Sharp Love (Gambling on Love)

by March, Ava

  “Front parlor.” The blond fellow pointed to the closed door to the right of the entrance hall then turned his attention back to the game.

  Jack didn’t bother tipping his head in thanks. He stepped around the boys, crossed the hall, and opened the door.

  A portly man, belly straining under his maroon waistcoat, stood before a fireplace in conversation with two others. One was perhaps twenty years of age by the looks of him. The other, whose back was to Jack, was almost Will’s height with dark thinning hair.

  With a flick of his fingers, Jack closed the door behind him.

  The sound snapped through the room.

  The one with the thinning hair turned around, a heavy scowl on his hard features. “I told you lot not to—” The scowl deepened. “Who are you?”

  The light from a candle on a nearby end table glinted off the sapphire pin affixed to the man’s cravat.

  Rage, anger, fury roiled up from within Jack.

  That was the man who had stolen from Will. Who had stolen Will’s future from him. Who had put that look of broken desolation in Will’s eyes.

  A few long strides had Jack across the room. Hale’s eyes flared then narrowed. Jack drew back his arm but before he could let his fist fly, a blow connected with the side of his neck.

  Bastard!

  Jack reached out with his left, tried to grab hold of Hale’s upper arm. But Hale dodged down, delivered a few well-placed punches to Jack’s abdomen.

  A growl rumbled up from Jack’s gut. And he unleashed his anger onto Hale.

  Clenched fists delivered blow after blow, the impacts pushing Hale back. Jack was completely oblivious to the punches Hale landed. All that mattered was beating the man to within an inch of his life.

  Glass shattered, liquid wetting Jack’s hair. Pain radiated across the back of his skull.

  Jack gave his head a quick shake to clear his senses, whipped around, and landed a fist to the young man’s jaw, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Onto the remains of the liquor bottle the man had tried to fell Jack with.

  Steel flashed through the air. Where the hell had that knife come from?

  A line of heat slashed across his waist. If it hadn’t been for his greatcoat, that cut would have sliced his stomach in two.

  Jack’s arms shot out. Grabbed hold of Hale and threw him bodily against the wall, the knife clanging to the floor. Before Hale could regain his bearings, Jack was on him again. He wrapped a hand around the man’s throat and lifted him up, pinning him against the wall.

  Hale twisted, trying to break free, trying to punch Jack in the face, but Jack’s longer arms gave him the advantage.

  “Early this morning, you sent your boys to take something that did not belong to them. I want it back.”

  “Bugger off, ye bloody giant.”

  Jack tightened his grip and lifted Hale higher.

  “Where is it?” Jack growled.

  Hale clawed at Jack’s hand wrapped around his throat. Punched at his forearm.

  Jack tightened his grip further and drew back his other arm, fist clenched and poised to deliver another blow.

  Hale’s eyes widened, face tingeing with blue from the lack of air. His mouth moved but no words came out.

  Slowly, Jack lowered Hale just enough so his toes touched the floor and then he loosened his hold about the man’s neck to allow him to draw enough breath to speak. “Where is it?” he asked again.

  “Safe,” Hale answered, voice thin and raspy.

  “Where?”

  “Bedroom.”

  Tempting to knock him unconscious, but Hale was a thief. Bastards like him lived on lies. And a safe implied a key. A key Jack didn’t have.

  “You’re coming with me.”

  With his hand wrapped securely around Hale’s neck, Jack dragged Hale over the young man’s unconscious form and out of the parlor, Hale’s legs struggling to keep up with Jack’s long strides. The portly man was nowhere to be seen, but the boys wisely scattered at the sight of Jack, abandoning their dice and disappearing down a corridor. He went up the main staircase and threw open doors until he found a room not at all like the others. The furniture grand and stately, oil paintings in gilded frames on the walls, a plush rug covering the old floorboards. Had to be Hale’s. Bastard made the boys sleep in the small rooms Jack had passed on wooden pallets with thin blankets while he slept like a king.

  “Where is it?”

  Battered and with blood dripping from his nose, Hale still managed to glare at him, furious mutiny burning in his eyes.

