by Lois Greiman
Rogan shifted his gaze to the maid, quietly assessing. It was possible, after all, that he’d read the situation incorrectly. But her eyes looked wide and dark in the pale oval of her face, and she shook her head once, a short, almost imperceptible jerk.
Rogan lowered his shoulders, spreading his legs the slightest degree. “I was already enjoying me beer, lads,” he said, “but a wee tussle would only make the brew that much more gratifying.”
“You want to tussle, do you?” The smallish lad shifted, drawing a knife from his handsome tailcoat just as Jaunty grinned and leveled a pistol.
Rogan glanced down at it, then raised his gaze slowly and gave one shake of his head. “’Tis a bad idea, laddie,” he warned quietly. “’I’ve no wish to get blood on your fancy clothes.”
“If you want to keep your blood in your freakish large body, you’d best get back to that beer,” hissed Jaunty.
Rogan almost smiled at the misunderstanding. “Indeed, I would, but I fear I cannot.”
“And here I thought you too foolish to know when to fear,” Jaunty said and glanced sideways to enjoy his friends’ appreciation of his fine wit, but in that instant Rogan wrenched the muzzle of his pistol sideways. The lad screamed as his fingers were bent backward, but Rogan was already yanking the boy forward as he himself stepped behind. In less than an instant, he had the lad’s arm twisted up against his spine.
He hissed in pain, but Rogan was far beyond trying to decipher any possible words.
“Are you well, lass?” he asked, ignoring all but the maid.
She nodded. He did the same, then turned his attention to the dark-haired fellow who still held her captive.
“Loose her,” he said quietly.
The boy shot his gaze toward Jaunty, but that one was bent forward at a painful angle and failed to respond.
“Now would be as good a time as any,” Rogan added and gave Jaunty’s arm an almost imperceptible tug toward his scapula.
There was a squawk of pain that might have been considered an order. The swarthy fellow dropped the girl’s arm and stepped away, hands raised.
Rogan turned his attention to the third lad. He swallowed, shifting his weight restlessly as he tightened his grip on the knife.
“You’re fair fast for a big bloke,” he said.
“It’s been said before, lad,” Connelly admitted. He’d risen quietly from the table and sauntered now toward the wall to retrieve the felled pistol. “Usually on a dying breath, though, so thus far you’re ahead of the game.”
“Listen,” said the dark lad, hands still held upright. “We’re not looking to cause trouble. We heard there was a maid here was willing to bed a gent if the money was right, is all.” His eyes darted from one of his companions to the other. “We were going to pay her. Weren’t we—”
But in that instant, the fellow with the knife struck at Rogan’s exposed arm. And in that same moment, Rogan catapulted his captive sideways, propelling him into the side of the blade. The attacker’s arm swung wide, but Rogan caught him by the coat front before he could twist away. Caught him, drew him near, and plowed one battering-ram fist into his nose.
He went down like a spanked child, legs astride, blubbering incoherently, hands pressed to his face as blood gushed onto his snowy cravat.
Rogan watched him for an abbreviated second, but there was no threat there. He raised his attention to the dark lad; that one was already backing away.
“I told them…” His voice was shaking. “I told them I didn’t want to get in the suds. But—”
“Get them from my sight,” Rogan growled.
“Too much strong drink.” The boy was starting to babble. “Father always warned me that too much—”
“Now,” Rogan suggested evenly. The boy popped off a nod, rushed toward his downed companion.
“He drew my cork,” blubbered the smallest of the three.
“Come along,” the lad urged, gaze still on Rogan.
“The bastard broke my—”
“Shut the hell up!” he hissed. Grabbing the other’s arm, he dragged him to his feet and propelled him toward the door.
Jaunty was still bent over his ruined hand, face contorted in a bizarre meld of pain and rage.
“You forgot one,” Rogan rumbled to the most coherent of the three.
“Presley, for God’s sake, come along!” he ordered, and Jaunty left, cradling his arm against his chest as he stumbled out the door.
