Gallant Rogue (Reluctant Heroes Book 3)

by Lily Silver

  Red jumped down from his perch on the rail. “Aye, Cap’n. Mayhap I should get me a sketchbook, like Master Michael and draw me some pictures for the girls back home.”

  “I believe your sisters would find the market more to their taste than the docks and the rough fellows squabbling here. We’re off to shore now, Red. I’ll buy you a journal and some drawing tools. Are you ready, Mrs. O’Donovan?”

  “Yes.” Chloe held up the portfolio for him to see. Several of her husband’s works were held within the leather case. “I’ve brought a sample of Mr. O’Donovan’s writing.”

  “Can’t I come?” Red begged, hanging on the captain’s arm. Chloe thought it sweet of the captain to be so indulgent with the lad. He must be fond of the boy.

  “Not this time.” Rawlings replied. “I instructed Jinx and Morgan to take you about town after your chores are finished. My cabin wants cleaning, and so does the first mate’s.”

  The pout on the young lad’s face was dramatic. That lower lip jutted out so far it competed with his nose for attention. Chloe thought the boy must practice it for effect in the mirror when he was alone. The captain was not moved by the lad’s antics. He shook his arm free of Red’s hand and extended that arm to Chloe to help her walk down the plank.

  Marta was staying behind as well. She was not happy with the arrangement.

  “He’s good at his game, isn’t he?” Chloe remarked as soon as they were out of earshot of the boy. “He’s another Cherie, that one. She’s adept at manipulating others with her pouts and fits of temper.”

  “Aye, he’s a handful. His father indulged him a fair way too much, in my opinion. Red Jamie is the youngest of the brood.” He glanced at her in disbelief. “Little Cherie has a temper? Why, I had no idea. She’s always so sweet when I encounter her.”

  “And how long is she in your company when you’re visiting us? Ten minutes, Captain, or is it as much as twenty?”

  “Quite right—fifteen at most. A quick hello, a peck on the cheek and a few words and she’s off again. She is very precocious.”

  “That’s a polite way to put it,” Chloe agreed. “Cherie is her father’s daughter, through and through. I envision a female version of the count in about twenty years.”

  Jack stopped at the edge of the wood planking and artfully guided her past the group of rough seamen standing at the rope pylons. “She’ll be another Alicia. That woman commands respect, despite her demure size.”

  The thought was a new one. The count’s mother was as intimidating as her son. Put in that light, Cherie’s tendency toward natural dominance seemed an expected outcome, considering her parentage. “If she turns out like Alicia, she will do well for herself in life.”

  “Indeed. She will always be on top,” Jack quipped, giving Chloe a saucy smile.

  Conversing with the captain today was easy. He seemed to be in a pleasant mood, now that they had reached their first destination.

  They left the topic of children behind as they entered the city. Rawlings hailed a hackney cab, and they were swiftly taken into the interior, where offices and shops lined the congested streets. Chloe watched the people with interest from the coach window. They all seemed so busy, so determined in their endeavors. People walked as if they feared their destination would be gone before they arrived.

  Compared to the more relaxed atmosphere of the Indies, she felt decidedly slow and off balance in this hectic place. She fanned herself and tried to remain calm as she watched the congestion in the streets about her.

  “We’ll stop at Jamison and Higgins first,” Rawlings commented. “The count’s lawyers. I sent word ahead, we are expected. I gave the matter some thought last night. I believe it would be best to leave your husband’s writings in their capable hands and have them take up the challenge of finding a publisher. That way you won’t need to worry about someone taking credit for them unjustly. I gathered that was your concern?”

  “Thank you for arranging this.”

  He nodded, as if it were of no significance. Perhaps it wasn’t. He was Donovan’s envoy, given the task of looking after her and helping her in her quest. Chloe studied his still form as he glanced out the window. She found it calming to focus upon Jack Rawlings and the small carriage drifting slowly through the sea of busy humanity.

  His blond hair was tied back in a neat queue. She liked his hair long. It suited him. The younger men wore their hair short and fashioned in elegant waves about their brow and cheeks. The men of his generation did not fuss with their hair other than to restrain it; at least that was the way of the men in her limited sphere. Perhaps men of high rank at court wore their hair in elaborate styles, but not those who visited the island of Ravencrest.