  “Where is it?” Jack repeated, the demand rumbling through the room, drenched in the promise of more than a bloody nose if Hale did not comply.

  Hale didn’t shrink in submission, but he at least finally answered, “Closet.”

  “The key.”

  “Pocket.”

  Jack shoved him up against the nearest wall. Held him there by his throat while he passed his free hand over the front of Hale’s coat. Reaching inside Hale’s black silk waistcoat, he withdrew a small brass key.

  Once he verified the key fit in the lock of the steel safe, Jack released Hale just long enough to land a swift upper cut to the man’s jaw, sending him to the plush rug.

  Jack waited a moment. Laid out on his back and limbs sprawled in a disorganized fashion, Hale’s eyes were closed. The only movement the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Satisfied Hale was unconscious, Jack turned back to the safe and dropped to his haunches before it. Within it he found a half dozen gold pocket watches, a few rings and necklaces, neat stacks of pound notes bound with string, a small figurine of a horse that had the heft of solid gold, loose coins littering the bottom, and a brown woven bag tied with a strip of leather. The same brown fabric as Will’s makeshift valise.

  A quick glace inside confirmed the bag held thousands of pounds in coins and notes. Hell, Will had saved considerably more than a small fortune.

  A floorboard creaked behind him.

  Jack whipped his head over his shoulder.

  Face twisted with rage and brandishing a wicked-looking blade, Hale lunged at him.

  Grabbing the nearest object from the floor of the closet, Jack shot to his feet, and with all the strength he possessed, he slammed the bootjack into Hale’s shoulder, sending Hale flying back. The man’s head smacked into one of the carved posters of the grand bed. And Hale crumpled like a broken doll to the floor, his chest utterly still.

  Jack quickly collected Will’s savings and left the room. He saw not a soul as he went down the stairs, though he wasn’t dim enough to believe the house was truly empty.

  “The safe’s open,” Jack said as he crossed the entrance hall.

  And as he went out the door, he heard the sound of many feet running up stairs.

  * * *

  Arms crossed over his chest, Will stared out the window as the last vestiges of sunlight left the sky, cloaking the city in darkness. For the past eight hours, he had tried to will Jack to appear, but the tidy alley between the row of stately town houses and the carriage house remained frustratingly void of Jack’s tall form. At a little before two in the afternoon, the traveling carriage had come down the alley, returned from its errand. Jack had hopped down from the driver’s bench, left the team of four in the grooms’ care, and without stopping in to have a word with Will, had walked back out of the alley.

  Jack was a strong, capable man, Will reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time. It wasn’t as if he’d never engaged in fight before. He was good with his fists and even better at using his massive frame to his full advantage. Will had witnessed him best a half-dozen men in one go. And Jack had told him it would be all right. Had said he wouldn’t be back until later, which implied he would be back, and Jack was a man of his word. Still, dread and worry held Will’s stomach in a vise-like grip. The very real possibility that Jack would not come back to him hung over him like the darkest of thunder clouds.

  What if today was the last time he would see Jack? And rut
hless, murderous thieves didn’t give their victims a proper burial. Jack could be dead, his body tossed into the Thames or discarded in some rubbish heap, denying Will the chance to even pay his last respects.

  Jack could be gone. Forever. Could have already been taken from him.

  Will’s pulse stuttered, his breaths hitching.

  He should have taken the time to tell Jack what was in his heart. Should have told Jack he loved him before he’d allowed him to walk out the door. Should have told Jack days ago. Years ago. Shouldn’t have let any of those opportunities slip by.

  That Jack did not feel the same way was completely inconsequential. What mattered was that Jack knew he was loved. Knew that Will loved him with every inch of his soul.

  The cold night air began to seep through Will’s clothes, chilling his skin. He pulled his gaze from the alley to check the hearth. The fire had burned down to embers, dark and void of warmth. He couldn’t have Jack return to a cold room. That would be a poor welcome.

  As he built back up the fire, he repeated the words in his head.

  Jack will return. Jack will return.

