“Well, since I don’t want you to feel at a disadvantage, Mr. King…” With a flick, he pulled the belt, holster, and revolver off and swung it into a compact bundle. He held the entire thing off to his left.
“If someone would be so kind?”
He wasn’t sure how he knew it would be Tavie, but somehow he sensed her even before she stepped into his peripheral vision.
“I’ll keep it safe for you,” she said quietly, but he could tell she wanted to say more.
He took his eyes from King long enough to wink. “And I’ll keep everything else safe for you.”
When her magnificent eyes narrowed at him, he couldn’t help the way his lips twitched. She wasn’t sure what to make of his teasing. Was he teasing?
No, he’d only meant he would come back to her.
Tonight—forever—he was in control.
He didn’t need the demon to feel as if he was flying. He had Tavie for that.
“What are the rules of this sparring match?”
King’s sneered question jerked Jack’s attention back once more, and he pretended to frown thoughtfully. “Rules? There are no rules. And this isn’t a sparring match, King…it’s a fight.”
With that, he swept his cloak back over his shoulder, revealing the sword and scabbard hanging from his hip. In one smooth, practiced motion, he flicked the latch undone and the hilt popped free.
Around them, gasps and mutters revealed his theatrics hadn’t gone unnoticed, but it was King’s reaction which was the most amusing. The older man’s face had turned a mottled red, and he jerked his own sword free from its home.
“You!” he hissed, swinging his blade in front of his face like a fencer’s salute. “You’re the Black Ace!”
Jack held the cape to one side as he bowed extravagantly, as if he was back in Aegiria, which raised a few chuckles around them.
“You murdered my men!” King accused.
Straightening, Jack clucked his tongue. “I defended myself, and in two cases, others, by using deadly force. Or rather,” he corrected, “I should say deadlier force. Your men were doing their best to kill; I was just better at it than they were.”
King’s blade slashed downward as he turned to the marshal. “And you? You’re just going to stand there and listen to a criminal make these claims?”
But Diamon just shrugged. “I’ve investigated the scenes, and they all seemed like fair fights to me. Far as I can tell, the Black Ace hasn’t actually done anything illegal, but I sure would be interested in talking to him about some things…after this little matter is done being discussed.”
Discussed? Jack’s grin flashed at the marshal’s bland words, but knew the man would do his duty.
“Well, Mr. King? I believe you owe me my father’s—my—deed.”
That was all the reminder the man needed. King attacked first, and not with the wild slash of an amateur, but with the controlled lunge of a man who’d studied.
Through the surprise, Jack deflected the strike. Good. He’d been hoping for another fair fight, and had worried King only carried the sword-cane for ornamentation.
As Jack parried and leapt and twisted away from King’s blows, he felt his blood pumping. But while the last time he’d had his blade bared like this the red haze had settled over him, now he was completely and utterly sure he was in command of this fight, and his body.
When King thrust toward his midsection with his sword, the rest of the cane held behind him like a flag, Jack grinned as he knocked it out of the way.
King was trained. Possibly at some eastern prep school, or he had a fencing instructor at university. Yes, he knew how to accumulate points in a gentlemanly fashion.
But Jack…? Jack had learned the art of the sword from a South China Sea pirate. He’d practiced against Hito and Thordis in that hellhole of a prison for three long years. Then, he and Thordis had trained with, and against, the finest swordsmen Europe had to offer.
It was a dying art, but Jack was a master.
And as soon as he went on the offensive, it became clear. With a wordless yell, he lunged forward, driving King back, breathing heavily. Grinning in excitement now, Jack pursued him.
His first strike drew blood along the back of King’s hand, and the older man hissed with pain. The second hit was across one shoulder, ripping the man’s suit jacket open. The third and the fourth were both across his thighs, two quick flicks in succession, which could’ve opened up a vein if Jack had wanted them to, but just resulted in the crowd chortling as King’s union suit was revealed.
King did his best to parry, but for every blow he blocked, Jack landed two more. He was careful not to injure the bastard too much, but he wanted him to feel pain. Humiliation.
At last he saw an opening, when King swung the other half of his sword-cane around in a surprise attack. Jack pretended to be startled, but knocked the scabbard away, and slashed for King’s middle.
As expected, the other man fumbled to get his sword into position to parry the blow, but Jack had been bluffing. At the last moment, he pulled his strike and lunged forward with his foot instead, catching King across the knee.
He heard something snap as the man fell to the muddy ground, his sword lifted in defense, and Jack stepped forward. Too fast for King to roll away, he darted his sword for the other man’s face.
Again, King fumbled to block the blow, but Jack veered off at the last moment, instead slicing the tip of his sword along King’s arm, leaving his sleeve in tatters. Three, four more times, he made King scramble to protect himself, only to strike in lightning-fast moves, cutting at the man’s once-fine suit.
Until King had had enough, and lunged upward with a growl. It was the opening Jack had been hoping for, and with a powerful lunge of his own, he thrust the cross-guard of his sword as close as he could to King’s, and twisted.
King’s sword flew from his hands, and the crowd backed up with a gasp as it hit the ground six feet away.