  Rawlings was dressed in a green velvet jacket and tan breeches. He looked as if he were a businessman, not a sea captain. He reclined against the squabs, carefree and unaffected by the chaos beyond their coach window. The shouts beyond them, and the constant jerks and stops of the vehicle as they tried to make their way through the crowd was jarring to her nerves.

  “It’s not always this busy,” Jack commented. “There are several ships heading out this afternoon, I’m told. Soldiers, off to Portugal to shore up the situation there. People are out in droves to say goodbye to their boys. Napoleon stirred up a hornet’s nest, I’m afraid. Toss dirt in John Bull’s face and he’ll plant his fist in yours without hesitation.”

  “John Bull?” She’d heard the phrase before but couldn’t recall where.

  “England, John Bull is a nickname for England. Napoleon, the French brute, is threatening English shores. England, or John Bull, is responding with a raised fist. A poor metaphor, I’m sure. The situation is much more serious than men raising fisticuffs in the streets.”

  She thought again of Sebastian, Shawn and the O’Reilly boys exchanging insults in the stable yard, and on occasion, blows. She thought of the sailors she’d seen just a short time ago on the wharf, arguing like children and resorting to violence over a few barrels of ale. “Is it, truly? Perhaps Napoleon and this John Bull are just naughty boys underneath it all.”

  The carriage stopped outside a neat, tall brick façade. Chloe leaned forward in the seat to gaze at the stately building with wonder. A sign beside the door read Jamison and Higgins Law Office. Mr. Henry Jamison was the count’s solicitor. She met the fellow once, some years ago when he sailed to the Indies to confer with his client. Jamison was the one who had helped them to prove Gareth’s inheritance as well after the second will was found.

  Jack Rawlings unfolded his long legs and emerged from the carriage. Once he was free, he turned to her and offered his hand for assistance. Chloe took his tanned hand, and wished she could feel his warm skin beneath her palm. The required glove on her hand was an annoying barrier to the desired intimacy of holding his hand and enjoying a holy palmer’s kiss.

  The remembered phrase made her recoil in her mind. It was Shakespeare, a fond quote that Gareth used on her when he courted her. He held her hand to his, palm to palm and declared it a kind of kiss. As a young woman, it was a potent idea. She had nearly swooned beneath Gareth’s sweet wooing, and it seemed irreverent to his memory to think thus with another man.

  The carriage dipped as she emerged, her wrist firmly caught in Jack’s grasp. She tried to embrace an indifferent mood to Jack’s touch, out of loyalty to Gareth’s memory.

  It was a useless endeavor. Jack’s grip on her wrist was nothing short of thrilling. His fingers guided her forearm through his so they would climb the steps arm in arm to the door. She didn’t dare glance at him, yet she allowed the familiar touch, craved it, despite her good intentions in being a proper widow.

  Jack thumped the door knocker, and the young, freckled assistant answered his summons.

  “Mrs. O’Donovan, to see Mr. Jamison on personal business,” Jack informed the young fellow, using his brusque captain’s voice.

  They were led into a luxurious parlor and offered tea. Chloe sat gingerly on the settee, and remov
ed her gloves, slowly peeling away the confining fabric from her hands. She was not accustomed to this formal way of dress. She despised it. No one wore gloves in the warm Caribbean sun. The English were too priggish, in her way of thinking. Yes, she knew well enough that wearing gloves in public was expected of a woman claiming to be a lady. It was stupid and silly. She refused to torture herself another moment. When she reached Spain, that was another matter, but until then, well, she’d just be herself, as much as she could be without causing a stir.

  Captain Rawlings watched her fidget with the annoying things. He watched her fold them, and then refold them, and finally stuff them into her reticule with disgust. She felt his eyes on her bare hands, felt the heat of his indigo blue regard, like a caress on her skin. If only her nose didn’t itch so. She sniffed, wiggled he nose and fought the urge to reach up and scratch the tip of it. Her hat, a lovely poke bonnet with silk flowers and a blue ribbon, felt heavy on her head. Her hair scratched. She never wore bonnets at Ravencrest. She liked to feel the sun on her head, kissing her hair and her skin. Jack was watching her. She felt his searing gaze and longed to meet it. She didn’t, as it would tell him more than she wished to admit, even to herself. She fancied this rough and ready sea captain a great deal more than she should.

