Oh, he was a rogue, all right. Jack certainly had his hands full. And so did she.
The thought sobered her. If things did not come out as Jack planned and Logan walked away, she would lose the bonus he’d promised her. An amount that would take three years of gulling green youths and drunken old men to achieve.
Not to mention that Jack would be furious.
Cold determination filled her chest, a bitter gall her throat. But Logan had not been forced to accept Jack’s challenge. It was all his own doing.
‘Just be careful, Jack.’ It was all she could manage before Logan caught them up and walked alongside. All she could bear to say, because in spite of everything, she didn’t want Jack deciding Logan was more trouble than he was worth.
Jack removed trouble in the most final of ways.
‘Thank you for dinner,’ she said, giving Logan a long glance and a slow smile.
A smile hovered at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at her. Femininity swept through her. Weakness.
‘My pleasure,’ he murmured.
The velvety purr struck a chord low in her belly. And her palm tingled with the memory of the touch of his lips. She gasped at the shock of it and saw the gleam of amusement in his eyes, yes, and the triumph. An emotion that fired her anger and made it easier to do her job. An emotion he would regret.
And yet if she was right and Jack was wrong, after tonight she might never see him again. A sense of loss filled her. Loss tinged with relief, because if he walked away from Jack and his schemes, he’d likely be safe.
Jack barged through the tavern door. Growler stood just inside in the shadows and nodded, signifying all was well before they went down. She led the way downstairs and stepped into the smoke-filled cave. Fifty faces turned in their direction. Fifty pairs of eyes dropped to her flaunted bosom. Fifty heads emptied of thought, as their blood headed south.
She pouted a plaintive smile. ‘Oh, our usual table is occupied.’
At a look and a step in their direction from Growler, the men in the corner got up and moved.
‘Apparently not,’ Logan said drily.
He pulled out a chair for her to sit down.
Such perfect manners. Such a gentleman. She was going to miss him after tonight. ‘Thank you, Logan,’ she said as if he’d offered her the sun and the stars and the moon.
He cast her a look askance, as if he sensed something of her mood. Her fear that soon enough he would be caught in Jack’s web. Surely he wouldn’t be stupid enough to let Jack lead him to ruin. She’d said he was clever, now she would see if she was right. Her stomach clenched. She felt like the executioner about to drop the axe. Or perhaps not. Executioners didn’t care about their victims. And damn her, she did. About this one. Only this one.
‘Red wine for me,’ she said lightly as if he’d asked.
He beckoned a waiter.
‘I’ll have whisky,’ Jack said at the waiter’s enquiring look.
‘Red wine for the lady,’ Logan said. ‘Ale for me, please.’
‘Can’t drink your own liquor?’ Jack said derisively.
He shrugged. ‘Make it whisky. Bring the bottle.’
Another man who couldn’t resist a challenge to his manhood. She hadn’t thought him such a fool as to match drink for drink with Jack. But she was wrong. Perhaps she was wrong about a lot of things. Perhaps he did deserve this lesson. And if Jack’s need for power drove him away, would it not be a good thing? For him at least. Jack wouldn’t be happy, which would not be a good thing for her.
The waiter pushed off through the crowds to fetch their order.
Jack pulled a box from his pocket and a pouch containing die. ‘Play with these, Gilvry, or call for fresh.’ He made it sound so natural. As if it would be an insult to doubt his word.
Charity pouted. ‘Jack,’ she admonished, picking up the die, knowing they would fall the same way each time if one didn’t adjust for the shot inside. She pulled a paper-wrapped set of dice with the maker’s seal still intact from her reticule. ‘We should start afresh.’
Jack glared at her as if annoyed, just as they had practised, then shrugged. ‘I’ve no objection.’
Logan raised his eyebrows. Gratitude gleamed in his eyes. Her heart squeezed painfully as she wished she wouldn’t be the one to engineer his downfall. Though she’d do her best to keep it from being a complete disaster, she realised with a shock.
She gathered up the loaded die and passed the new ones to Logan. ‘Check them.’
