The Redemption of a Rogue, стр. 3
“Please don’t run,” he repeated. “I’ve no intention of hurting you. As I said, I want to help.”
Her struggle ceased, though from the way her body slumped, he felt it was more out of exhaustion than any kind of trust. She slid to the carriage seat across from his and he released her. She stared at him, wary, like a bird being stalked by a cat, and rubbed her wrist. He didn’t think he’d hurt her—he’d been trying very hard not to—but he wondered if she was trying to soothe herself with that touch.
“Why were those men chasing you?” he asked.
She didn’t respond, but folded her arms and looked longingly toward the door he was blocking.
He arched a brow. “Did you steal something?”
“No!” she cried out, indignant as she glared at him. “No, sir!”
“Then why were you running?” he repeated, more slowly, more firmly.
She shook her head. “Won’t you please let me out?” she asked. “The men are gone, at least for the moment. It will give me time to get a hack and go home.”
“That isn’t happening,” he said. “They could return at any moment. You’re clearly in danger, miss, and I am your best hope. Tell me what is going on.”
She bent her head, and her breath came sharp and hard in the quiet of the carriage. Oscar could see she was fighting tears. Winning that fight, though he wasn’t certain that would last long. Every graceful line of her body spoke of her deep fear. It wasn’t an act, it wasn’t a trick. In his line of work, he had long ago learned to spot those.
No, this was real.
“Please,” he said softly.
Her gaze lifted to his, and for a moment their eyes locked. He could see her reading him, analyzing if he could relieve her distress, or if he was just another part of it. Then her eyes darted back to her lap and she whispered, “They…they killed a woman. I-I saw her body.”
His gut clenched, and for a flash of a moment he thought he might cast up his accounts all over the carriage floor. But he drew a deep breath, calmed himself as he’d learned to do over the years, and opened the carriage door.
“Bentley, home,” he ordered before he closed them in again.
She jerked to the edge of her seat. “No! Sir, please. You cannot take me. You must let me out. Please!”
He leaned forward, hating that his presence was as much a fear to this distressed woman as anything else she’d been through that night. But he also knew he couldn’t let her go. Not under these conditions.
“Miss, you are in real trouble, and if I let you out of this carriage, you’ll be in even worse. Let me take you somewhere safe and we can work this out.”
“Work it out on my back, you mean?” she snapped, and through the fear he saw a spitfire nature that he would have liked but for the horrific circumstances. “You were here for a purpose, weren’t you? And now you act like some hero come to save me? You are just as dangerous as those men after me for all I know. You’re nothing but a stranger who forced me into a carriage.”
He blinked. She had a point at that.
He leaned forward and extended a hand. “Mr. Oscar Fitzhugh at your service, miss. I’m the owner of Fitzhugh’s Club. And while I agree that you have no reason yet to trust me, I do vow to you now that I won’t hurt you. I will try to save your life if you let me.”
Chapter 2
Imogen pushed herself into the farthest corner of the carriage and stared at the man across from her. His hand was still extended as if to greet her, but she didn’t take it. She already knew the strength of that hand, for it had wrapped around her upper arm, her wrist, and kept her from escape. Touching him again felt…dangerous.
And yet she felt a bit less fear than she had when she’d first crashed into him and he had dragged her into his carriage. Then she’d been in a pure panic, certain she had thrown herself into perhaps a worse situation than she had left.
It was clear that wasn’t true, though. And there was something about this man’s voice that was almost…mesmerizing. Something rough and hard, but not unkind.
She looked across at him in the dimness of the carriage. He was cloaked in shadow, but she could still make out the fundamentals of his features. He had dark hair that was a touch too long, streaked with fine lines of gray, mussed like fingers had run through it recently. His own or someone else’s. He had an angular face with a salt-and-pepper beard. Not in fashion, perhaps, but it suited him. It made him all the more handsome and somewhat mysterious, as well.
His low brow furrowed as he withdrew his hand at last and his dark eyes speared her in place. This was not a man to be trifled with, that was immediately clear. He was confident and intense. He likely stole the air and the attention of any space he entered. Including the tight carriage they currently both inhabited.
More to the point, he had to know the command he wielded. He very likely used it to his advantage.
“I-I know your name,” she stammered as she fought to look and sound more composed than she felt. “Fitzhugh’s Club. My…husband was a member.”
His gaze flitted over her face, his lips thinned slightly. “You are married.”
“I was,” she whispered. “To Warren Huxley. Not that I expect you to recall him. Your club is quite popular. It rivals White’s, or so I’ve heard.”
There was a flicker over his face. Almost a smile, but not quite. The comparison pleased him, it seemed. Then he was serious again. “Huxley,” he said. “Third son of the