  “Take it off.”

  Chloe glanced at him, a little unnerved by his gruff tone. “I beg your pardon?” she said in her most cultured tone, trying to emulate her friend and patroness, Lady Elizabeth.

  “The hat. It’s not necessary to wear it inside. You’re miserable, so take it off.”

  Her teeth ground together at the suggestion. She was trying, really trying, to adhere to these ridiculous rules she’d been forced to memorize. She was trying to endure, and his gruff order was not helping her resolve, not one little bit.

  Before she could remove her hat a spindly lad of about sixteen came out into the parlor that served as a waiting area for clients. His attire was severe black trousers and matching vest, and a crisp linen shirt complete with stiff, ridiculously high neck linens that were apparently all the fashion in London. The starched collar looked vastly uncomfortable as the pointed edges nearly touched his ears and must chafe his pale cheeks. He smiled at Chloe, a youthful smile complete with crooked teeth set in a face splattered with freckles and a narrow, weak chin. The lad nodded to her and cleared his throat, as if to make some bold announcement. “Mr. Jamison.” He stopped, and blushed, self conscious as his voice had wavered and squeaked out a high note, evidence of its changing quality. “Mr. Jamison,” he began again in a deeper, more modulated tone that was pure effort, “will see you now, Mrs. O’Donovan, Captain Rawlings.”

  Chloe placed her bare hand to her lips to hide her amusement. She recalled Michael Wentworth, Elizabeth’s younger brother going through that embarrassing stage, and turning twenty shades of red each time his voice breached several registers in one conversation. She swallowed her giggle and removed her hand from her lips. “Thank you. And you are?”

  “Charles, ma’am. Charles Jamison.” He blushed, rolled his lips, and then did a quick bow as if he were uncertain as to her social status and wanted to cover his backside.

  “A pleasure, Charles Jamison,” she said in a soothing, maternal tone as she and the captain stood. “Are you studying to be a lawyer like your father?”

  “Yes, ma’am, like grandfather. I’m on holiday from school, so they put me to work to keep me out of mischief, says the old man,” He explained cheerfully as he led them down the oak paneled hallway to the appropriate office. He stopped at double oak doors and opened them for her. “Mrs. O’Donovan and Captain Rawlings from St. Kitts, sir.” He gestured for them to enter the formidable office suite of Mr. Henry Jamison.

  A bald, short man with a round head and even rounder spectacles stood up at her entrance. His fine attire, complete with a black and gold silk brocade vest and a gleaming ruby stock pin bespoke of the prosperity of his clients, the count being one of them.

  Charles Jamison did not enter with them but rather closed the door upon them after they entered.

  “Mrs. O’Donovan. A pleasure, and a sorrow to meet under such tragic circumstances.” The rotund fellow moved forward on quick feet, his hand extended, his expression a study in sincerity. “His lordship wrote me of your husband’s untimely death. May I convey my heartfelt sympathies for your great loss, dear lady?” He took her hand between his own and looked at her kindly.

  “Thank you, sir,” Chloe murmured, her heart tightening at his kind condolences. She wasn’t accustomed to such warmth, not in the Indies, where most knew her history and that of her husband. Scorn and indifference had been her lot there, aside from the Beaumont family, and finding such genuine kindness among strangers was unsettling. Her eyes stung for a moment, and she feared she might not be able to restrain the threatening tears.

  Jamison’s hands squeezed her own, apparently noting the shifting emotions within her at his words. “I enjoyed our conversations when I visited the count. Your husband was a quick wit and a scholar. He quoted the bard with such elegance.” Jamison paused, his face raised upward in a beatific smile. “Ah, the angels must love listening to that deep baritone.”

  “Yes.” She acknowledged the compliment. Gareth’s voice was a gift, and his recitations of literature, particularly Shakespeare, were known to stir his audience to untold delights.

  “Captain Rawlings, always a welcome sight you are.” Jamison let go of Chloe’s hand as he acknowledged her companion. “And how is our dear count and his lady?”