The inn went absolutely silent. All eyes were on McBain.
He cleared his throat, uncomfortable in the glare of their attention, and turned toward the barmaid.
“Are you certain you are unharmed?”
“Yes.” Her voice was still soft, but the color had returned to her face. “I owe you my thanks.” She tried a smile. It was weak, but strengthening. “And more,” she breathed, “if you’ve an interest.”
He watched her a moment, then nodded succinctly. “I’ll have another pint then, if it’s no trouble,” he said and strode resolutely back to his chair.
Chapter 19
Faye rode alone through the darkening streets of London and tried to think. But everything had gone topsy-turvy. Upside down. Inside out. It had been nearly a full day since she had seen Rogan McBain, since he had assured her Thayer Connelly would be a good protector. What the devil was that about?
Who was this Rogan McBain? And what did he want from her? Each time she resolved to pry the truth from him, he gave it eagerly. Or so it seemed. But was it the truth he spoke, or was he so adept at lying she could not tell the difference?
A quiet side street lined with chestnuts and small shops called to something deep inside her and she reined Sultan to the right, letting her thoughts roam.
What of Shaleena and this Joseph? Did they share some sort of tumultuous past? Or were they merely sharing a tumultuous present? Even Faye found it tempting to trust their newly hired servant, but she knew little of the situation. How had he arrived at Lavender House? Who was he, really? And why had Shaleena’s gown been smoking? Did Joseph have powers of his own?
It had taken all of Faye’s courage to inquire, but Shaleena had shared no information. On the other hand, she had not threatened to turn Faye into a sewer rat, either. Instead, she had fled to her chambers, though everyone knew she rarely slept.
In truth, Faye was not sleeping well herself. It had been a long and harrowing night, fraught with ugly dreams and unsolved mysteries.
By morning, she’d felt more tired and fretful than she had on the previous night. But she dare not let that change her course. She would find Brendier’s murderer if there was one to be found, no matter the outcome. Was his death tied to Lindale’s? Were they both tied to McBain?
His somber eyes flashed in her mind, piercing her with his caring, with his earnestness.
She gritted her teeth against her thoughts, for she did not know if he was being earnest. She did not know, despite her powers, despite her determination. Or was she simply too frightened to see the truth? Indeed, learning he was as gentle and fine as he seemed might well be as terrifying as learning he was the devil she’d first thought him to be.
But either way, she would learn the truth. To that end, she had visited a maid who had once been in Lindale’s employ. The girl spoke furtively of roving hands and illegitimate children, though when questioned, she wasn’t certain who those children might be. There were also rumors of spats Lindale had had with his contemporaries. The late Brendier was certainly not the first nobleman with whom he had argued. Apparently he and Rennet had known their share of confrontations. So why had that fair-haired lord been invited to Inver Heights if—
All thoughts stopped abruptly as a strapping chestnut stallion turned his head toward her. Too large and striking to be any other than McBain’s Colt, he was tied to an iron post beside Connelly’s mare.
But what would McBain be doing in this part of the city? Faye’s heart beat erratically in her chest, and suddenly she realized her mount had
stopped. With a tap of her quirt against her skirt, she urged the gelding on. She could not possibly explain her presence there without either admitting her conversation with Lindale’s maid or allowing Connelly to believe she was, in fact, stalking him. Both possibilities made her head—
Before the thought was complete, the door of the inn slammed open. Three men limped out. One cradled his arm. Another’s hand quivered over his blood-spattered face. And the third, though apparently unscathed, looked as pale as death itself.
Mind racing, Faye rode on, but in that instant the man in the top hat glanced at her. The malevolence in his eyes all but stopped her heart, and suddenly, with stunning clarity, she realized Rogan, too, could have been injured.
In a matter of moments, she was beside the two mounts near the inn.
Slipping her foot from the single stirrup, she dropped to the cobblestones. She was no master healer. Far from it, but she had some skills, and she would do what she could to assist Rogan.