While he inspected the die, she deftly slipped Jack’s inside her glove beneath the table.
For one moment, a fraction of a second as she whisked them away, she thought she saw a flash of green from beneath Logan’s lashes. But, no, he was weighing the ivory, inspecting them closely. He tossed them on the green baize twice and nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs West,’ he said calmly.
Jack laughed. ‘Up to snuff, aren’t you, Gilvry?’
He smiled sweetly at Charity. ‘I should certainly hope so.’
Somehow Charity thought she saw a devil lurking in that smile. It disappeared too fast to be sure. Wise he might be in the way of business, as he had proved at dinner, he was as innocent as a babe when it came to her dark world.
Pain stopped her breath and she was grateful that the waiter chose that moment to bring their drinks.
Jack tossed his back. Apparently not to be outdone, Logan did the same. Charity sighed and wanted to shake him.
On his own head be it.
The play began. Hazard was the game of fools, yet Logan, it seemed, had the luck on his side. The money went back and forth across the table, but the pile of guineas at his elbow grew. And all the while he matched Jack in glass after glass of whisky.
She wanted to strangle him for being such a fool.
‘Another bottle,’ Jack called, emptying the one on the table.
Behind Jack, Growler leaned against the wall, his eyes drifting closed in boredom He’d spent too many nights like this to have much concern. But he wasn’t asleep by any means. He had the instinct of a dog, one out-of-place move and he’d be alert.
Clearly feeling the effects of the drink, Logan loosened his cravat and leaned back in his chair, all muscle and bone and sleepy-eyed good cheer. The waiter delivered a bottle and two fresh glasses. He looked at her half-full glass in question. She shook her head.
More men gathered around their table. It would be a very public humiliation when it came. But at least it was mostly Jack’s money he would be losing.
She steeled herself. Braced. Oh hell, she didn’t want to do it.
Jack’s turn. He upped the ante. Logan pushed in a pile of his guineas. Most of it he’d won from Jack.
He called a main of eight and nicked with two sixes. Winning the pot.
Now walk away, she willed. Get up and walk away. She didn’t want to do this.
She shot a quick look at Jack, but the old lion remained relaxed. Oh, his tail was twitching and his large paws ready to strike, but he had not given her the signal. She wished she could stop it now before the tide turned against him and he became one of Jack’s victims. But how? Jack would likely murder her if she tried anything of the sort.
‘Another round,’ Jack said.
Logan nodded and picked up his glass, looking at her over the rim. There was something in his eyes. Regret. Sadness. He set his glass down off kilter and it fell over and rolled towards her. Luckily it was empty.
Drunk. The idiot. And cup shot enough to show it. It would be all Jack needed.
Jack pushed all of his money into the table with a cheerful grin. ‘What do you say? Double or nothing.’
Don’t, her mind screamed. Leave. But even as her chest tightened she began working the die from inside her glove. Palming each one carefully.
Logan nodded, his eyes gleaming at the sight of that pile of guineas. ‘Double or nothing.’
‘I’ll need your note,’ Jack said, writing his own.
Inside she was shaking. Her throat was dry. Her palms damp. She did not want to do this.
Jack’s foot came down hard on hers. His hard smile delivering the instruction. And the reminder of her task.
A small sharp twist of the base of the box and the good die would drop into the cavity below. A flirtatious kiss at the box while holding the mark’s gaze, a little fumble and the loaded die would be ready to go. She had practised many times under Jack’s eyes, but never been called upon to put it into practise.
Damn Logan. She had not encouraged him to play so deep. Had warned him off. And she was the one faced with a terrible choice. Him or years off her bid to freedom. Her heart raced and her hands trembled.
Inhaling deep, she held the loaded die lightly in her palm. With her other hand she reached for the box. To her shock and horror his hand was there before her, warm, large, with long elegant fingers. He turned his palm, trapping her fingers within his. She closed her eyes briefly, half-expecting the touch of his lips, everything inside her straining towards the coming storm of sensation.
