Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Jack snorted.

  She stopped and turned around. Her blue eyes snapped beneath her swaying black veil. “What?”

  Jack ignored the red wisps of hair floating free of her bonnet and falling about her pale skin. He didn’t want a ruddy argument. If he had to, he would humor her. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, it matters to me. Out with it.”

  “I meant nothing, my lady.” Jack stared at her, fixing a blank gaze. A look that usually convinced nobles that he was incapable of their intellect.

  She tapped her umbrella against her leg. “Do not trifle with me. You disapprove of something. I wish to know your opinions.”

  Pausing, she cocked her head to the side, her veil swinging. “And Captain Hazard, I would not allow for the owner of a company such as yours to be run by someone with less intelligence than myself. Do not think that I am fooled by that look.”

  Jack bit the inside of his cheek and suppressed a smile. Regan Chance was a cunning little thing despite her puritanical ways.

  “If you insist,” he replied.

  Pointing to the upper story of the hospital, he said, “This might help their physical ailments. But will it help their lot in life? Rich men throw money at the poor to salve their collective conscience, while in truth, they want the lower class to remain beneath their shining boots.”

  Jack glanced away, focusing on the scaffolding behind her. He and Devlin had grown up in a charitable home for orphans. It, too, had been owned by a Chance. It had been a glorified workhouse… That then sold them to the military once they’d grown too big to do intricate work. Drawing in a calming breath, Jack lowered his gaze to Lady Regan’s veiled face. “Most are not interested in changing the station of the poor. They fear a Republic.”

  Lowering his hand, he waited for her to rise in indignation.

  Slowly, Regan stepped towards him, her skirts brushing his boots. She looked up into his eyes and lifted her veil from her face. A smile curved her lips. “What a marvelous speech, sir. You should run for politics.”

  It was clear. She found him fascinating like some foreign animal in a zoo. God, she was such a beautiful woman. Not to mention the fact she was an interesting woman who turned her black cotton, the color of mourning, into the color of sin. As he looked on her cheeky grin and slightly parted lips, the muscles of his groin tightened. Heat rushed from his brain straight to his cock, and he adjusted the folds of his long coat to hide the hardness in his trousers. A hardness he didn’t want her to see. At least not yet.

  Her eyes glowed with a wicked cleverness. “And I agree that the rich wish to keep the poor low.” She turned and strode off towards the steps of the hospital, adding over her shoulder, “That is why I am also building two schools.”

  Jack blinked. The bleeding woman agreed? Agreed that the aristocracy did not plan on fixing the problem?

  “Lady Regan,” he called.

  At the foot of the steps, she stopped. Calmly, she clasped her hands in front of her. “Yes?”

  “Do not ever walk off without me.”

  “Of course.”

  Jack shook his head, not understanding her. “Might I ask why you are always so damned cheerful considering someone wishes to snuff you out?”

  She stared at him for a moment. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. “I feel safe with you.”

  With a twist of her wrist, she lifted her veil. She took a step closer to him, as if she didn’t understand the danger. “You inspire great confidence.”

  Hell. The woman had no bloody idea that she was making him hard as stone. It was damned tempting to yank her to him so she could feel it. Then he could feel her against him. Jack cleared his throat and tore his gaze away from her, searching for a safe topic.

  Damnation, any topic to keep him from sliding his hands into her red hair and tilting her head back for his kiss would do. “These schools you speak of. How will they help?”

  She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. “Education will help the poor rise above their present station. Finally, they will take their rightful place in the world.”

  Jack stared at her small hand resting on the dark folds of his coat. The gentle, firm warmth of it seeped through the fabric. If he ripped off her black glove, brought her hand to his mouth, and nibbled and licked her fingers, would she call him mad? He was mad.

  Taking in a slow breath, he shunted the image away. He would find a way to shed her of her puritanical black. To see her alight with life. But not in a construction site in the East End.

  Jack stepped away, needing the distance between their bodies. “Education? Tell me more.”