Steeling herself, she hurried to the building and opened the door.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. But in a second, she had found him. Rogan McBain. He sat with his left side toward the door, and though his face was turned away from her, she knew him immediately. Felt his presence like an odd shiver of truth. His back was broad, his body still, and she found she wanted nothing more than to go to him, to touch him. Even as she realized the strangeness of those feelings, she took an involuntary step forward. It was at that moment that she noticed the woman sitting beside him. She was buxom and pretty, with wide eyes and flawless skin. Her hand was on his arm, and his gaze, that intent, unwavering storminess was for the maid alone.
Drawing one uneven breath, Faye froze for just an instant, then wrenching herself from immobility, backed brokenly toward the door. Just then a voice interrupted her retreat.
“Mrs. Nettles!”
Faye jerked her gaze to the right. Thayer Connelly was already hurrying toward her.
“Whatever brings you here?” he asked, but he couldn’t hold her attention, for at that precise moment she felt Rogan turn toward her. Felt his attention strike her like flint on steel. Felt her breath leave her throat in a heavy rush.
“McBain. Look who’s just arrived,” Connelly said.
Panic or common sense suggested that she turn and run. But it was already too late; Connelly was reaching for her hand, drawing her into the room.
She heard a murmur from the barmaid, saw Rogan turn toward the other for an instant, and in that same amount of time the maid cupped his cheek with her palm and kissed him.
Faye’s breath froze in her throat.
“Come in. Come—” Connelly began, then realized her gaze and turned in Rogan’s direction. “Ahh that…” he breathed as the woman rose to her feet. Her eyes were bright, but for the life of her, Faye could not guess her emotion. Disappointment? Fear? Gratitude? “That is a rather longish tale,” he said, as the maid turned and disappeared up the stairs with only a single backward glance.
“What is it?” Faye murmured, and, surprising even herself, turned her attention back to Connelly. His grin was slightly twisted at one corner.
“What’s that?”
“What’s the tale?” It took all her nerve to voice the question.
“Well…” He cleared his throat. “It begins with an oversized Celt born in London but raised in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands just north of…” His attention strayed to McBain, and his grin fired up in earnest. “Bain, look who’s here. It’s the comely Mrs. Nettles.”
For a moment, Faye thought the Scot might stay exactly as he was. In the next, she thought he might turn and follow the maid, but finally he gathered himself and rose slowly to his feet. His chair scraped against the rough, wooden floor even as his brow lowered and his expression darkened. She resisted hiding. Resisted even looking away. She, after all, was doing nothing wrong.
“Funny thing, this,” Connelly was saying. “I did not truly think you were stalking me.” He winked. “But now I begin to wonder.”
Rogan shifted his gaze to Connelly for a brief instant before settling his attention on her again, ignoring him completely.
They stared at each other for a breathless eternity before he spoke, his voice a low rumble of sound.
“Surely you have not come this long way alone, lass.”
Terror warred with curiosity and a dozen other fractious emotions, broiling like moon-drenched hensbane in her restricted chest. “I was…” She searched for a lie, but it promised vindication. She hedged cautiously. “…passing by when I was drawn in this direction,” she said, and realized suddenly that it was true. Why had she first turned onto this street? It was not one with which she was familiar, and yet she had felt a comfortable allure. It was not until she had ridden some way that she had spotted the three lads. One angry, one bloodied, all scared. And her only thought had been for a giant Highlander’s well-being. “At the sight of the inn, I realized I was somewhat gutfounded.” Gutfounded? She sounded like some scatterbrained pink of the ton.
And she couldn’t even tell if he believed her? Did he know her lies better than she knew his?
“So…” It was all but impossible to force words past the desert dryness of her throat. “How is the fare here?”
His brows lowered even more. “You’ve ridden all this way cross town for a meal?”
God help her. “I’m quite famished.” That much at least was true. Or perhaps there was another reason her stomach felt as if it had been tied in knots. “I’m in the mood for a steaming hot pigeon pie.”
