Dear God, he didn't want to believe she'd be better off with their aunt, but what other conclusion could he come to? Because of him, she was alone on the streets, had perhaps witnessed a murder, and was being pursued by a man who was apparently the personification of evil.
Regardless of what Deirdre had said, he knew he was responsible for it all, and it was tearing him apart.
Some of his disquiet must have conveyed itself to Deirdre, for she stirred restlessly against him, and he smoothed a calming hand over the silky curve of her shoulder in an attempt to soothe her. He had to try to put all of this out of his mind and get some sleep, otherwise he would be exhausted tomorrow and of no use to anyone. That, however, was easier said than done.
Very soon now he would have to make some major decisions. Not just about Emily, but about the woman in his arms, as well. She'd become very important to him in a short amount of time, and though he wasn't certain what his exact feelings for her were or what he was going to do about it, he was very much afraid that even after all this was over, there would be no letting her go.
Chapter 21
Someone was crying. Rolling over on her pallet in her darkened corner of the Rag-Tag Bunch's hideout, Emily listened intently, trying to ascertain where the sound was coming from.
She had no idea how long ago the soft sniffling had first started. She supposed it had been there at the very edges of her consciousness for quite some time, but she'd been too caught up in the turmoil of her own thoughts to notice. After the events of that morning, her mind had been awhirl, and she'd spent hours tossing and turning in a vain attempt to fall asleep before giving up in defeat.
It was then that the faint weeping had finally registered.
Pushing herself to a sitting position, she lifted a corner of the curtain and peered out into the room, her eyes struggling to penetrate the gloom. Someone had left a single candle burning on the plank table, but its dim glow did little to dispel the shadows or reveal the person who sounded so heartbroken.
Unable to fight her curiosity for another second, Emily got to her feet and stealthily made her way over to retrieve the candle. Holding it aloft, she turned in a slow circle in an effort to get her bearings. For a long moment, all she could hear was the deep, even breathing of the boys as they slept, and she was just beginning to believe she'd imagined the whole thing when another cry reached her ears.
It emanated from the darkness along the opposite wall, and she started in that direction, following the sound. Even with the flickering flame to guide her path, however, she almost stumbled over the culprit before she saw him.
It was Benji.
Sitting on his pallet with his knees drawn up and his head buried in his arms, his thin shoulders were shaking with the force of his sobs.
Emily was immediately concerned. Placing her candle on the floor close by, she knelt beside him and reached out to draw the little boy into her arms. "Benji, darling, what is it? Why are you crying?"
He didn't answer; he just shook his head and wrapped his arms around her neck in a stranglehold.
"Please, Benji. I can't help you unless you tell me what's wrong."
Lifting his face, he looked up at her with tear-drenched eyes, looking drawn and anxious in the pale light. "It's my book, Miss Angel. Someone tore my book."
She glanced over his shoulder and barely stifled a gasp of outrage as she caught sight of the destruction that had been wrought. The cover of Benji's precious book had been ripped asunder, its pages torn out and strewn about on the floor next to his pallet. It was completely destroyed, beyond being salvaged, and Emily felt her heart wrench in sympathy. That book had meant the world to the lad in her arms, and now the only thing that had given him pleasure in this wretched existence was gone.
Who would do such a thing?
But before the question had even finished echoing in her head, she knew the answer. Jack.
One glance in the direction of the older boy's pallet was enough to tell her that he was gone. In fact, the bedding looked oddly undisturbed, as if he'd never even turned in for the night. More than likely he was lurking in the background somewhere, basking in the results of his handiwork.
"I woke up and found it like that, all ripped apart." Benji hiccupped and swiped at his eyes with a grimy fist. "I'll never 'ave anything as nice again."
"Nonsense," she whispered, taking him by the shoulders and forcing him to meet her gaze. "As soon as I get home, I promise you I'll buy you dozens and dozens of books. As many as you want."
The boy's eyes grew as big as saucers. "Truly?"
"Truly." Rising, she dusted off her breeches and squared her shoulders. She had no intention of letting Jack get away with this. She was going to make sure he paid. "Don't you worry, Benji. You wait right here and I'll take care of everything."
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and crossed the room to the door of the hideout, her steps silent and purposeful. She was relatively certain she knew where that devil was hiding, and he was about to receive the tongue-lashing of his life.
Careful not to wake the other boys, she pushed open the door and slipped out into the alley. The storm that had broken out earlier that evening had long since moved on, with only the rain-wet cobblestones and the occasional flash of lightning in the distance to give testimony to its passing. Wrapping her arms about herself to ward off the chill night air, she glanced left and right, her eyes searching the darkness for some sign of movement among the crates and barrels that lined the alleyway.
"Looking for me, Princess?"
The insolent tone came from right behind her, and she jerked around, her heart flying into her mouth. At first, she could see nothing except for a vague shape, but after a second or two her sight adjusted, and she realized it was definitely Jack leaning against the side of the building. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he was watching her with an expression that was difficult to read in the dimness.
The same old fear he always seemed to inspire in her grabbed her by the throat, threatening to choke her, but she took a deep breath and gathered her courage in both hands, refusing to be intimidated.