Heat blazed a trail up her arm. Her breasts tightened. She forced herself to look into his face. His eyes were bright and sharp and clear and knowing.
Frozen, she stared at him. Licked her lips. She pouted a salacious offering of bliss. ‘I thought to bring you luck.’
Men around the table stirred and shifted. But not him, his gaze held hers, unblinking green.
And...oh Heaven help her. She felt the fingers of his other hand beneath the table, rolling the die around in her palm, stroking that sensitive place like a lover.
Delicious shivers ran down her spine. Her stomach fell to her feet.
He knew.
And in his eyes she saw...acceptance. And intelligence. No haze of drink. No slack-jawed drunkenness. How could he possibly be sober after all that whisky?
He leaned back with a small smile. Gestured for her to continue.
Beside her, Jack tensed. Waited for the kill.
Inside her something shattered. She didn’t have a choice. She glared at Logan. ‘Call.’
His smile broadened. ‘A main of seven.’
She picked up the box in both hands and shook it wildly. Rattled the die in the box, making a show of blowing them a kiss for luck, and tossed them on the table where they clicked and rolled.
She did not look at them. She could only look into eyes that held misplaced forgiveness.
Jack cursed.
Logan glanced down. Shock filled his face.
She looked down, too, praying for luck, praying that the die had fallen the way she needed so he would lose honestly.
They had not. She’d thrown seven. The first seven of the evening. If she had dared exchange the die, there would have been nothing but a two. Two always lost.
Logan’s gaze shot to her face. He shook his head in puzzlement, then grinned. ‘I win.’ He shot a look at Jack. ‘My luck is in tonight.’
Jack was staring at her. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘It seems you did bring him luck, colleen. But I’m not complaining.’ His grin was wolfish as he looked at Logan. ‘You will give me a chance to win my money back?’
That she would not stay for. She pushed to her feet. ‘I’ve had enough for one night, if you gentlemen would excuse me. Growler, will you see me home?’ And she’d take the loaded dice with her, too.
Growler pushed away from the wall. It would keep him busy. Away from Logan when he made his way home. But whether drunk, or as she now suspected, sober, luck would not help him against Growler’s men should Jack set them on him.
Logan gathered up his winnings. ‘I, too, have had enough for one night.’
‘Come now,’ Jack said in oily tones. ‘The night is young. I’ll offer you double or nothing on that pot too.’
‘Och, no. I’ll no’ be taking any more of your gold. It wouldna’ be fair when we are going to be in business.’
Charity swallowed the urge to laugh at the chagrin on Jack’s face.
Logan turned his gaze on her. ‘Don’t forget your final fitting tomorrow, Mrs West. I will pick you both up at the White Horse at nine on Tuesday morning for the King’s Drawing Room.’ He flashed a wicked grin at Jack. ‘You are required to wear a kilt.’ He strolled away.
‘Aye, he’s got ballocks of steel all right,’ Jack muttered. He looked at her. ‘As do you.’
She leaned closer. ‘He knew, Jack. He knew I had the other die. He felt them in my hand beneath the table.’
His brows shot up. ‘Careless wench.’
‘I told you, he’s no fool,’ she hissed. ‘You wouldn’t listen.’
His lips pursed. ‘Aye, you told me. But you made a mull of it. You owe me.’
‘Only what you lost, Jack. Not what you didn’t win,’ she bargained, holding his hard gaze.
He nodded slowly. ‘Only what I lost. One hundred guineas.’
It was as if the floor had fallen away. Her head spun. Her stomach rebelled. She kept her smile. ‘One hundred it is.’
She got up and walked away, shoulders straight, head held high and her heart bruised and trampled. Stupid. So very stupid. And Jack had played her like a fish on a line. She knew from his expression, he had expected her to fail.
Right at that moment she hated Logan Gilvry.
All she had wanted was the freedom to live a life in peace and now she’d lost it, perhaps for years, perhaps for ever. Because of him.
No. Because of her own weakness. Some misplaced sense of sympathy she thought the past had driven away.
