by Amy Quinton
Dansbury cracked a smile at the question and glanced at the ceiling. “She’s upstairs.”
Of course. While he and Stonebridge were tracking him down, concerned he’d gone off half-cocked, Dansbury was settled here having a grand old time with his new wife.
Stonebridge shook his head and scanned the room. “Is there someplace private we can talk? We have matters to discuss.”
“Nothing, save for the rooms above. But trust me, I’ve been watching these people for days. They’re not interested in anything we have to say. We won’t be bothered.”
MacLeod picked one of the vacant chairs and sat.
Stonebridge did the same and got right to the point. “I assume Kelly is here.”
Dansbury nodded his head. “Yes. In fact, he’s been staying at this hotel; I’ve seen him myself.”
MacLeod was genuinely surprised.
Stonebridge appeared relieved. “I must commend you for your restraint. I’m thankful we didn’t arrive to find you in gaol for murder.”
“Ha! Please. Had I acted on my impulses, my friend, I wouldn’t have been caught. You know this.”
The duke shrugged. “I suppose I do.”
“Och, so what have you learned?” This from MacLeod who was irritable from days in the saddle and a lack of sleep.
Not to mention beautiful liars.
Dansbury took another sip of his ale and smiled at MacLeod. “Ah, moody as ever, MacLeod? Someone been ruffling your feathers?”
Before MacLeod could respond, likely with a regrettable remark, Stonebridge interceded. “That’s a question best left for another day.”
Dansbury threw MacLeod a curious look, then proceeded to brief them on what he knew. “Kelly is in Blackpool as are several suspected members of the Society. Kelly has a room here. The others have just left and are en route to Liverpool and a ship docked there. An ex-war ship I might add, the HMS Nightingale.”
They both froze at that tidbit of information. A Royal Navy ship in use by the Society? And not a small ship, at that. The HMS Nightingale was over 175 feet in length and more than 50 feet in width with six floors.
“Did you recognize anyone? The man in charge?” asked Stonebridge.
“Unfortunately, no. I believe he was here, but I have no proof. I cannot imagine them going through all this trouble—the ship, the meeting locations, the secrecy—if he weren’t.”
“Do you have a plan?” asked Stonebridge.
“I do. We wrap up here, then head to Liverpool and search the ship.”
MacLeod barely refrained from groaning out loud. Liverpool meant crowds.
“And Kelly?”
Dansbury fiddled with a small knife he held in his hands. “We leave him for now.”
Stonebridge smiled, obviously pleased. MacLeod wasn’t so magnanimous, but he understood. Despite everything, those men in charge were the priority.
MacLeod stood. “Guid. Let’s end this.”
“Hold up there, my friend. I believe we have something to discuss.”
MacLeod crossed his arms, a defensive move at best, and remained standing. “Such as?”
“My sister. I believe I left you in charge of her welfare. So I must ask, is she here, and if not, where is she?”
“Don’t answer that,” interjected the duke.
Dansbury turned to Stonebridge. “Why not? I have a right to know. This man assured me he would guarantee her safety.” Dansbury turned back to MacLeod and narrowed his eyes. “She is safe, isn’t she? You haven’t hurt her?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Dansbury he’d fucked her then kicked her out of his home for being a lying thief. It was essentially the truth.
But he feared everyone would see right through him should he do so, and then they would all know he’d been brought low by a woman once more. That he’d fallen and was finding it damn difficult to pull himself back up.
Instead, he said, “I’m going for a walk,” which brought forth a few curses from both Stonebridge and Dansbury.
Still, he turned to go, leaving Stonebridge to manage Dansbury’s wrath.
Aye. Better Stonebridge than he. Else he risked saying something that would forever destroy his friendship with one of the few people he considered a friend.
MacLeod walked out of the Rusty Hook Tavern amid a swirl of angry shouts and heavy cursing. So be it. He knew what was at stake. He would be ready, but for the moment, he was unsettled and needed to walk off his frustration. Hopefully, a walk along Blackpool’s sandy stretch of beach would be just the thing.