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I am." Proud of how cool her voice sounded, she marched forward to stand before him, hands planted on hips. "How could you?"
" 'Ow could I what?"
"Be so cruel." As she pictured the look on Benji's face, her temper once again bubbled forth, overwhelming any trepidation she may have felt. "You knew how much that book meant to Benji and you destroyed it anyway. Tore it apart."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
But he did. She could see it in the curl of his lip, in those malevolent eyes.
"I don't believe you." Leaning forward, she jabbed a finger at him contemptuously. "He's just a little boy. Are you that much of a coward that you have to torment a child?"
He stiffened, and Emily immediately wondered at the intelligence of confronting him on her own. The hatred that emanated from him was enough to bring all of her wariness crashing back.
Too late.
"Suppose I try tormenting someone more my size, eh? 'Ow would that be?" He suddenly lunged forward and caught her wrist in a punishing grip. "Someone like . . . you?"
She tried to tug away from him, but his hold was too strong. "Let me go."
"Oh, come off it, luv. You think I don't know why Peter likes you so much? You've been giving it to 'im, ain't you? Why, you're a right little doxy underneath all them fancy manners of yours."
"Stop it."
The next thing she knew, he had pulled her forward and shoved her up against the building, trapping her between the heat of his body and the stone edifice.
"I'll stop when I'm ready." He pressed an arm across her throat, holding her in place while he trailed a hand down the front of her, his touch lingering, making her shudder with revulsion. "Right now, I want some of what Peter's been getting."
In one quick, unexpected movement, he grasped the fr
ont of Nat's borrowed shirt and yanked as hard as he could. Buttons popped and flew in all directions, and the action shook Emily out of her terror-induced paralysis.
She started to fight, kicking and hitting out at him, but the blows had very little effect. In fact, he seemed to be amused by it all, chuckling at her vain attempts to free herself. His arm at her throat had cut off the passage of air to her lungs, and as she struggled to breathe, the edges of her vision started to blur and go dim. All she could see was his face, a mask of evil intent as he loomed over her.
Then, abruptly, he was gone. Sucking in a gust of oxygen, she stumbled away from the wall, her gaze searching the shadows to find two figures locked in a fierce struggle only a few feet away.
After several tension-filled moments, the taller form managed to send the shorter one crashing into a pile of crates across the alleyway, and Emily drew close enough to recognize Peter as her rescuer. He stood with jaw clenched, his eyes glittering as he glared down at Jack where he lay on the ground.
"That's it," he gritted out, the tone of his voice leaving no doubt as to the strength of his anger. "I've 'ad enough. Pack your things and get out."
When Jack didn't reply but merely rose and stood there unsteadily, Peter took a menacing step toward him, his hands doubled into fists at his sides. "Now, Jack."
"Oh, I'm going," Jack assured him, returning his glower.
He sent a look full of resentment in Emily's direction. "I'm tired of 'anging around 'ere, anyway. But I won't forget this. Any of it."
With his words still ringing hollowly in the stillness, he turned and sauntered off, disappearing into the gloom.
As soon as the older boy was gone, some of the rigidity seemed to seep out of Peter's body, and he turned to Emily, reaching out to grasp her shoulders. "Are you all right? Did 'e 'urt you?"
Was she all right? She wasn't certain. Now that her ordeal was over, she had to admit to feeling shaky, and when she tried to speak all that emerged was a quavering whimper. "Oh, Peter."
Wrapping his arms around her in a soothing hug, Peter sighed and rested his chin on top of her head. "I'm so sorry, Emily. I should 'ave thrown that bloody rotter out a long time ago."
He felt so warm and safe, and Emily took a second to soak in the comfort of his hold before speaking. "Why didn't you?"
"Why didn't I what?"
"Throw him out."
"I don't know. I suppose I felt sorry for 'im. I've never turned away anyone who needed 'elp, and I know 'e's 'ad a 'ard life." She felt him tense against her. "But tonight 'e went too far. What 'e did . . ."
"You know about Benji's book?"
" 'E woke me up and told me. That's 'ow I knew you were out 'ere. But that's not what I meant. Jack could 'ave—"
He stumbled to a halt, seeming unable to continue, and Emily pulled a little away from him, holding his eyes with her own. "I'm fine, thanks to you."
He offered her a faint smile, but it quickly vanished when he noticed that she was shivering and clutching closed the gaping folds of her shirt. "Let's get you inside and see if we can find you another shirt. You're freezing, Angel."
His words sent a surprised thrill through her, and she paused for a moment, touching his arm. "Why did you call me that?"
"What?"
"Angel."
He shrugged, but evaded her eyes. "I suppose I've 'eard Benji call you that often enough that it's rubbed off." One corner of his mouth curved upward in a slight smile. "Besides, you sort of seem like one to me."
The almost shyly offered compliment warmed her from the inside out. But as he steered her toward the door of the hideout with a hand at her back, she couldn't help but wonder whether they had truly seen the last of Jack Barlow, or whether he would be back to make them all pay.
