Falling for the Highland Rogue. Ann Lethbridge
‘Here,’ Archie said, ‘come awa’, lad, out of sight of prying eyes.’
He could hardly leave without his pay. Ian would tear a strip off him. And his men would have no coin to pay for a bed for the night for themselves or their animals. And besides, from her glare, help was not something the woman wanted.
He turned and followed Archie into a dark corner beside the bar.
‘Can ye give a little on the price?’ Archie asked, his beady little eyes glimmering in the dark.
‘You’re an auld skinflint,’ Logan said mechanically, flashing a smile, his mind still on the woman, at how beautiful he had thought her eyes until he saw the hardness in their depths. And the cold calculation on her face as she pocketed, or rather gloved, that golden coin.
Archie sighed. ‘You can’t blame a man for tryin’ seein’ as how your mind wasna’ on business the noo.’
Logan dragged his mind back to the business at hand. ‘Aye, well, that is where you are wrong.’ Ian would flay him alive if he did not get the agreed-upon price.
‘I’ll need more next week, mind,’ Archie said.
Logan’s mind was fully focused now and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Why? I thought McKenzie had only a temporary shortage. This was a favour, man. That was what you said.’
Archie shifted his feet. ‘When McKenzie saw how well I was doing he wanted some of the profit.’
‘Did he now?’
‘Aye,’ Archie said morosely. ‘The man’s a bully. Thinks he owns Old Town.’ He grimaced. ‘I ha’ to be honest with you, Logan, lad. Ye got awa’ wi’ it the night, but McKenzie’s bent on locking the town up tighter than ever. His whisky or no one’s. It’s no just cudgels any more. He’s arming his bully boys with pistols.’
The restlessness that hummed in Logan’s veins rose to a clanging of bells. There was nothing he liked better than a challenge and the damned excisement were so predictable he rarely broke a sweat. ‘Next week, you say? I am sure something can be arranged. Leave it to me.’ He patted Archie on the shoulder and pushed his way through the crowds and ran up the stairs to the front door.
Outside, in the grey of a smoky dawn, there was no sign of the woman and her escort in the street winding downhill.
And glad of it he was. While he thoroughly enjoyed the sight of a beautiful woman, that was as far as it ever went for him. No female would lead him around by his nose or that other part of his anatomy that was painfully hopeful.
Then why the hell had he been so eager to catch another glimpse?
* * *
The sovereign burned in Charity’s palm. A hot chestnut drawn from the embers and tossed to the unwary. A cruel flash of scalding pain inside her glove. Impossible, of course. She let her body rock to the motion of the carriage, let the grind of the wheels over rough cobbles drown out the sounds of the city around her and the drunken snores of her companion. Soon they would be back at their hotel and he would awaken, but until then she was alone with her thoughts.
With tentative fingers, she touched the hard round shape beneath the York tan leather of her glove. A sovereign. More than her usual take. Jack could be generous when the cards went his way. The coin was the same heat as her hand, of course, and nestled like a bird in the curve of her palm. A treasure to be guarded. Along with her thoughts.
No, the heat was not about the coin.
She’d noticed him the moment he had walked in from somewhere in the back. A swagger to his long stride. A cocky set to his handsome head. A quirk of humour to his mouth. A blond Adonis. A green-eyed panther, so sure of his world. There wasn’t a woman in the tavern not looking at him. Some openly. Some from beneath their lashes. Like her.
Not that he’d seemed to notice them as he glanced around the room, a spark of devilment in eyes the clear green of spring grass.
Then the fool had actually dared to catch her gaze. To stare at her boldly. With admiration. And speculation. He was lucky Jack hadn’t noticed and called him out. No. She shook her head at the thought. Jack wouldn’t call out a man so clearly below him. He’d set Growler and his bully boys on to teach him a lesson.
She sighed. Idiot indeed, if he could not see she was taken.
Why she had noticed him, she could not imagine. He had neither wealth nor style, the only attributes she looked for in a man. The first thought into her mind had been charming rogue. The worst kind of man for a woman like her. And so young. Far younger than she, if not in years, then in experience.
Was it the sheer male beauty of him, then, that had held her attention a fraction too long? The long lean frame, the shoulders wide but not brutally so, the narrow waist tapering to hard firm flanks in tight buckskins that had seen better days. While his form was lovely, she’d seen others equally fine.
She closed her eyes briefly to break the spell of a gaze that seemed to see all the way through her with a blinding purity.
Unsettling thought. Horrifying, when she inspected her own darkly stained soul. A dark twisted creature from a Gothic novel, drawn to his light like the proverbial moth to a flame and the inevitable burning of wings.
One more such singeing and she’d float away as ashes.
Purity? Even as she mulled over the word, she dismissed it out of hand. No male of the species deserved the adjective. No matter how handsome. For all their talk of honour, beneath their coats of superfine and bright white linen, their hearts were black as night.
The coach halted at the front door of their hotel and she shook Jack awake. His eyes were shadowed, but his lips curved cruelly as he focused. She cursed her cowardice. If she’d not made him leave so early, he would not be nearly so wide awake.
‘Let us have champagne, shall we?’ she murmured in sultry tones. ‘To celebrate your winnings.’
His gaze dropped to her breasts. ‘Aye. Champagne first.’ He grabbed her and hauled her towards him so she landed hard on his chest, his hand pressing her fingers against his arousal. Winded, she stared up into his square face with its cruel thin lips, hawkish nose and cold blue eyes. ‘And then you can play me a tune with that pretty mouth of yours.’
A shudder rippled down her spine. It was a jest, but like all Jack’s jibes it carried the edge of a threat. Something he couldn’t help. A habit. Swallowing the bile of revulsion, she retreated behind her wall of ice, presenting a false smile that masked her inner turmoil. A drunk Jack was a dangerous man. And if she couldn’t avoid him...she’d do what she had to do. This was business. And the path to freedom to live life the way she wanted.
Only a fool let a pair of pretty green eyes and a jaunty open face melt a hole in hard-won defences. To remind herself where she stood, she gazed up at the man who held her future in his hands and smiled. ‘Not before I offer you a toast.’
She freed herself from his grip with a light laugh and descended the steps to the path.
Arm in arm they walked inside, his grip possessive as if he sensed her fear. It would not be wise for Jack to sense fear. It always brought out the worst and winning had stirred his appetites, something she usually managed to avoid. Their relationship was all about business. Nothing else. But it did not mean she could relax her guard. A couple more drinks beside the fire and he would fall asleep. If she was lucky.
She closed her eyes and once again saw those clear green eyes gazing at her with awe. It was as if he somehow saw her how she had been, not how she was.
Damn him.
* * *
The next evening, to his surprise, Logan found himself in very different surroundings and company.
‘Well, brat,’ Sanford said, squinting at him through eyes already fogged with the effects of wine at dinner followed by several bumpers of whisky. Such a dandy, this Sanford. Blue-eyed, pale,