Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  He would do everything to avenge Devlin and his own life. And if the rage growing inside him would help… He’d welcome it in. Without regret.

  Chapter One

  Five years later

  Regan lifted her thin, black veil and peered out of the carriage’s glass window. A sign advertising Hazard’s Outriders loomed like a great giant a little over a block ahead. It was nailed to a brick façade which stood imposingly over all the other buildings. Hazard’s was the most prestigious, and effective, outrider and bodyguard service in all of England. A fact she knew from the papers and word of mouth.

  Her breath fogged the glass pane. She wiped it away with her gloved hand, unease and doubt churning inside of her. Captain Hazard stood for everything she was against. Everything her father had opposed. Power through violence.

  And yet, Captain Hazard was a self-made man. Something that her father would have admired. The only thing about Hazard he would have admired.

  Her carriage bounced over the rough street. The well-sprung wheels absorbed the shocks and the lacquered and cushioned walls muffled the rattling din of traffic outside.

  The carriage struggled ahead then stopped directly in front of the immense building.

  Regan’s heart raced. Talking with Hazard would compromise her pacifist principles. But if refusing to speak with him meant giving up her father’s work, what choice had she?

  The carriage door swung open and Williamson unfolded the step. Regan pulled down her veil and grabbed her umbrella from the seat. Gathering up her crisp black skirts, she took Williamson’s waiting hand and climbed down.

  Her booted feet hit stone and she tilted her head up, peering at the reflective, Palladian glass windows on every floor. An atrociously expensive building, perfectly harmless and beautiful in every way from the exterior. On the inside, it housed the most dangerous and reliable guards in all of London.

  Regan shook her head and went to the tall, double door entrance embossed with glass. Williamson followed her, his footsteps a pace behind. She hated being followed, but he was the largest of her footmen, and she was not entirely unafraid of whoever was trying to kill her.

  One of the doors swung open, manned by a young man only a few inches taller than her own five feet four inches. His blond hair glistened in the morning light under his perfect, blue bicorn hat. He smiled and a dimple flashed in his cheek. His long, matching blue cloak swished about his legs. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

  “Thank you.” Regan nodded and slowly walked past.

  His cloak caught over his right leg and she paused, her gaze riveted to the maimed appendage. It was bowed at the strangest angle and his boot stuck out, thick and black.

  Although she saw disabled men every day in Whitechapel, she had never seen one working at a respectable establishment in the city. Regan moved her gaze back to the man’s face and smiled.

  He closed the door behind her and her footman. Regan’s boots echoed on the marble floor, but the voices of well-dressed men standing in wait swallowed up the sound.

  Four lines.

  Her dark veil swayed before her eyes, distorting the rows of men that led to a desk, at least ten feet long. Four men sat behind it, glancing in ledgers and scratching in them with quills. One of the bespectacled men beckoned forth a customer from the line before him.

  Although she had an appointment, perhaps she needed to stand in line. She glanced about the groups of men, looking for someone who might be able to assist her, but spotted no one.

  It also appeared she was the only woman here. Lovely.

  Perhaps she was the first woman ever here. A smile tugged at her lips. If she could walk through Whitechapel, this should be as simple as tying her bonnet.

  She turned to Williamson. His brown eyes looked above the heads of the men around. Regan tapped his shoulder lightly. “Do you think I should que?”

  Williamson looked right to left, the folds of his cream-colored cravat twisting. “Well, my lady. I think—”

  “Pardon me, Lady Regan.”

  Regan whirled around, looking for the speaker. A large built man, almost six feet with wide shoulders and a barrel chest, stood before her. His curly, black hair brushed his temples and his blue eyes twinkled. He brought a hand to the lapel of his charcoal coat.

  “I believe ye be having an appointment with Captain Hazard,” he stated, with a friendly Irish lilt.

  “Yes. I do. Mr…?”

  “O’Malley, my lady. Thomas O’Malley.” He tilted his head to the side and looked to Williamson. “Perhaps yer footman would care to wait in our downstairs parlor? We’d provide tea of course. And ye needn’t fear for yer safety. I shall personally be escorting ye to Captain Hazard’s office.”

