Читать книгу Falling for the Highland Rogue - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 10

Chapter Three

Mr Gilvry had been just as easy to manipulate as any other man. He had done just as she wanted and Jack had been pleased. She still didn’t understand her own sense of disappointment. Since when had she cared what sort of man she put her hooks into? Usually she felt nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done. Satisfaction that she had made a little more money to add to her hoard, which was growing, but nowhere near as much as she needed.

The leer on Fergus McKenzie’s red-bearded face brought her wandering thoughts back to the present with a lurch. She let a small smile play across her mouth and separated the grapes on her plate with the scissors. Thank goodness they had finally reached the dessert course.

Dinner in their private parlour with a lout like McKenzie had been as pleasant as watching a pig at the trough. Thoughts well hidden, she delicately popped the plump red globe into her mouth and cast him a come-hither glance from beneath her lashes. The crude Scot licked already too-moist lips surrounded by all that untrimmed wiry red hair.

A small secret shudder ran down her spine at what she knew he was thinking. It shocked her, that sudden flash of fear. If Jack ordered her to his bed, she would do it. If she didn’t, she would face his wrath. A swift incapacitating punch which would keep her from the table for a week or more and no money coming in. Or a return to the brothel as a reminder of what her life would be without his support. She preferred the former. As Jack knew only too well.

‘Shall we get down to business?’ Jack said, drawing the man’s attention back to him with the signal she should go.

She breathed a silent sigh of relief. ‘If you gentlemen will excuse me,’ she said, smiling at McKenzie, ‘I will leave you to your port and your discussions.’

Jack rose with her. Clearly startled by the courtesy, the lowland Scot followed suit.

‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr McKenzie,’ she said with a graceful inclination of her head he didn’t notice, so busy was he eyeing her barely covered breasts. Men. They were just so predictable.

Most of them.

Knock his eyes out, Jack had requested. So she’d chosen a gown even more revealing that the one she had worn the previous evening. A celestial blue that skimmed her nipples.

McKenzie inhaled a rasping breath as he stared at what he hoped was on offer. ‘Goo’ night, then, Mrs—er—Mrs...’

‘West,’ Jack supplied. ‘I’ll see you later, darlin’,’ Jack said with a leer of his own. Staking his prior claim, though he was not beyond serving her up to any man for the sake of business.

He’d served her up to Logan Gilvry. In a manner of speaking.

The difference, the small difference, was that Mr Gilvry was a gentleman. The squat man now lusting for her favours was as far away from a gentleman as the pig he resembled. She gave him her warmest, most seductive smile and batted her lashes. ‘I hope we meet again soon.’

She swept out.

‘Now,’ Jack said as she closed the door. ‘Tell me about this trouble you are having with the Gilvry brothers and what you intend to do about it.’

‘Logan is the worst. He’s a thorn in my side.’

‘Is he, now?’ Jack replied musingly.

She would have lingered to hear more, but the maid, a little mousy thing assigned to her by the hotel, trundled in from the bedroom next door. ‘Is there anything I can be getting you, Mrs West?’

She wouldn’t put it past Jack to have the girl in his pay. Watching her. ‘Brandy, please, Muira.’ She needed something to take the edge off the revulsion she’d been feeling all night.

Logan Gilvry’s innocent smile with a touch of wickedness floated across her mind. A smile she would be resisting tomorrow. Or not. She inhaled a quick breath. She’d have no difficulty keeping him at a distance, lovely as he was. Giving in to passion had served her ill in the past. A mistake she had never made again. Compared to some of the men she had dealt with, handling this young Scot should be a simple matter.

Muira handed her the brandy and she took a sip, let the warmth slide down her throat. It did nothing for the coldness inside her. A good thing, too. It was a coldness she had cultivated and now carefully nurtured. ‘That will be all, thank you.’

The girl bobbed a curtsy and left.

She took another sip. And if she refused to drive out with Jack and Gilvry on the morrow? If she sent her regrets? She leaned her head back against the chair cushions, plush and soft against her head. Jack paid her because she was useful. The world was a cold hard place for women alone without family support. Unless she had money.

She drained her glass. As usual, she would do what must be done. And to hell with green-eyed panthers.

* * *

An hour or so later, Jack entered without knocking, rubbing his hands together, his eyes glinting with pleasure.

‘What did you think?’ he asked, crossing to the console to pour a drink.

A chance to nudge things in the direction she preferred? Perhaps. She put her book aside. ‘A man who gets the job done.’

‘Aye.’ Jack brought his drink and stood with one foot on the hearth. ‘But I wouldn’t trust him with a farthing.’

True. ‘You don’t have to trust a man, if you understand him.’