He wasn’t so senseless as to not realize the source of his ill-humor. He’d thought of nothing else for six days. Mrs. Amelia Chase. Bold. Beautiful. Absolute Trouble. Just as he’d suspected that first time he’d seen her across a crowded inn.
And ever since that fateful day some four months past, she’d consumed his waking thoughts with regular occurrence. But not all those thoughts were good, rational, or hell, even sane. Just persistent.
MacLeod stepped out onto the sand and headed south, dismayed by the number of people present to take in the waters and salty air. He couldn’t walk a straight line without sidestepping a bather or hard-working servant. Frustrated, MacLeod looked further ahead. To his consternation, what he saw was more of the same. People, pets, and servants everywhere.
A group of people parted ways and his entire world came crashing to a halt.
For there she was: Amelia Chase. Still bold. Still beautiful. Still trouble. But a damn sight to see. His first instinct was to crack a smile, a telling and unwanted predisposition.
Then reality set in. Mrs. Chase’s presence in Blackpool meant nothing but absolute trouble. For her to even know where to find him—because there was no way this was a coincidence—suggested she colluded with the enemy. The thought threatened to break him.
God, if he’d had any doubt about her culpability—to which he’d never admit—she’d dashed those thoughts completely.
And still he wanted to wrap his arms around her and kiss her senseless; she was a sight for sore eyes.
Bugger.
Before he knew it, she was standing before him. The same smile. The same light in her eyes. The same confident presence.
“MacLeod.” A gust of wind blew her hair into her face. His fingers itched to brush the loose strands away. Instead he crossed his arms, the better to keep his hands to himself.
She watched the motion, a look of apprehension crossed her face but a moment, then she met his gaze with a worried frown. She hesitated, which was quite unlike her.
He had no such reservation. “You might as well spit it out. Every moment you hesitate, I become further convinced your presence here is not a coincidence.”
“But of course, it’s not. I came here to find you.”
Damn, that was precisely what he didn’t want to hear.
“Right. So how did you manage it this time? Dumb luck? Another anonymous, bullshit message?”
She held up her hand to halt his barrage of questions. “Look, MacLeod. You’re angry. I get it. So why don’t you practice your usual stoic silence and give me a chance to tell you?”
He dipped his head in acquiescence. The truth did sometimes bite.
“Spyder led me to you.”
MacLeod looked up and scanned his surroundings. “Spyder? He’s here?”
“Yes and no.”
“Of course.” He didn’t try to hide his exasperation.
“He’s here, you see, but you won’t find him. Not if he doesn’t want to be found.”
“Ah. Such faith in my capabilities.”
She shook her head in obvious exasperation. “Spyder isn’t important right now.”
“I beg to differ. There’s quite a few people aboot who would relish a chance to speak to Spyder. Why, we’ve more of an interest in apprehending him than you.”
She ignored his purposeful barb. Like a child, he wanted to yell at her to fight back. He knew she had it in her to slay him with nothing more than
words. Instead, she said, “We came to warn you that you’re walking into a trap.”
“Is that all?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Quite honestly, I don’t know what to believe anymore. All I hear are words colored with lies. Everything you say is suspect at this point and with good reason.”
“Why would I risk coming here if it wasn’t important? Risk your wrath? Risk capture? I wouldn’t have unless I thought you were in real danger. Please, MacLeod, please consider what I’m saying.”
“I’ll take it under advisement, I’m sure.” Which she correctly understood to mean he wouldn’t heed her words at all.
She reached out and grabbed his arms. “MacLeod, please don’t. Just because I’m a damn good actress, and just because I’ve done the things I’ve done, doesn’t mean I’m not scared or unsure or just plain cracked up sometimes. Please hear me. I-I love you.”
Och, she burned him with her words, with her touch. His eyes locked with hers, mirror expressions of shock and heated attraction arched between them. He clenched his fists lest he throw her over his shoulder and haul her away. And in that moment, he nearly hated himself for still harboring that desire. For her. For them.
For a life that never actually existed, for it was all a lie.