  Regan paused and glanced at Williamson. She didn’t particularly wish for her servants to know the severity of her predicament and she would be safe here, surrounded by a virtual army of bodyguards. “That would be most satisfactory.”

  Mr. O’Malley snapped his fingers and a young boy with sandy hair ran towards them. Smart brass buttons shone on his blue coat. The boy extended his hand towards a hallway off to the right and looked expectantly at Williamson. The footman gave Regan a quizzical look, but she nodded and the two set off.

  Gesturing to his right with his thick, calloused hand, Mr. O’Malley smiled. “Step this way, if ye please.”

  Mr. O’Malley strode off across the open room, maneuvering around the lines towards the far right wall just off to the side of the long desk.

  A sprawling marble and cherry wood staircase loomed at the back of the reception area. Regan looked up and felt her jaw slacken. The ceiling of Hazard’s flew up three stories. Landings circled the sides of the immense opening. Carved wood and gold railings lined the stairway on each floor.

  The three-story ceiling beamed a pale cream with an enormous gold and crystal chandelier hanging from its center.

  Mr. O’Malley stopped beside her. “It’s an eye opener, isn’t it? Generally, people aren’t observant. Most people never look up.” His musical voice paused. He looked down at her. “And most people never go upstairs.”

  She blinked at the plush, Oriental rug of deep burgundy and blue which ran down the center of the stairs. What on earth did he mean people didn’t go upstairs? What was the rest of the building used for? “Pardon?”

  “Captain Hazard isn’t the most social of men, don’t ye know?”

  Mr. O’Malley started up the steps and Regan followed, lifting the hem of her skirts. “I did not know.”

  Mr. O’Malley climbed the first flight of stairs in silence. Then he stopped at the landing and turned.

  “It’s a bit of a walk. The captain’s office is on the top floor.” He smiled and his blue eyes shone with amusement. “Very few customers actually ever meet with the captain.”

  And he turned and started up the next flight.

  Regan lifted the hem of her dress a little higher and followed, undeterred by the threatened climb. “Being on the top floor must deter many unwelcome visitors.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, he replied, “There is that. But Captain Hazard… Well, he likes to be like God.” Mr. O’Malley looked heavenward. “Keeps his eye on everything from above, he does.”

  As they ascended the last flight of steps, Regan couldn’t help thinking of the fellow downstairs who manned the door. “Pardon, but the man at the entry? If it is not rude of me, what happened to his leg?”

  Mr. O’Malley stopped at the deep, wide landing of the fifth floor that stretched into long hallways heading off in either direction. His lips curled in a slight frown. “Ah, that. Poor Ned. He took a load of grape shot to the leg. It’s useless. No one else would hire the lad.”

  Regan blanched at the thought of metal tearing into human flesh, breaking the bones. Captain Hazard had hired him. Strange for a man reputed to be utterly ruthless.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  He nodded his head, and turned towards the hallway to the left. “Down that hal
l. It’s the only door at the end. He’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Thank you again, Mr. O’Malley.”

  “Good luck to ye, my lady.” Mr. O’Malley turned on his heel, sharp, military like, and hurried down the steps. The sounds of his booted feet echoed in the air.

  Good luck? Regan stood in the middle of the landing and stared down the hall. Down that long corridor was the office of one of the most powerful, most ruthless, men in London. Bodyguard to the Royal family, guard to aristocrats and their wealth. A hero of the battlefield.

  Regan strode down the cream-colored corridor. The paneled wood door at the end of the corridor grew closer, adding to her slight anxiety.

  For the love of the Lord, someone wished her dead. She didn’t have much of a choice in meeting Hazard. Regan grabbed the brass door handle and gave it a solid twist. The door swung open and she entered the room. She blinked. She did not know what she had expected, but certainly not this. Not such elegance. Male elegance. Regan lifted her veil and glanced about the room.

  Light from three tall windows spilled over mahogany wood panels that stretched from the floor to the high ceilings all about the rectangular room.