“Could you not get pigeon pie at—”
“Is the food good or not?” she asked, and though she tried to hold her decorum, her tone had slid into exasperation.
He looked naught but confused. Possibly there was some irritation.
“Indeed, we’ve no way of knowing the quality,” Connelly said, attention shifting from one to the other as if he viewed a lively match of tennis. “The maid has yet to deliver our meals…Though one can hardly blame her…” He was grinning. She could hear it in his tone, though she couldn’t quite seem to tear her attention from Rogan’s glowering eyes. “She had a bit of a fright, I fear.”
At those words, McBain’s brows lowered even farther. A muscle seemed to shift restlessly in his jaw.
“A fright?” she asked, but McBain changed the subject.
“I’ll see you home if you like,” he rumbled. “Or Irish could accompany you if that be your—”
“It seems the three young bucks just here were planning some mischief involving poor Marjorie,” Connelly interrupted.
Faye blinked, breathless. “Marjorie?”
“The barmaid. You may have noticed her. She was just now thanking Bain here for his assist,” Connelly said, conjuring up the sight of the buxom maid kissing Rogan’s lips. And suddenly, despite everything, a dozen scenarios flashed through Faye’s befuddled mind. Oddly enough, each of them involved Rogan. Odder still, none of them involved clothing.
“’Tis getting late,” Rogan interrupted, and spared an all-but-lethal glare for Connelly before turning back to Faye. “You’ll be wanting—”
“The scrappiest of the three was toting a pistol,” Connelly said.
Faye snapped her gaze to the Irishman. “No.” The word sounded breathless to her own ears.
“Not to worry, though,” Connelly said, grinning again. “His second had naught but a blade.”
She skimmed Rogan’s face. Their gazes fused. Something simmered between them like moon-shadowed magic.
“He’s quite unscathed though.”
Was he? She scanned his chest, his arms. He looked well enough. But how did she know really? He had scars upon scars on his beautiful body, and she longed to feel his heart beat beneath her hand. To skim her fingers over his lively muscles and know that all was well. To feel safe. The oddness of that thought barely registered in her mind. “Perhaps I’d best check,” she murmured.
&nbs
p; The room went quiet. Rogan seemed to be leaning toward her like a windblown pine.
“What’s that?” Connelly asked.
Reality struck her like an errant shaft of lightning. She drew back abruptly and cleared her throat. Her face felt suddenly hot.
“Perhaps…I’d…best…check…” She was about to die. What the devil was wrong with her? “At Lavender House.”
The two men waited in silence. Connelly’s brows were raised like two ascending caterpillars. Rogan’s rested just over his storm-cloud eyes.
“To see if they have pigeon pie,” she finished, and only just managed to keep from moaning at her own stupidity.
Rogan scowled. Connelly laughed out loud.
“I’m certain there’ll be no need for that, lass,” he said. “Here…” He swept an elegant hand toward the table recently vacated by Rogan and the moon-eyed maid. “Take my seat. Our meals will arrive shortly, I’m certain. You’re free to have mine.”
“I can’t—”
“Certainly, you can,” he said, and prodded her gently toward the table. “It’s not pigeon pie, but I heard the boiled fowl is quite…edible.” He pulled out a chair and nudged her to sit.
She did so. “But what of you?” she asked, glancing up and half-wishing she were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Possibly dead.
“As it happens, that elderly gentleman”—he nodded surreptitiously toward the table to her right where the old man and the frothy girl were just rising to their feet—“is looking for a match for his young ward and thinking a fine fellow like myself might be just the thing.”
She scowled.
“Though he may not know it yet.” His eyes were shining with mischief. Faye’s head felt too light. “I may be a bit late, McBain,” he added. “Hence, if you feel a need to…” He shrugged. “…stay the night, please feel free to do so.”
Faye wouldn’t have thought it possible for Rogan’s brows to lower farther. Had she placed a bet to that effect, she would have lost her coin.
“Until later,” Connelly said, and, bowing, strode, long-legging and determined out the door behind the others.