  As her smile broadened, warmth flooded through his body. It hit him like a blow to his chest. Though hidden pain shadowed her eyes, pure enthusiasm and optimism shone on her pale face. A light glowed from inside her that was free of true cynicism.

  A sharp tug of regret and guilt stung Jack. Quickly, he shoved it aside. That light would be gone once he’d finished with the Chances. It would be replaced by the hardness of reality. Still, she would have other comforts. Comforts that boys like Devlin had never known.

  *

  Regan braced her hands against the rough wood of a temporary table as she pored over the plans for the hospital. Her father had designed every aspect of the building, making certain that the ceilings were high enough to accommodate plenty of vents for good circulation. Plus there was the added ability to shut contagious rooms off from the rest of the hospital.

  Glancing out of the corner of her eye, Regan looked at Jack’s strong back. His thick, dark hair brushed the lapels of his coat as he stared out the window.

  So much depended on her success. The lives and welfares of so many people who would never gain care without such a place. Now, because of Jack, she could carry on the work. A smile tilted her lips. “Captain Hazard, come. Have a look at this.”

  The full folds of his great coat spun out as he turned towards her. His hair glinted obsidian in the morning sun with no hat to cover his head. His hands rested inside his coat folds. Near a pistol, most likely.

  His eyes shifted over the busy workers as he walked towards her. “Lady Regan. I am glad my opinion means something to you, but I must keep a watchful eye if I am to protect you.”

  “I see.” He was right, of course.

  “If you have a copy of that at your townhouse, I would be more than happy to look at it later.”

  Regan smiled. He was so hardened to the world, as if he believed nothing could change the darkness and, yet, there was a glimmering sense of humanity to him.

  “I have several copies,” she replied.

  He nodded then turned back to the window.

  Regan stepped away from the table and picked up her umbrella. “I must speak with the foreman.”

  “Of course.” Holding out his hand, he gestured her forward. The folds of his coat fell away from his body. A holster housing a steel and wood pistol at least seven inches long hung from his belt.

  Regan snapped her eyes towards the pistol then glanced an inch to the right. To his groin. Heat flooded Regan’s cheeks and she jerked her attention up to his face as she realized what she was doing.

  Looking down at her, his eyes darkened into pitch blackness. Silence stretched between them and a tingling heat worked its way up her legs and through her chest. She focused on his eyes, trying to ignore the alarming sensations in her body.

  Secrets flickered in his eyes. Promises that she was afraid to know, but tempted to discover.

  Grasping her umbrella firmly, Regan took herself in hand and strode out of the unfinished room. The wide hallway, meant for the transportation of great pots of soup and, if needed, beds, turned to the left.

  Regan hurried forward, as if fleet feet could somehow escape the disconcertion in her breast. A strange heat clung to her limbs. Shaking her head, Regan forced his strong face and broad shoulders from her mind.

  She could sense him, following, wordless.

  The hall op
ened into another room that would serve as the entrance and registration room. The brick chimney towered up into the sky, unplastered. The huge fireplace stood out like an odd, clean ruin amidst the lumber and bricks strewn about.

  Her foreman, Mr. Madison, stood talking to a short, yet broad, man with a fringe of brown hair on his pate. Mr. Madison towered over the man, his ham-like arms and wide chest almost blocking the smaller man from view.

  “Mr. Madison?”

  He turned away from the worker. The long pink scar on Madison’s bent nose stretched as he smiled. “G’day, my lady. It’s glad I am to see ye.”

  Regan held out her hand. The big man took it in his coarse one. “And I you. Can you tell me of any progress?”

  He nodded. “That I can. We’ve put in the beams on the upper stories as ye can see. And soon we’ll be laying the floors. Day after tomorrow, I think.”

  “Marvelous. Will we meet our projected day of completion?”

  “That we will. In fact, I think we’ll be finished in less than a month, if the rain stays away like it has.”