“Well, that’s foolish.”
Mel tightened her grip. Her voice cracked when she pleaded, “MacLeod…”
It nearly killed him to respond, but he broke free of her grip then and said, “Jus’ go,” and walked away, a furious ache in his chest that he feared would haunt him for the rest of his days.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
That Night: The Shores of Blackpool
Alaistair MacLeod dug his feet further into the sand while he watched moonlit waves crash upon the shore. The tide was coming in, but he had a few hours or more before the cold water reached him where he sat upon the sandy coast of Blackpool.
He took another swig from his bottle of rum; the bulk of it he’d already downed in less than an hour. It tasted like water now, but that mattered not. It was getting the job done and quite well.
Aye, he was as drunk as he’d ever been, so drunk he hardly felt the cold air as it blew in off the sea. Still, the drink wouldn’t scrub the unwanted memory of Amelia Chase from his brain.
Damn it.
He didn’t want to remember the feel of her. The taste of her. He didn’t want to see her smiles when he closed his eyes, nor hear her laugh and especially not her lies when all was quiet. He just wanted her gone so he could move on.
He took another mouthful of rum, then wiped his mouth upon his sleeve. Aye, he was one of those unlucky bastards who never forgot a thing, no matter how much he drank.
MacLeod glanced left, then right. As desired, not a soul could be found on the beach now. It was late enough, which was the point. Unlike so many other men, when MacLeod was drunk, he grew less talkative, more introspective. Which meant he definitely didn’t want an audience about attempting to commiserate.
No singing, laughing, boasting, dancing on the table tops, or rioting for Alaistair MacLeod. No pouring out his soul. For MacLeod, being drunk meant he pondered the meaning of life. His life. His brother’s. Anyone who meant anything to him was a possibility for reflective consideration.
Hell, sometimes even absolute strangers danced across his mind.
What he wouldn’t give to be carefree, to allow drink to loosen his tongue and relax his mind. Then maybe, just maybe, all this shit with Amelia Chase wouldn’t hurt so goddamn much.
A seagull burst on the scene searching for food. He watched as it hopped around on the sand to his right, his obnoxious chirp a plea for a handout.
“Och, go on with you, bird. I’ve no’ got a thing save for my drink.” He followed his threat with a mouthful of rum. The bird cocked its head as if it was contemplating having a taste of his drink.
Just then, someone grabbed ahold of his shoulder, using him for balance so they could join him on the sand. “What are you drinking, my friend?” came a familiar voice.
MacLeod looked left to discover Danbury settling in next to him, his knees already tucked to his chest while he tossed a handful of pebbles, one after another, towards the sea. Damn, it was good thing Stonebridge had given him the evening off, for he certainly wasn’t in the most observant frame of mind; he hadn’t even heard the man approach.
“Rum.” he answered eventually. And in that one word, even he could make out the slight slurring of his speech.
Aye, he was very, very drunk.
Dansbury chuckled. “MacLeod, the Scottish Pirate.” He elbowed him in the arm. “Arghhh…”
MacLeod shrugged. “It’s what was available.”
Dansbury tossed another pebble. “Oh, I’m sure.”
MacLeod shrugged again and took another swig. “Even better, it’s getting’ the job done.” Hardly.
“Oh, that I can see for myself.”
For a moment, the two of them sat in silence. MacLeod watching Dansbury toss his pebbles while downing mouthfuls of watery rum at irregular intervals.
Eventually, he had to ask, “Did you have a point to joining me this night?”
Dansbury dusted his hands together, having thrown the last rock. “Stonebridge told me about Amelia.”
“Ah.” Of course. MacLeod wasn’t sure he wanted this conversation, but he was also sure he’d never talk Dansbury into dropping the subject. When the man had something to say, he had to say it.
Still, he waited for Dansbury to continue. It didn’t take him long; the man always had been the talkative sort. “I don’t know why Amelia thinks she’s not my sister.”
MacLeod jerked his gaze to Dansbury, the man’s statement catching him off guard. It was not at all what he expected him to say.