No one spoke—no one breathed—as Jack stalked closer to the beaten, humiliated man on the ground. His clothing was in tatters, his possessions gone, his money lost.
Jack had won.
With a cold little grin, Jack slashed his blade downward, halting when the tip rested just above King’s nose. The man damn near went cross-eyed, trying to watch it.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you,” Jack commanded with a growl.
King’s gaze focused on him, but ever stubborn, ever haughty, the man refused to grovel, even now. So Jack shrugged and shifted his blade to the man’s chest, flicking at the jacket’s buttons, until he could push the lapel away and see the bills and the deed in what had once been a pocket.
As if bored, he flicked the bills out, one by one, to soak into the snow. But the deed…
Jack stared down at the little piece of paper which had caused him—caused this town—so much trouble. It lay, stained with his father’s blood, against the chest of the man who’d killed Jim Hoyle. Jack’s blade hovered over it.
How easy would it be to press the tip of his blade down? Through the paper, through King, until the evil man’s blood covered the deed as thoroughly as Father’s did?
Jack liked to think he wouldn’t have done it. He was in control, capable of rational thought beyond the next strike, the next dodge. Maybe he would’ve been strong enough to resist the urge.
But movement caught his eye, and he flicked his gaze up just briefly. In that moment, he saw Tavie moving to stand beside Marshal Diamon. She was still wearing that ridiculous disguise, the one which hid her real beauty, but she was smiling at him.
Smiling.
Come back to me.
So, on a slight exhale, Jack knew what needed to happen...and what didn’t need to happen.
He flicked the tip of his blade into the hole in the paper made by King’s blade—the blade Jack had just knocked away—and flicked it upward. The paper flew up and away from King’s chest, and Jack snatched it out of the air as he stepped back.
&
nbsp; Away from his opponent.
His opponent was still alive, but Jack had won.
And he’d done it legally.
Finally feeling safe enough to take his eyes off King for more than a moment, he sheathed his sword and turned to Diamon. “Well, Marshal? I’ve met your demands, I believe?”
The dark-skinned man nodded regally. “The deed is yours, Mr. Hoyle. As is the mine and…well, most of the town, I suppose.”
“You’re right.” Jack pursed his lips as he pretended to consider the situation. “Well, I suppose, since the land is legally mine, I should collect some sort of rent, shouldn’t I?”
Beside the marshal, Tavie’s lips pulled into a frown, and she wrapped her arms around his gun belt and her middle, looking worried.
She was fun to tease.
He dragged out the moment, listening to the murmurs building around him, some angry, some fearful. Finally, he nodded forcefully, as if he’d come to a decision.
“Yes, rent is probably in order. Just to maintain some semblance of a professional relationship. My father owned this land for years, after all.”
“Yeah, but he never charged us no rent!” came the call from the crowd, and it was picked up by others.
Jack spread his arms wide. “I’m not my father. Therefore, I believe I will collect a yearly rent. From every single property on my land. Each January. A dollar would be sufficient, I believe, in perpetuity.”
Around him, cheers rose up—although not a quickly in the cases of those who didn’t know what perpetuity meant—and Jack found himself smiling at Tavie.
Who smiled proudly back.
She was proud of him. And he was, quite honestly, proud of himself.
He’d done it. He’d maintained control and beaten King. They’d beaten King.
Together, the way they belonged.
Suddenly anxious to get her alone, Jack looked over at Diamon. “If you need me, Marshal, you know where to find me?”
Diamon nodded. “Don’t go leaving town without checking with me first. You’d better be here when I get back.”
As the marshal stepped forward, Jack backed up. “Get back? From where?”
Diamon leaned down, grabbed King under one arm, and with a grunt, hoisted the man to his feet. “Right now, I think I’ll escort Mr. King here to prison. For his own protection,” he growled, as he gave King a shake.
Jack, having a glimmer of an idea of where this was headed, tried to hide his smile. “And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Diamon drawled, dragging King around and giving him a little shove to get him moving. The crowd parted, then closed around him again as he escorted his prisoner toward the jail. “Well, tomorrow, I think I might just escort Mr. King here up to Helena,” he called back over his shoulder. “See if there’s any lawman up there who might want to ask some questions about an unsolved murder. The rest of you men, gather up the cash, and I expect most of it to get back to Mr. Hoyle where it belongs!”
The crowd burst into cheers, most of them following the marshal and his prisoner, calling and laughing and jeering at King’s humiliation. Others paused to slap Jack on the back or shoulder, welcoming him back and asking questions about the poker game. Many people shoved the money from the ground into his hands.
He did his best to follow what was going on around him, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Diamon’s words. If King was implicated as a suspect in Father’s murder and found guilty, he’d be punished more effectively than Jack ever could. Jack himself would likely have to stand as a witness against King, which wasn’t ideal…but that was in the future.
The future.
Jack took a deep breath. Now, thanks to Tavie, he had a future. No matter what happened with King, the man wouldn’t be back in Black Aces.
Together, they’d broken King’s hold on the town. Black Aces was safe.
“We’re safe now,” Tavie whispered, as she wrapped her arms around him from behind.