  Joy bubbled up in Regan’s chest. Joy at being one step closer to fulfilling her father’s wish. “That is wonderful news. Such work deserves recompense. I shall have hot pasties sent round at lunch today. And perhaps five schillings in each man’s pay packet?”

  Mr. Madison rubbed his wide hand over his head, tousling his thick hair. “That be far too much, my lady.”

  “Nonsense. They’ve earned it.” And it made her happy. Little else did. “That said, I’ll say good day to you. I shall be back later this week to collect the reports and bills.”

  “Aye. G’day, my lady.” Mr. Madison hurried off in the opposite direction.

  Regan crossed the threshold of her building with Captain Hazard two steps behind her.

  The sun beamed down on them. Though it failed to penetrate the cold breeze blowing through the street, she turned her face up, savoring the rays. They so seldom occurred in coal-blackened London.

  Hazard’s brows lifted. “Five schillings each? That was most generous of you.”

  The edge in his deep voice belied his statement.

  Regan knew he’d not meant to betray his true feelings. “Not generous at all.”

  She stepped over a pile of bricks and headed for her carriage. It was wedged into a small opening on the property just off the street.

  His following silence grated on Regan’s nerves like sand against glass. “It was necessary. I’ve been waiting for a way to add to the lads’ wages without them thinking it was generosity.”

  “An odd view for someone who runs a charity organization,” he drawled.

  Regan continued towards her carriage, refusing to let his cynicism affect her. “That may be so, but I am a firm believer in pride, and these men need money. Countless are losing their positions throughout the city. The least I can do is help them.”

  “And what does that have to do with pride?” Captain Hazard opened the coach door. He glanced inside, looking right then left as the footman descended from his perch.

  Regan stood by the coach, her feet sinking into the muddy ground. His dark eyes probed her as if trying to measure her. And she refused to be found lacking. “By receiving the money in their pay packets, they will not feel they have received charity. They will have earned the money.”

  The footman opened the coach door and Regan climbed in. She sat down on the soft cushion and leaned forward. “Something that is very important to these men.”

  Captain Hazard filled the small doorway, his gloved hands resting on the edges. “Your wisdom does you credit.”

  Regan blinked. Wisdom? He had asked her question after question with disdain hidden beneath each one. Yet he called her wise? “It would seem I don’t quite understand you.”

  He pushed himself away from the coach door, his face hard. “Few do.”

  Slamming the door shut, he turned the handle with a sharp twist. The vehicle swayed as he climbed up beside the driver. “All clear?” he called, his deep voice drifting into the carriage.

  “Clear!” shouted the other outrider that Captain Hazard had insisted accompany them.

  Regan clutched at her umbrella as the coach jolted forward. Something dangerous dwelled inside Captain Hazard. A deep hate that drove him, holding him in tight control. Regan drew in a deep breath. It was only a matter of time before he lost that control.

  And she had no desire to be there when he did.

  Chapter Eleven

  Firelight flickered over the rocking horse. The white paint glowed gold. Once, so many years ago, it had been beautiful and bright, his son’s favorite toy. Now, the thing was riddled with rot and a good shake would probably send the thing into shards of splintered wood.

  Chiles cradled his brandy to his chest and caressed the carved, black mane. James had laughed and ridden it with chubby, little hands clutching the reins. And Chiles had rocked the horse in big sweeps telling his son to sit up straight and keep his heels down like a good soldier.

  For a moment, Chiles could have sworn that he heard the faint echo of his little boy’s voice. He slid his hand off the chipped wood and turned to the fire. The mantel barely came up to his chest and there was a small, red chair beside it.

  Slowly, he crouched and placed his hand on the small armrest and fancied he could still recall the smooth feel of his son’s fingers beneath his. He took a long swallow of brandy and stared at the flames till his eyes glazed and burned.