  A simple, yet large, chandelier, capable of holding twenty candles perhaps, dangled from the ceiling. It glittered in the morning light.

  A mammoth desk, just in front of the huge, green marble fireplace, dominated the big room. A single hurricane lamp stood on the desk.

  Nothing more.

  The gleaming wood shone with nothing to interrupt its polished surface. As if everything important was being hidden from prying eyes. Two elegant chairs of inlaid wood stood before the desk.

  Large chairs of brown leather, studded with brass tacks at the feet and arm rests, were positioned about a gleaming table by the windows near the door.

  Regan turned about, clutching her umbrella. The fireplace crackled and danced, warming the room. More paintings hung from the walls in artful places. Expensive paintings. A Michelangelo and a sketch of a da Vinci flying machine.

  She had expected pistols, sabers, and rifles to decorate the walls. A fortress of weapons. Instead, she’d found beauty.

  The grating of wood on wood jerked her attention away. A hidden panel swung open at the back corner of the room and she quickly yanked down her veil, desiring its protection. And she had a strong feeling that she was going to need it.

  Chapter Two

  Captain Hazard’s broad chest stretched the sapphire fabric of his coat despite the perfect tailoring. Even through her thin, lace veil his ebony hair shone in the morning light like black fire.

  Energy rolled off him. It pulsed in the air shrinking the room. Or perhaps, it was his height that made the room seem smaller. Regan felt certain that if she were to stand close to him, her head would just reach his shoulder.

  Captain Hazard left the panel slightly ajar and crossed to his desk in two strides, each step containing a vitality that no man she knew possessed.

  Gesturing to one of the intricate chairs in front of his desk, he said, “Please, tell me how I may assist you.”

  Clipped, perfect English rolled from his tongue. Regan shook away her surprise. He certainly could not have become this powerful if he hadn’t rid himself of his East End dialect.

  She rested her umbrella against the side of the chair and her veil swayed before her as she sat.

  After a few moments, he pulled back his leather chair and lowered himself into it. A fascinating process of long limbs folding into a small space. And yet, he didn’t appear cramped. He still dominated the room. His eyes fixing. Magnetic.

  Regan clasped her black-gloved hands in her lap to prevent any fidgeting. She cleared her throat. “Captain Hazard, I wish to obtain your services. It has become clear that someone wishes me dead.”

  Captain Hazard, ensconced behind three feet of solid mahogany, leaned back in his leather chair. His hands rested on the arm rests, his calloused fingers lightly gripping the edges.

  Good Lord the man was large. And solid. And powerful.

  Regan tried to keep herself from staring. He didn’t look like an English man. The white of his linen shirt beneath his blue coat and white cravat was a shocking contrast to his deep coloring.

  His bronzed skin could have been achieved from months at sea, but Regan knew for a fact he was a former Army man, having achieved much recognition on the continent. And his… largeness. No Englishman she’d met possessed such an intimidating stature. Instead of the whipcord strength of the officers of noble rank, Captain Hazard possessed a raw dangerousness in his muscular physique alone.

  His sooty, black eyes stared at her, devoid of emotion. Probing her. Regan fought the urge to shift in the hardwood chair.

  “I see.” He tilted his head to the side and a lock of black hair brushed his high, strong cheekbone. “First, would you mind lifting your veil, Lady Regan? I prefer to look at whom I’m speaking with.”

  His voice rumbled through the room, low and hard… yet warm like heated honey. Tension coiled in Regan’s stomach. Of course she should lift her veil. It was terribly rude to keep it down, but a part of her wanted to stay hidden from him. As if he might see the pain she kept hidden from everyone else. Regan pulled the veil up and back.

  He paused, then his lips curled in a slow smile that seemed to heat the room.

  “Thank you.” The smile vanished as he leaned forward. “Now, what has led you to believe you are in danger?”