Hearing her echo his words had him exhaling heavily, leaning back into her hold. He hadn’t realized how tired he was, how anxious he’d been for the last few hours, until the danger was past.
The crowd was thinning around them, the spectators moving toward the jail or their homes or back to the saloon. Soon, he and Tavie would be alone.
“Do you think Madame Francoise might make an early exit, my love?” he murmured in response, twisting in her arms until he was holding her.
In the lamplight, she smiled up at him. “I think if Madame Francoise disappeared tonight and never came back, no one would care at all.”
“Excellent.” He had plans. “Grab my gun belt.” He shifted his hold until her hand was clasped in his, then tugged her toward the outskirts of town. “I’m taking you home.”
14
For having just participated in a sword fight—a sword fight! Like something out of the history books!—Jack could move remarkably fast. Tavie had to hike her skirts up in her free hand to keep up with his long strides, and she was breathing heavily by the time the house came into view, and he at last slowed.
No one had seemed to care he was running off to the Hoyle home and was taking the odd not-quite-French entertainer with him. They were all too busy celebrating King’s downfall.
And Tavie would be joining them, had Jack’s earlier teasing not been quite so worrisome.
I’ve fallen madly in love with you.
He’d said, right before he’d left the saloon to confront King. Of course, he used her Madame Francoise name, and anyone listening would assume it was simply him being charming, perhaps trying to seduce a past-her-prime singer.
But there’d been something in his pale eyes which told her he wasn’t just play-acting. Something which said, maybe, possibly, he was speaking directly to her. To Tavie.
Madly in love? Lord knows he’s more than a little mad.
But he hadn’t been tonight. Tavie bit her lip as his hand moved to her elbow to help her up the stairs, and she was able to hold her heavy skirts out of the way with both hands. His touch on her skin made her shiver with warmth, as always.
Made her think about what was coming. Things which needed to be said.
He hadn’t been mad tonight. He hadn’t lost control. He hadn’t let his demons take over.
He’d defeated King on his own, just as he said he’d done with Stevens. And she believed him.
Now there was no reason she couldn’t love him, couldn’t see a possible future with him. No reason, except for the fact he may not want one with her.
So yeah, she was nervous as he led her through the front parlor and into the kitchen.
Should she say something? Acknowledge his words to her earlier? Or admit she’d developed feelings—although it seemed such a minor way to refer to how she felt about him—for him over the last months?
But to her surprise, when they reached the kitchen, he dropped her hand and headed for the stove, stoking the coals into flames, then grabbing a pot and heading out the back door toward the pump. She gripped her hands in front of her and frowned thoughtfully.
When he returned, he placed the pot full of water on the stove to warm up, then turned to her. He hadn’t said anything yet, and although his expression was neutral, there was a sparkle in his eyes she couldn’t explain.
Was her bodice too tight? Did that explain this sudden shortness of breath? Or was it the promise she saw as he stepped toward her?
He stopped in front of her and lifted his arm, and she felt herself sway toward him. What kind of spell was she under, that she was suddenly desperate for his touch? But to her surprise, he didn’t reach for her, or caress her cheek as she’d hoped, but only rested his hand on her left shoulder.
But before she could be disappointed, he’d spun her around so she faced the door and her back was to him.
What—?
Oh, he was removing her cape. She allowed her shoulders to relax as he peeled the heavy material from her, and when he stepped back with it, she found herself actually
able to inhale deeply.
Well, alright then. That must’ve been the reason she couldn’t—
No, never mind.
He’d moved up behind her once more—she could feel him back there—and heavens, but it was warm in here, wasn’t it? When his breath brushed against the back of her neck, Tavie swore she could feel her heart pounding in expectation.
“Tavie,” he murmured, low and alluring against her skin.
She had to swallow twice before she managed a croaked, “Yes?”
His hands brushed her shoulders, then caressed upward toward her neck. “This gown unbuttons down the back.”
It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t know what to make of it, until she felt his hands on said buttons. Her first instinct was to wrench away from him, but then he hummed, and she found herself sinking back into his hands.
“What…?” She shook her head, breathless in anticipation. “What are you doing?”
“Removing this gown,” he said matter-of-factly, his breath still tickling the hairs at the back of her neck, his fingers half-way down her back. “How did you get this on in the first place?”
“The hotel provided a maid,” she said distractedly, her eyes closed to better feel his hands on her. “Why are you removing my gown, Jack?”
“Hmm? Oh, because I don’t want to ruin it. It’s not particularly stylish, and the color is terrible. And don’t think I haven’t notice how you’ve padded certain areas.” He smacked her rear end, which caused her to jerk and gasp. “But I would hate to ruin it.”
Ruin it.
“What…um. What do you plan to…?”
Blast! Why couldn’t she think straight? All she knew was, the thought of him removing her gown had her going all hot and wet in certain places, and all soft and romantic in others.
Before he answered, the last button came undone, and he pushed the gown down over her shoulders. Automatically, she stepped out of it, allowing him to hold it as she did. He stepped toward the dining room door and hung it from a nearby hook, which held her cape now as well.
Leaving her standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing her boots, stockings, chemise...and nothing else.
Wild Card: Black Aces, Book Three Page 15