  Waiting at the window wouldn’t make Jack appear, yet still, Will went back to his vigil. As the warmth from the fire began to chase the chill from the room, he caught sight of a tall figure passing along the edges of a pool of golden light spilling from a window.

  Heart lodging firmly in his throat, Will watched with bated breath as the figure drew nearer to the carriage house. The long strides were slower than usual and slightly off rhythm, and the broad line of the shoulders held a slump, but there was no doubt about it.

  Jack had returned to him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sound of footsteps on stairs approached the room. Will had the door open before Jack could put his knuckles to wood. There wasn’t one bruise marring Jack’s face, but the exhaustion pulling at Jack’s features indicated the rest of him wasn’t as untouched.

  “In with you. Strip down to your smallclothes and sit.”

  Without a single objection, Jack trudged into the room. Before he did fully as bid, he reached into a large pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out a familiar brown sack, coins clinking merrily. “I believe this is yours.”

  “I...” Slowly, Will reached out, took the savings he’d thought were gone forever. His love for Jack filled his entire being, clogging his throat, keeping the words he needed to speak lodged deep within. Jack had done exactly as he’d said he would, and the only thing Will could say in return was, “Thank you.”

  “How much do you have in there?” Jack shrugged his greatcoat from his shoulders.

  “10,733 pounds,” Will said, as he took the coat from Jack. He hung it on one of the hooks near the washstand and set the sack on the chest of drawers.

  “I didn’t count it, but it feels to be all there.” Head tipped down, Jack began unbuttoning his coat, fingers fumbling more than once. “You weren’t exaggerating when you said you were saving every farthing.”

  Will gently pushed Jack’s hands aside and took care of the buttons. “Nope. Wasn’t exaggerating.” Leaning down a tad to better see, Will traced a line in the brown fabric that ran from the side of Jack’s waist to midway to his belly. “Why is your coat cut?”

  “Just a knick.”

  “A knick?” He pushed aside the coat, and found a similar line on the waistcoat. Quickly unbuttoned that garment and held it aside, revealing a thin line of red marring Jack’s white shirt.

  “Honestly, it’s just a knick, Will.”

  Will would be the judge of that, though he suspected Jack was speaking the truth. A worse injury would have soaked his shirt. Still, to know a blade had touched Jack’s skin was not a pleasant thought. Moving behind Jack, Will pulled both the coat and waistcoat down Jack’s arms.

  “Ten thousand pounds is a lot of money. I thought you only wanted a farm. You could buy an estate fit for a lord with that much.”

  “No, I couldn’t. Property is expensive, and that’s all the money I have. Can’t spend it all on the purchase—need to save some to invest in the land and hold me over until the property is generating income.” Will reached up toward Jack’s throat, and Jack obediently lifted his chin, allowing Will to see to the knot of his cravat. “But I’m hopeful I can afford a farm with a decent amount of land, enough to support itself and me.”

  “I know you’ve been reading about agriculture, but have you ever visited a farm? I mean, do you truly know what’s involved?”

  “I lived on one for a few years. St. Pancras sent infants to the country. Was almost six when I was sent back. I was young, but I remember what it was like.”

  A light, clean breeze playing across his face. Soft dewy grass beneath his bare feet. An older woman, her gray hair hanging in a single plait. And being hungry. That was the one constant of his childhood. In the country, in the workhouse, the coal mine, the narrow alleys of London—he’d been hungry. That constant feeling of unfulfilled need.

  He had believed if he had his own farm, he would never be hungry again. But he was beginning to suspect that even 10,000 acres of prime land, wheat fields as far as the eye could see, would not be able to satisfy the hunger that gnawed at his soul.

  “I didn’t know you once lived on a farm. Why did you never tell me?”

  Will shrugged. “Wasn’t all that important.” At the furrow beginning to make its way across Jack’s brow, Will reached for the waistband of Jack’s trousers. “How many were there?”

  “Where?”

