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

by Sarah MacLean

King did as he was told, ignoring the twinge of discomfort he felt when he released Sophie from his grasp. Ignoring the fact that as he moved down the table, from her head to her feet to give the other man access to her wound, he couldn’t help but trail his fingers along her leg, as though, somehow, touching her could keep her alive.

“Who are you?” she asked. “He’s the surgeon.” King replied. She looked to him. “He does not look like a surgeon.” “I’m not certain of his skill.” She returned her attention to the doctor. “Do try not to kill me, sir.” The other man nodded. “I shall do my best.” “And is it entirely necessary to pour that on my wounds?” she added, “I didn’t care for it.” “There is some speculation that the alcohol helps with infection,” the doctor replied. “I do hope that’s the case, as I would like to think that I haven’t wasted a half a bottle of gin.”

It was nonsense, obviously. King didn’t care if she flirted with the damn doctor. She could live here forever if she wanted. It would make everything easier for him. He could leave her and head north and live a life without her troublesome— The doctor put his hand to Sophie’s forehead, and King could not help but want to hurt someone. Someone specific. “Is it necessary that you touch her so much?”

Anger became her, this strange, unexpected woman. She stood before him, wet and wounded, and somehow a warrior nonetheless. He wanted her.

He lifted his fingers and looked down at them, glistening with honey. She looked, as well. “You should wash them,” she said quietly. He should. There was a bathtub full of water mere feet away. And a washbasin and fresh water even closer. But he did not go to either. Instead, he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked the honey from his fingers, meeting her eyes. Willing her to look away. Her eyes widened. Darkened. But did not waver. It was then that he knew. If he kissed her, she would not stop him. And if he kissed her, he would not stop. Dangerous Daughter, indeed. “There’s a dress for you,” he said. “I—I beg your pardon?” “A dress,” he repeated, turning on his heel and tossing his shirt over his head before adding, “and boots.” He tore open the door. “Wear the damn boots.” And he left the room.

“Stop believing whatever everyone has said about you for all these years. There’s nothing about you that is unmemorable. The last week has been the most memorable of my life, for Chrissakes. Because of you. Stop imagining that you’re something you’re not.”