  “Quite well,” Rawlings returned. “I’m pleased to report they’ve added to their number. A fine baby girl was delivered just weeks before our departure. Katherine.”

  “Another jewel in his lordship’s coffers. Sit, please.” Jamison gestured with a pudgy hand to the chairs before his desk, and then he took his seat behind the massive edifice. “I see you’ve met my grandson, Charles. Bit of a trial, that one.”

  “Yes, he said he was on holiday from school,” Chloe remarked, anxious to assert herself and not play the pathetic widow any longer. “A fine young man, sir.”

  “On holiday, says he?” Jamison’s features hardened and he shook his head ruefully. “Expelled, more to the point. He’s a fine one, all right. A fine one to get into fist fights and challenge his betters. I’ve my hands full with that lad and his temper. Now then, how can I assist you, Mrs. O’Donovan?”

  Jamison listened as Chloe and the captain informed him of Gareth’s writings, her wish to have his essays published, and their wish to have him direct that endeavor. He was delighted by the idea and reiterated his praise of Gareth’s abilities. He assured them that he would see the matter through and keep her posted on the progress of the undertaking. After a few more pleasantries they took their leave, entrusting Jamison with Gareth’s personal papers.

  “Now then,” Captain Rawlings said as he helped her into the carriage. “Shall we take in the delights of London, my dear?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Several times throughout the interview with Jamison, Jack had wished he could take Chloe in his arms to comfort her. He noted the rigid set to her shoulders when Jamison mentioned her husband’s wit and offered his sympathies for her loss. Jack noted the catch in her voice, as the great lummox Jamison went on and on about her spouse. When she sat down, he noted the liquid cast to her eyes, and yet … Chloe Ramirez—Mrs. Gareth O’Donovan—had remained serene and composed through it all.

  She was a brave woman, travelling alone across the sea to embrace strangers who were blood kin. Few women, in his estimation, would be as calm and composed under the circumstances. He admired her for not giving in to tears when presented with Old Jamison’s condolences. The old man did layer it a bit thick for one who barely knew the deceased. Still, Jamison was a shrewd businessman and would know how to play to the audience.

  They exited the carriage to walk the rows of shops in the market district. Jack guided her past the curious fellows lingering abo
ut who followed her progress. She was an exotic beauty, her Spanish blood apparent to all who saw her. He cast frequent glances at his lovely companion, enjoying her amazement and wonder at the city of London.

  “Just remember, your reaction to her may not be of your own will,” Barnaby had warned. “It may be enhanced by magic.”

  “Poppy-cock,” he muttered, guiding Chloe quickly away from the edge of the walkway. A coach and four had come lumbering toward them and splattered water in soggy arcs as the horses plowed right through the puddle left by the morning rain. He succeeded in keeping them dry, whilst others in the street were less fortunate and raised a fist or shouted a curse at the disappearing coach and its irreverent driver.

  “I beg your pardon?” Chloe responded, whether to his rather rough maneuver in pushing her toward the buildings and shielding her, or to his mundane mutterings, he was uncertain.

  “The driver of the coach was making sport. I didn’t wish us to be among his victims.”

  Her lovely almond shaped eyes turned to meet his. “Oh?” She glanced past his shoulder, as the coach went about the corner. “I see. So you shoved me into the shop entrance to keep me dry and mud free. How chivalrous you are, my captain.”

  The way she said my captain set his blood to singing in his veins. And her curved lips, such lush, plump red lips, were like signal beacons, calling him home. Jack didn’t hesitate. He bent forward slightly and brushed her lips in a gentle caress. Gentle, slow, reverent, for her sake, as she’d just been presented with yet another sharp, painful reminder of her loss by a great jackass lawyer a short time earlier. Jack wanted to gather her in his arms and kiss her senseless in the street in full view of the public. The soft brush was just enough, in his mind, to address the longing in his loins and in his mind for this courageous woman who captivated his senses.

  Chloe was in love. The city was all she dreamed it would be, and more.

  Oh, the sailors had warned her about the dirty city of London, but at this time of year, in springtime, it was not so dark and drear. Granted it was not the sunny Caribbean she was accustomed to, the air was cooler and had a dampness that couldn’t be ignored.