ruined,” he reminded her brutally. “Utterly ruined. ’Tis not worth tenpence now.”
“I know.” She looked up at him, her expression stricken. “Perhaps you can take the stage to Nottingham. You can leave me here, and I won’t reveal your identity, I swear it.” She wiped at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, an unconscious gesture more moving than the tears.
Despite Bascombe’s expensive clothes, her disordered hair gave her the appearance of a street urchin. And yet for all that he was vexed with her, he realized what it cost her to make the offer. He felt his anger dissipate, leaving resignation. He started back toward the inn.
“Where are you going?”
“To get your damned dress, Miss Morland.” He stopped and glanced significantly at her bare feet. “And your slippers.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Try to hide yourself between the conveyances until I come back, will you?”
The cobbled yard was cold and slippery underfoot. And now the sky poured, soaking everything. The smell of wet wool rose from the capes of Bascombe’s greatcoat, disheartening her completely. Through her folly, she and Dominick Deveraux had nowhere to stay and nowhere to go. He couldn’t get on the stage with her, not while she was dressed like this. And he couldn’t get on the stage with her in her torn and mud-stained gown either. He would have to go on without her. Her stomach knotted at the thought.
“Here, now, oo’s snoopin’?”
She came face-to-face with a toothless coachman. He eyed her suspiciously, his gaze traveling from her wet hair, over the fashionable greatcoat, and down to her bare feet.
“Oliver—Oliver Wrexham,” she answered. “And I wasn’t snooping—I was merely walking.”
“Why?” he demanded bluntly. “Ain’t naught here fer ye. Where’s yer boots?”
“Inside.”
“Inside, eh?”
“When there’s none to see, I like to get my feet
It was not until the carriage began to move that Anne remembered her gown. “I’ve got to go back!” she cried, reaching for the door.
Deveraux grasped her from behind and pulled her back. “The devil you do.”
“No, no, you don’t understand! My dress!”
“Buy you another one,” Bertie reminded her.
“With what?”
Reddening, the younger man turned to Deveraux. “Got a point—got no blunt, you know. Must’ve lost m’purse when I was bumped at the Blue Bull. You got enough for a gown?”
“Yes,” Dominick snapped. “Miss Morland, there is no time.” When she appeared to sit back, he relaxed his grip on her. “Before we get to Nottingham, we’ll manage something for you to wear on the mail coach. Until then, you’ll have to remain a boy, I’m afraid.”
But she slipped Bascombe’s boots from her feet, then bolted again, managing to open the door and jump. Muttering a curse, Dominick threw himself after her. As the carriage gained speed, Bertie leaned precariously to pull the handle closed.
This time, when Dominick caught her, he jerked her shoulder angrily. “You little fool!” he shouted. “The dress is ruined!”
She whirled around, shaking free of him. “It’s mine!” Two tears trickled down her face, streaking it. “I don’t want to leave it!”
“Damn!” He lifted his hand, and for a moment she feared he meant to strike her. Instead, he stared hard, then backed away, dropping his arm. “I ought to leave you here, Miss Morland,” he managed through clenched teeth.
Her chin came up defiantly. “Leave me, then. If you run, you can still catch Mr. Bascombe.”
He looked up and saw the carriage disappear around the corner. When his gaze returned to her, it was murderous. “What now, Miss Morland?” he asked with deceptive softness. Even as he spoke, the first drops of cold rain spotted his cloak.
She swallowed. “I could not leave my gown, sir. Tis the finest thing I have.”
“ ’Tis ruined,” he reminded her brutally. “Utterly ruined. ’Tis not worth tenpence now.”
“I know.” She looked up at him, her expression stricken. “Perhaps you can take the stage to Nottingham. You can leave me here, and I won’t reveal your identity, I swear it.” She wiped at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, an unconscious gesture more moving than the tears.
Despite Bascombe’s expensive clothes, her disordered hair gave her the appearance of a street urchin. And yet for all that he was vexed with her, he realized what it cost her to make the offer. He felt his anger dissipate, leaving resignation. He started back toward the inn.
“Where are you going?”
“To get your damned dress, Miss Morland.” He stopped and glanced significantly at her bare feet. “And your slippers.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Try to hide yourself between the conveyances until I come back, will you?”
The cobbled yard was cold and slippery underfoot. And now the sky poured, soaking everything. The smell of wet wool rose from the capes of Bascombe’s greatcoat, disheartening her completely. Through her folly, she and Dominick Deveraux had nowhere to stay and nowhere to go. He couldn’t get on the stage with her, not while she was dressed like this. And he couldn’t get on the stage with her in her torn and mud-stained gown either. He would have to go on without her. Her stomach knotted at the thought.
“Here, now, oo’s snoopin’?”
She came face-to-face with a toothless coachman. He eyed her suspiciously, his gaze traveling from her wet hair, over the fashionable greatcoat, and down to her bare feet.
“Oliver—Oliver Wrexham,” she answered. “And I wasn’t snooping—I was merely walking.”
“Why?” he demanded bluntly. “Ain’t naught here fer ye. Where’s yer boots?”
“Inside.”
“Inside, eh?”
“When there’s none to see, I like to get my feet
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