Free Anita Mills by The Rogue's Return

wet,” she lied. “Actually, I like the mud between my toes, but I’m afraid my uncle would thrash me for it, so I can only stay on the stones today.”
    “Well, ye’d best move, fer Mr. Kenneth don’t like anybody a-touching his coach.”
    As she moved away, she could hear him muttering about “the queer starts o’ the Quality.” She made one more pass between the carriages, taking care to avoid the coachy, then emerged at the end.
    “Here.”
    She jumped, then realized it was Dominick Deveraux. He thrust her bundled gown into her arms, and as she took it, her petticoat and zona came loose, and her slippers fell onto the paving stones. Embarrassed, she tried to roll her undergarments back into the dress. She bent to slide a slipper onto her wet foot.
    “Watch out!”
    A carriage barreled around the corner, heading straight for them. As Deveraux pushed her to the ground, the coach door opened and Bertie Bascombe leaned out. “Come on!” he shouted. “ ’Tis a long way to Nottingham!”
    For a moment she lay beneath her protector, the caped greatcoat tangled between her legs, and then he rolled off her. Standing, he pulled her up as unceremoniously as he’d thrown her down; then, before she could retrieve any of her things, he picked her up and heaved her into Bascombe’s lap.
    “My coat… my clothes! Dash it, but they are ruined!” Bertie wailed.
    Grasping the pull strap, she managed to crawl to the seat next to him. “Couldn’t help it,” she gasped.
    Deveraux tossed her bundled clothes and the other wet slipper inside, then followed them. “Your cowhanded driver came within an ace of putting our lights out,” he muttered, dropping onto the velvet-covered bench across from Bertie. Reaching to close the door, he discovered the handle had caught in the lacing of the zona. Wrenching the undergarment free, he flung it across the seat to Anne. “Yours, I believe. I wouldn’t want to leave anything of value behind, Miss Morland.”
    Her face flamed as she hastily tucked it beneath Bascombe’s muddy greatcoat. “There is no need for sarcasm, Mr. Deveraux. You could have left me.”
    He wiped mud from his cheek with the back of his hand, then leaned back against the squabs. He regarded her wearily and sighed. “Unfortunately, Miss Morland, a Deveraux always finishes what he begins.”
    Stung, she retorted, “Perhaps if you had finished a bit less, you would not have to sneak back into this country, sir.” As soon as the words had escaped her mouth, she wished she had them back. But they seemed to hang suspended in the air. His blue eyes went hard, his face turned to stone. Ashamed, she reached to touch his hand. “Your pardon, sir. Not knowing the precise circumstance of your difficulties, I had no right to say such a thing.”
    His gaze dropped to where her fingers lay against his; then he drew away. “There’s naught to pardon, Miss Morland. The truth, however unpleasant, is still the truth.”
    “Still—”
    “Spare me a surfeit of conscience, my dear.”
    “Dash it, Miss Morland, but I knew Beresford—aye, and the others also. Ain’t a one of ’em as wasn’t a bloody blackguard, if the truth was known. Don’t fault Deveraux—there’s them as would decorate him, if they were to find him.”
    “Bascombe—”
    “Well, she ought to know!”
    “Whether she believes me right or wrong is of no moment,” Dominick said abruptly. “After the morrow, ’tis enough that she forgets she ever saw me.”
    “Nonetheless, I ought not to have said it.” Shaking her head ruefully, she managed a wry smile. “I’m afraid that in the space of a day, my civility has deserted me. I pray you will forgive me.”
    “I repeat: there is nothing to forgive, Miss Morland.”

Chapter 5
5
    They were stopped before a small village pub whose sign read “Two Ducks, since 1660.” Albert Bascombe eyed it doubtfully. “Do you think they’d have anything as a lady or a gentleman would eat?”
    “We’ve not