  Regan tightened her grip on her hands. “Captain Hazard, though it may seem frivolous of a noble woman to make such claims—”

  He raised his hand, his fingers coarse and scarred. “Pardon my interruption, but I care not if your claims are frivolous. You shall have my services if you require them.” He lowered his hand onto the shining mahogany desk.

  A ragged scar, larger than the other smaller nicks on his fingers and darker than the bronze of his skin, marred the top of his hand.

  Regan snapped her gaze away from it.

  “Lady Regan, what leads you to believe someone wishes you dead?”

  Dear Lord, he was to the point. “I have received a letter requesting my absence from Whitechapel.”

  His full, masculine lips curled in a tight smile. “Requesting your absence?”

  Regan met his dark, knowing eyes and admitted, “Those were not the exact words.”

  He nodded, drumming his fingers on his desk. “Well, I will not discount an educated and wealthy man wishing you dead, but your family name should grant you protection from anyone in the upper circles. What else?”

  Clearing her throat, Regan tore her gaze from Captain Hazard’s formidable eyes. Her attention lifted to the large painting by Rubens above the fireplace. Many men would sell their souls for such a piece. How could a man who took life in vast scores appreciate such beauty? Hazard was proving to be an unexpected puzzle.

  “Lady Regan?” His deep voice pierced the room and Regan’s thoughts.

  She wet her lips, wishing for a sip of tea. “Before I received this last communication… I had been warned through other means. Another letter… And my carriage suffered an accident. A wheel slipped off. Although not unheard of, it was rather coincidental.”

  “I see, and what finally brought you here?”

  “This morn, someone managed to leave a knife in my bedroom. A note was attached. It was an aggressive maneuver. I don’t believe one of my servants is in collusion with this person,” a wry smile forced her lips to tilt, “but I am not an entire fool to continue on without some security.”

  Captain Hazard’s black brows drew together, narrowing his dark eyes at her attempt at humor. He pulled open a desk drawer and brought out a narrow ledger. Pressing it open, he took a quill from the same drawer and an ink bottle made of shimmering crystal, admiring the dancing rainbows of the intricately cut crystal. How odd that this big man could handle such a delicate object without shattering it.

  “Someone left a knife in your bedroom? How large? Do you still h
ave it?”

  Regan fisted her hand and lifted it from her lap. “About twice this size and it is at my residence.” Slowly, Regan dropped her hand to her lap. “It would seem they are quite determined. I do not think I shall be walking home any longer nor sleeping with great ease.”

  His quill paused and he glanced up from his notes. “You walk? Alone?”

  Regan nodded, guessing his next words. “Yes, with a footman, now.”

  Dipping the nib of his quill in the black ink, he flipped the pages of the ledger. He scratched a few words on the parchment, his fingers gripping the wooden quill with gentle firmness. He dug the tip of the nib into the parchment, his attention still on the words in his book.

  “And do you walk home from Whitechapel?” he inquired.

  “Yes.”

  Captain Hazard’s broad shoulders shifted under his sapphire coat as he straightened. Bridging his long, strong fingers, he stated, “It is no surprise that you are in danger. Such activities make you a perfect target, lady that you are.”

  The flatness of his tone unnerved Regan, but she refused to let his words anger her. He was born in the hells of London, yet he disapproved of her and her work. She could feel it. “You think me foolish.”

  “There is no other name for a woman of your standing who walks through Whitechapel at any hour of the day. And certainly not when one is being threatened,” he stated, his voice matter of fact.

  “My life has never been truly threatened until recently. And as to walking through Whitechapel, I do not take my carriage because I do not particularly care to parade my wealth around those impoverished.”

  Surprise sparked in his eyes, along with a hint of admiration, but it soon vanished. “Nice sentiments, I’m sure. However, with or without a guard, Whitechapel is not safe.”

  “Of course it is not entirely safe, Captain Hazard,” she snapped. “But I prefer to trust in humanity. Besides, life would be rather boring if one limited oneself to what was simply safe.”

  He tilted his head to the side, a single black brow arching. “Indeed. I shall remember that. It is not my place to judge you. It is only my place to protect you. However, what exactly are you doing in Whitechapel?”