He cast her a sharp glance. ‘Throwing your weight in his direction, are ye?’

She shrugged non-committally. ‘He’s a known quantity. He can deliver. He holds Edinburgh in his palm.’

Jack narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Almost. We drank Gilvry’s whisky at the alehouse, don’t forget.’

Daring. Jack was always drawn by anyone who beat the odds. His one weakness. The reason he had taken her on. She let her opposition fill the silence.

‘For all that McKenzie brags, the Gilvrys have him worried.’ He drained his glass in one swift swallow. ‘I don’t understand what makes them such a threat to a man like McKenzie.’

Intelligence. ‘Ask Gilvry. He’ll probably tell you.’

‘Aye.’ He kicked at the grate. ‘But does he have the courage to take what he wants, no matter the cost?’

Her, did he mean? She raised a brow. ‘He’s a boy. Really, Jack. You want me to waste my talents. For what? Assurance that he’s as reckless as you?’

He was across the room in a trice, pulling her up from her seat. A quick ruthless twist and her arm was pressed high between her shoulder blades. Her eyes blurred from the pain.

‘Are you questioning me?’ His voice low and menacing in her ear.

‘No,’ she gasped. ‘I am just trying to understand what you want me to get from him.’

He released her with a push that made her stumble. She rubbed at her reddened wrist. Likely she’d have a bruise there tomorrow. ‘I’ll do whatever you want, Jack. No questions asked.’

‘I thought you might, colleen.’ He sipped at his drink.

* * *

‘So what will you tell them?’ Sanford asked.

Logan eyed the languid figure on the other side of the carriage. The young lord had kindly offered him the loan of his carriage, once he’d been dropped off at Holyroodhouse where he had been called on some official business. ‘I’ll tell them the truth. That King is no’ landing today because of the rain and offer to take them tomorrow.’ He looked out of the window at the torrential rain, at the bunting and soggy flags draped across the buildings to welcome King George. ‘Unless they have some other idea. Perhaps they’ll want to go stare through the mist at his ship out in the harbour.’

‘You could take them shopping.’

He turned back to look at Sanford’s mocking face. ‘Why would I do that?’

The smile broadened. ‘Since you asked me for the loan of my carriage today, I’ve been thinking. If you really want to impress this O’Banyon fellow and his lady friend, there are several events you could take them to besides the public processions. There’s a levee. A drawing room, and a couple of balls. None of which will depend on the weather.’

Logan glowered at the smirking fop. ‘None of which I’ve been invited to.’

‘Ah, but you see, I happen to be friends with Sir Walter Scott, the man in charge.’

‘Oh, aye. And you think we wouldna’ stick out like sore thumbs at the King’s Drawing Room? You are daft in the head.’

‘As long as you wear your kilt, my dear boy, you will fit right in. But as for the lady, well, she would need something a little more...well, something different from what she was wearing at the Reiver the other night.’

He frowned. ‘I liked what she wore.’

‘So did every other man in the place. She needs a proper court dress. With ostrich plumes. And a ball gown for the Peers’ Ball. That is, if you really do want to take her and her friend.’

‘I would like to see O’Banyon wearing a kilt.’

‘The Irish wear kilts, I’m told.’

They did, but somehow he couldn’t quite picture one on this particular Irishman.

‘Have you ever had the pleasure of clothing a woman?’ Sanford asked idly, but there was a sharpness in the look he shot Logan’s way.

The man was making it sound as if it was the sort of thing a man of his age should have done hundreds of times. ‘Any woman worth her salt knows what to wear.’

Sanford grinned.

The young lord was having altogether too much fun with this new idea of his. And yet if O’Banyon liked the idea of mingling with the cream of Edinburgh’s society, it might help him decide in Dunross’s favour. ‘I’ll ask if they have any interest.’

‘Let me know by tonight.’

Would they want to be introduced to the King at a drawing room and go to a ball? It was hard to imagine, but Mrs West had been pretty keen to see him from a distance, so it stood to reason this would be even better. ‘All right.’

The carriage pulled to a halt. Sanford reached for the door handle. ‘You can drop the carriage back at my lodgings. I’ll get a ride back.’ He waited for one of the grooms to arrive with an umbrella before descending into the street. Afraid he might melt in a wee bit o’ rain. Or perhaps ruin his carefully ordered fair locks.

As the coach moved off, Logan peered out of the window to watch Sanford head into the Palace. He couldn’t imagine why he liked the languid dandy. But he did.

It was only a few moments before the carriage was stopping in Abbey Hill. He hopped out and gestured for the coachman to wait. The man nodded and a torrent of water rushed off his hat and landed in his lap.