  One tug, and the buttons released. Without pausing to admire the view, Will pushed Jack’s trousers down his legs, careful not to take the smallclothes along. That not a hint of a blush touched Jack’s cheeks indicated the man was more exhausted than he was letting on. “Wherever you found my savings. How many men were there?”

  Bracing a hand on the chair’s arm, Jack toed off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers. “Three initially. One fled, one didn’t put up much of a fight, and the third did.”

  “Did you walk all the way back from the Rookery?”

  “No. Took a hackney most of the way.”

  “Why do you smell like gin?”

  “Got bashed with a bottle.”

  “Where?”

  “Back of the head.”

  “Sit.” Will pointed to the chair.

  Jack more collapsed into it than sat down.

  With a careful touch, Will pushed aside thick black hair that was still damp near the scalp. The dampness didn’t feel sticky-slick, more just slick. Will checked his fingertips then brought them to his nose. Gin, not blood. That particular worry pacified, he gently felt along Jack’s skull, searching for any raised bruises, cuts or bumps. And found a small bump. “That hurt?” Will asked, as he softly circled the spot.

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  Jack let out a grunt. “It aches a bit when you touch it like that, but it doesn’t hurt on its own.”

  “No sleeping on your back tonight.”

  “I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault he interrupted us the other night.”

  Will shook his head. “I initiated our game. I should have known better than to—”

  “And I agreed to indulge with you. There were two of us involved. But there was no way you could have known he’d knock on our door at that moment. It was an uncomfortable situation, and I didn’t make it any easier, but it wasn’t your fault. It just...” Jack shifted, shoulders hunching. “Happened.”

  Will moved to the front of the chair, and stepping between Jack’s spread knees, took hold of the hem of Jack’s shirt.

  Jack looked up, met Will’s eyes. “I never looked on you as a convenient...bed partner. Well, perhaps at first I thought...but it was only because...” He shook his head, brows drawn together, clearly struggling to find the words. “I...I thought...”

  “It’s all right, Jack. You don’t need to explain.” The man was exhausted. Though Will wanted more than anything to know in what light Jac
k viewed their fortnight together, now was not the time to push Jack to explain himself.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know you didn’t.” The only times Jack had ever deliberately inflicted harm was in defense of another. “Now lean forward. Arms up. Slowly.”

  Will kept his gaze pinned on Jack’s face and saw the wince when Jack’s elbows passed his shoulders. As he pulled the shirt over Jack’s head, he discovered the source of that wince.

  Ugly, purple-blue bruises were beginning to form over the left side of his ribcage.

  “Don’t even try to tell me those don’t hurt.”

  “They do,” Jack admitted. Then he added, “A bit.”

  “Define a bit.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to breathe. I don’t think he broke any ribs. But stretching up or twisting aches a bit. It’s to be expected. He got in a few solid punches.”

  More than a mere few by the looks of it. Will passed a hand over the ugly bruises. He was by no means a physician, and Jack had become even more stoic with age, but he’d dealt with an injured Jack enough times to be able to gauge if the man was in serious pain or not. Jack hadn’t been favoring that side. The wince only appeared when he’d raised his arms. But that Jack was in any sort of pain...

  “I hate that you do this. Hate that you put yourself in harm’s way for me. I appreciate it more than I can express, but you didn’t need to do it.”

  “I hate that you cheat at the tables and those other things you’ve done to amass all that money, but I understand why you did it.” Clad in nothing but his smallclothes, Jack met Will’s gaze, those dark eyes somber and full of contrition. “And I’m sorry for judging you for it.”

  Will let out a sigh. “You don’t need to apologize. You were justified in finding me wanting. I find myself wanting.” He lifted a shoulder in an attempt at a casual half shrug. “But I’m done with all that. Hopefully in the future neither you nor I will have cause to find me so wanting.”

  “You’re done?”

  “Gonna take a page from your book, Mr. Morgan. Going to make a go at a respectable life. And if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have this chance.” He tried for another casual shrug. “I hate seeing you like this. I hate thinking that I could have lost you tonight. Hell, now I know how you have felt. But...thank you. It means a lot that you were willing to put yourself in harm’s way for me.”