  His brilliant son, his eldest son, the son meant for great things, had betrayed him, had chased after causes not worth his boot black. And worst of all, James was dead. Dead at forty-five and not a word spoken between them in the last two years. Chiles let out a rattling breath and sucked down another gulp of brandy. His son had made his choice. He would not relent. He had made the right decision.

  Still… Chiles lifted a hand to his cheek and brushed away a ridiculous tear… He did not have to like the necessity of his choice. No, he didn’t have to like it, but unlike his son, he had to live with it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Regan laughed. “Father, whatever are you doing?” Sun spilled in through the French windows of her father’s study. A halo of silver glimmered about her, his brilliant white hair in the sunshine.

  He stood behind Regan’s chair, his strong, gnarled hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

  She tilted her chin up and glanced into his face. A deep sadness tinged his usually merry blue eyes. Her laughter faded. A sudden unease flickered in her chest. “Father?”

  Lacing his fingers into her hair, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. The soft velvet of his green smoking jacket brushed the side of her face as he pulled away.

  Twisting in her seat, Regan’s eyes followed him. “Papa?”

  He blinked, his forehead creasing in thought. Slowly, he turned his gaze towards his desk. A single book rested on the corner. Crossing over to it, he picked it up, dwarfing the volume in his hands.

  “Papa?” she demanded. Silence met her as he stared back, his eyes glittering hard as stone.

  Wordlessly, he turned from her and walked to the bookcase at the far wall, his footsteps barely echoing on the hardwood floor.

  Her heart pounded in her chest.

  He paused and raised the book to the third shelf. Panic tightened her stomach, as he slid it into an empty space. “Papa? Why won’t you speak to me? What is it?”

  The room flashed white then darkened. A harsh breath rasped in the distance. And Regan ran. Ran down a narrow alley. She would find him. He hadn’t really disappeared. Her father was waiting for her. Somewhere.

  “Papa!” she called. The white glimmer of his hair shone out in front of her. His black cloak spun about his body. She couldn’t see his face, but relief flooded her.

  Just as she reached out her hand to him, another figure flashed before him. A blade glinted as it raced out and stabbed into her father’s chest. Her father collapsed to his knees, sucked to the
black ground.

  “Papa!” she screamed.

  The attacker disappeared in a blur. Regan raced forward, but could see nothing in the darkness. She ran. She ran until she could hear nothing but her ragged breath in her ears. But she couldn’t reach her father. The crumpled heap of his body remained just out of reach. At last, her fingers grasped his cloak. She pulled his body towards her.

  Blood pooled over her hands. It soaked her skirts and blackened the stones under her knees.

  A scream pierced the air. Her scream. James Chance stared up at her, his eyes cold and dead.

  *

  Your Grace,

  Lady Regan has continued her work in the East End and the hospital is nearing completion. She is a very determined young woman who seems certain that she can change the world around her—

  Jack squinted in the flickering candlelight at the words scrawled before him. He slammed his hand down on the French writing desk and the ink bottle jumped, clattering against the wood.

  Bloody hell, if she only knew what he was doing. She’d toss him out of her life forever with fury and hate in her eyes. Jack blew out a sigh.

  As was her right.

  He pushed the chair back, its thin legs grating against the polished wood floor. The thick blankets of his bed beckoned, but he could not rid his thoughts of her. Folding the parchment, Jack picked up the red wax stick by his quill and held it in the candle’s flame. He’d send the report to the duke.

  Hell, he was doing this for Devlin.

  Dripping the red wax onto the letter, Jack gritted his jaw. Every word had somehow felt like a betrayal of the beautiful woman sleeping in the bedroom next to his. Jack tossed the letter and the wax stick onto his desk. In all hope, he’d be done with this altogether in a few weeks. He’d find a suitable public opportunity to ruin her and then—

  A scream tore through the air. Regan’s scream.

  His head jerked up. He had guards all around the house, patrolling. Had someone still infiltrated his defenses?

  In what felt like an instant, he was at her door. He yanked it open and stalked into the room. He checked right to left, searching for whoever had made their way in.