Chapter 22
A sudden commotion had Tristan jerking upright in bed early the next morning. Bleary-eyed and disoriented after only a few hours' sleep, he blinked against the light that seeped in through the curtains and glanced at Deirdre, who was looking up at the ceiling as if she expected it to cave in on them.
"What on earth?" she gasped. When the noise only seemed to increase in volume, she immediately lunged from the bed and hurried toward the door, scooping up her nightgown and shrugging into it as she went. Tristan paused only long enough to retrieve a pair of breeches from the back of an overstuffed chair and slide into them before joining her in the corridor.
"I told you her ladyship is still asleep." It was Mrs. Godfrey, her voice ringing with displeasure as it echoed in the foyer below. "She's had a hard few days, she has, and I'm not about to disturb her this early for the likes of you. Now, on your way!"
There was a loud yip from Sally, and the terrier's paws could be heard scrabbling across the parquet floor before another voice piped up, sounding vaguely familiar. "You don't understand! I 'as to see 'er! I 'ave a message for 'er what's very important!"
Tristan came to stand next to Deirdre at the head of the stairs and peered down over the banister. For a moment, all he could see was the housekeeper's stout figure framed in the doorway as she blocked the path of whoever was trying to enter. But when she shifted slightly, the small form outside on the steps came into view.
Deirdre apparently recognized her at the same time he did. "Jenna?" Her expression concerned, she descended the stairs with Tristan at her heels. "It's all right, Mrs. Godfrey. You can let her in. I know her."
The servant gave a stiff nod and stepped aside to allow the girl into the entry hall. Jenna eyed both her and the still barking Sally balefully for a moment before brushing past them and approaching Deirdre.
"Dodger Dan sent me, m'lady. 'E needs to see you right away."
Tristan felt an instant surge of hope. It seemed Deirdre did as well, for she whirled to face him with obvious excitement. "He must have news of Emily!"
Before Tristan had a chance to answer, Deirdre turned back to the child. "Where is he?"
"You're to meet 'im at the Jolly Roger, m'lady."
"Very well. We'll get ready and be down in a few minutes." Without waiting for Tristan, she bounded back up the stairs.
He turned and started to follow, but as he did so, he noticed Mrs. Godfrey staring at his bare chest with startled eyes, and he couldn't keep himself from sweeping her a mocking bow. She gave a haughty sniff before picking up a newly washed and brushed Sally and marching away.
With a wink at Jenna, he continued on up the steps.
Deirdre had returned to his chamber and was standing in the middle of the room with her hands planted on her hips, surveying the floor in a disgruntled fashion.
"Now where has it gotten to?" she muttered, her foot tapping agitatedly.
Fairly certain of what she was looking for, he plucked her chemise from underneath the edge of the bed and handed it to her. "You know, I don't think your housekeeper likes me very much."
She blushed and clutched the undergarment to her chest, not quite meeting his eyes. "It's not that she doesn't like you. She's just—"
"Overly protective where you're concerned?" he finished, crossing his arms.
"Yes. Well, er . . ." Her cheeks reddened even more, and she hastened for the door. "I'll just get dressed and meet you downstairs, shall I?"
"Wait, Deirdre." He couldn't let her go yet. Not until he knew for certain she had no regrets over what had occurred the evening before. He didn't think he could stand it if she did.
She halted with her hand on the doorknob, and he stalked toward her, willing her to meet his gaze.
"Are you truly all right, Deirdre? I didn't hurt you last night or—"
"Oh, no!" She swung about, her sincerity there to read in her face. "I'm fine. Really." She stopped and ducked her head. "It was perfect. All of it."
Reaching out, he caught her chin in his hand and lifted her face to plant a quick kiss on her lips. "Good. I hope that means you won't be adverse to trying it again?"
He had to restrain a chuckle at her stun
ned expression. Her mouth worked as if she was trying to speak, but no sound emerged. Finally, she just gave a helpless nod and ducked out of the room.
As soon as the door shut behind her, Tristan let his smile bloom. His lot definitely seemed to be improving. He might finally be close to locating Emily, and if he had his way, last night had just been the first of many he would spend in such a way with Deirdre.
Was she all right?
Deirdre asked herself the question as Tristan helped her down from the coach in front of the Jolly Roger a while later.
Admittedly, she was a bit tired, and her body felt sore in places she hadn't previously known she possessed, but all in all she supposed she'd come through rather well for her first time. With the possible exception of her heart, of course.
Seeing Jenna in her front hallway this morning had brought home to her how right she'd been about how abruptly her time with Tristan could end. Not that she wasn't happy to think Emily might have been found, but the idea of saying good-bye to the man who'd made love to her last night, the man she'd so recently realized she loved, was wrenching, to say the least.
Shaking off her sudden melancholy, she looked over at Jenna as she clambered down from the carriage to join them.
"Stay here with Cullen, Jenna," she instructed, giving the child's shoulder a squeeze. "We'll be back soon."
The girl's face wrinkled with displeasure. "Oh, but I wanted to come, too. I want to 'elp. Dan said I could."
"Jenna McLean, you are not setting foot inside a tavern! Do you understand? Your mother would never forgive me if she found out I allowed such a thing."
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