* * *
What game had Charity been playing with that last throw? Logan frowned. Had she planned for him to win, to drive a wedge between him and her keeper? Or had she succumbed to a fit of guilt? Either way, she had done him no favour. O’Banyon had been furious for all he’d hid his temper. And Logan, who had been prepared to lose some money, had been unable to risk a larger sum and so had been forced to leave the table a winner.
They hadn’t even begun to talk business.
And he’d not heard a word from O’Banyon since. He had never felt so on edge in his life. Ian had placed a great deal of faith in him being able to negotiate this new outlet for their whisky. And he had to get it done soon, so it could be delivered long before autumn storms closed the passes and the glens.
He inserted the emerald pin Sanford had loaned him into the folds of his cravat and nodded grimly at his reflection. It would have to do. And if O’Banyon failed to come through, he’d have to find another way to reel him in. Or he’d have to tell Ian he’d made a mull of it.
He turned away from the mirror and found Sanford gazing at his kilt with a sly quirk to his lips. ‘My, you’re as pretty as a girl,’ he said. ‘I’m tempted to ask you for a dance.’
‘Damned Sassenach,’ Logan muttered, adjusting the lace at his cuffs. ‘Get anywhere near me and you’ll find my dirk at your throat.’ He picked the knife up from the table and slipped it in his sock.
‘They won’t let you in armed,’ Sanford observed this time with genuine laughter in his bright blue eyes.
‘It’s part of the dress,’ Logan said. ‘Same as your sword.’ He looked pointedly at the young lord’s scabbard. ‘Clumsy thing. Mind you dinna trip over it.’
They grinned at each other and shook hands.
‘Thanks for the loan of the pin,’ Logan said.
‘Just don’t gamble it away.’ He yawned languidly. ‘It is a family heirloom.’
‘No need. I’m verra flush in the pocket thanks to Jack O’Banyon.’
Sanford looked at him intently. ‘I thought you too downy a one to play with the like of
him.’
‘Aye, I am. Unless it suits me.’ Let the man ponder on that. The only thing was, the results hadn’t been quite what he’d been expecting. It hadn’t come as a surprise that O’Banyon planned to fleece him. He just should never have let Charity know he was all right with what she was about to do. He’d touched a nerve.
When he saw the regret lurking in her eyes, he’d had a strangely quixotic need to drive it away. To tell her to do what she had to do and find no blame from him. And then she’d done the opposite.
Mentally he shook his head. Lasses. He’d never understand them. Whatever game she thought she had been playing, there had been murder in Jack’s eyes, when he saw the fall of the die on that last throw. And in hers, more than a touch of quickly hidden fear. Damn the man. And damn himself. If not for Tammy’s wee spy at the White Horse assuring him she had come to no harm, he’d have had to fetch her away. Take a leaf out of his wild ancestors’ book and toss her over his shoulder and carry her off.
And that really would have set the cat among the pigeons. If he had not done so already. Anger roiled in his gut. Anger at himself. He’d barely escaped the last trap a pretty lass had set for him. He was no’ about to fall headlong into another. No matter how much he wanted her.
He twitched the lace at his throat and turned from his reflection.
‘I will see you at the Palace,’ Sanford said. ‘It will be a dreadful squeeze. O’Banyon should be thrilled.’
He’d actually be lucky if either of them showed up today. Tammy had been watching the Irishman from afar. The man had spent the last three days inspecting McKenzie’s operation while Charity, followed by O’Banyon’s ruffian, Growler, had shopped and gaped at the King’s assorted doings, along with the rest of the city.
Somehow Logan had to find a way to convince O’Banyon he was betting on the wrong horse if he went with McKenzie. He wasn’t sure an introduction to the King passed muster, no matter what Sanford thought.
He bid Sanford farewell and strode out to the waiting coach, not entirely certain he’d find his guests prepared to go with him. But they were. The pair of them. Waiting in the lobby of the White Horse.
Falling for the Highland Rogue Page 10