“But I can assure you of one thing, my friend. Amelia Chase is very much my sister.”
What the hell? “How do you know?”
“Spyder.”
MacLeod shook his head. “No.”
Now it was Dansbury’s turn to shrug. “He submitted proof. Irrefutable proof.”
MacLeod continued shaking his head in denial. “But that makes no sense. Why not tell her the truth? Or if he had, why did she tell us she wasn’t?”
Dansbury shook his head as well. “I can only guess. Until I speak with Amelia…” his voice trailed off.
MacLeod propped his arms on his raised knees and tossed the remains of a fallen leaf he’d been decimating to the ground. “It matters not. She’s still a—”
Dansbury grabbed his sleeve, his expression fierce. “I’m warning you now, take care of your words, MacLeod. We are friends, but that woman is my sister. Do you hear? I will not sit idly by and listen to you disparage her, friend or no.”
MacLeod shook off Dansbury’s hold and wisely bit his tongue. Oh, he had much he wanted to say, but for the sake of friendship…
On impulse, MacLeod tilted his head back and roared his frustration to the sky. It was a loud, primal scream. His feathered companion took flight.
God, it felt damn good to let go like that, like that scream had been bottled up inside him for years. Decades, even.
He turned to look at his friend, expecting to find the man looking at him as if he were crazy. Instead, Dansbury grinned, then tossed one arm around his shoulders. “My God, man. You love her.”
MacLeod snorted and looked away from his friend’s smiling face. “If this is love, I want no part of it.”
Dansbury shook his head. MacLeod detected a hint of pity behind the action. “At the risk of meeting your ham-sized fists, I’m only going to say this once. You’re drunk enough, so I’m not so worried, but, Amelia Chase is not Delilah Brooks.”
MacLeod chuckled, but he wasn’t laughing. He picked up a nearby pebble that had escaped Dansbury’s fingers and flung it toward the sea. “Funny you should say that, Cliff. She said the same damn thing.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
One Week Later: Ye Hole in Ye Wall
Public House, Liverpool
Seven days later, MacLeod, Stonebridge, and Dansbury reconnected at Ye Hole in Ye Wall, a public house on Hackins Hey in Liverpool, several streets away from the waterfront. Their ultimate destination was the HMS Nightingale, which they suspected had been commandeered by alleged members of the Society for the Purification of England. MacLeod had just confirmed that the ship was currently moored at Salthouse Dock on the River Mersey.
With more than eighty thousand people calling Liverpool home, Ye Hole in Ye Wall was quite overwhelmed with patrons. MacLeod dodged rowdy and unruly drunks as he edged around tables crowded with regulars and sailors alike, the tables’ scuffed wooden tops sticky with ale and gin. Indeed, the smell of stale beer and unwashed bodies permeated the air, even masking the usual maritime smells from the nearby docks.
Eventually, he found the rest of his team in the back, two men seated in a dark corner quietly sipping their ale and watching the crowd with pretend disinterest. He recognized Dansbury and Stonebridge, though both men were dressed commonly so as not to draw notice to their station nor be recognized by an unexpected acquaintance. He didn’t see Lady Beatryce at present, which wasn’t a surprise seeing as how the house did not serve women. And even though Lady Beatryce was not averse to wearing trousers, she, like Amelia Chase, was unmistakably a woman.
Bloody hell, why think of her now?
MacLeod shook off that thought and pushed through two patrons loudly singing a colorful ditty. Though he despised crowds, he understood the purpose for meeting in such a public place; the noise and boisterous activity would provide adequate cover which was far more important than his own discomfort.
MacLeod took a seat and an ale was immediately set before him, its frothy head overflowing the glass. He wasted no time on pleasantries. “She’s moored at Salthouse Dock. The crew have been given a full week’s shore leave.”
“Perfect,” replied Stonebridge.
“They have few guards, if any. By all appearances, the ship looks abandoned. So far, I’ve seen no sign of the officers, which is deuced odd.” MacLeod had arrived two days before the rest to establish surveillance.