Hell, it was raining harder than ever.

He found O’Banyon and Mrs West waiting in the lobby.

She offered him that practised sultry smile, when all of yesterday he had remembered the one that had lit her face when he had talked about taking her to see the King. He’d labelled it her real smile, though he had no way of knowing for sure.

O’Banyon shook his hand. ‘Gilvry. Not exactly the best of days to view a parade, is it? I am glad you arrived on time. I have an appointment with a banker in a few minutes and cannot join you as planned.’

Logan masked his surprise. ‘It doesna’ matter. The King’s disembarkation has been postposed until the weather improves.’

Mrs West rose to her feet and once more he was surprised at her height and elegance. Today she was wearing a dark greenish-blue spencer over a yellow gown. A flower-decorated straw bonnet covered all but a few curls artfully arranged about her angular face. A perfect frame for a work of art. Her smile was calmly accepting. ‘Thank you for coming to tell us.’

Her manners were faultless. Dressed as she was, it would be easy to mistake her for a gently-bred lady. It would have fooled him. And anyone else.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But perhaps I can offer something better. The King is to hold a Drawing Room at Holyroodhouse Tuesday next and a ball at the Assembly Rooms on Friday. You are invited to both.’

Her rosy lips parted in a gasp of surprise. Then her expression turned icy. ‘You are joking, naturally.’

He looked at O’Banyon.

‘Is this a jest, Gilvry?’ the Irishman asked.

He didn’t look at Mrs West. ‘No, indeed it is not, sir. I am invited to represent my family and you would go as my guests.’ It was stretching the truth a bit, but Ian was a Laird and no doubt he would have been invited, had he been in Edinburgh. Though it was more likely that Niall, as the next eldest brother, would have been sent as his representative.

O’Banyon raised his brows at Mrs West.

She shook her head. ‘No. It wouldn’t be right.’

The Irishman frowned. ‘What is not right about it? Gilvry here has invited you.’

‘Us, Jack,’ she said with almost a note of desperation. ‘You invited both of us, did you not, Mr Gilvry?’

‘You are correct, Mrs West. Both of you.’

‘Pshaw,’ O’Banyon said. He made a sweeping gesture with one arm. ‘If you think I want to lick the boots of the fat flawn who calls himself King of Ireland, you can think again. You Scots can bow and scrape before him if you like.’

Some heads turned in their direction.

‘Jack,’ she said. ‘Hush.’

He grinned. ‘You go. And tell me all about it after.’

She stiffened slightly. ‘Jack, you know I can’t.’

‘I know nothing of the sort.’

Well, here was the part he’d really been dreading. ‘Mrs West will need the appropriate attire, of course, if she is to be introduced to the King. And a ball gown.’

‘So this invitation of yours is going to cost me a pretty penny, is it, Gilvry?’

Colour touched those high elegant cheekbones. Chill filled her gaze. ‘Jack. I do not wish to put you to such an expense.’

It was a rare bird of paradise who cared how much she cost her keeper. ‘Please, allow me to take care of it,’ Logan said. And wished he’d bitten off his tongue when she looked startled and none too pleased. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

O’Banyon jabbed him in the ribs. ‘I’m sure you’ll find the colleen here suitably grateful.’

The words made him feel like a lecher. And was it a flash of anger in her eyes he saw, or a flash of some other emotion? Since she was now smiling calmly, he could only guess that she was pleased with the idea. ‘It seems the matter is settled,’ she said briskly. ‘Do you happen to know of a seamstress who can meet my needs at such short notice, Mr Gilvry?’

‘As it happens, I do.’ There was the mantua maker his sister-in-law used. He’d occasionally picked things up there for Selina when she hadn’t been able to come to town.

‘Naturally, you do,’ she said with a look that he did not comprehend. ‘Shall we go now?’

He looked at O’Banyon. ‘If you have no objection.’

The other man grinned widely. ‘None at all. Just don’t let her completely empty your pockets.’ He chucked her under the chin. ‘Eh, puss?’

She arched a quizzical brow.

Logan wanted to swallow the dryness in his mouth. He hadn’t felt this nervous since the gaugers had almost trapped the clan in Balnaen Cove with a shipload of brandy. God help him if after all this expense the Irishman did not come through with a large order.

He’d be up to his ears in debt to Ian. But the compensation of squiring Mrs West around might just be worth it. Enough. He was her escort and nothing else. He wasn’t a fool. He had no illusions about the sort of traps a woman could lay for an unwary man.

* * *

While rain streamed down the outside of the windows and drummed on the roof, drowning out the noise from the streets, Charity observed her escort discreetly. He was far too handsome for a male of the species. Chiselled perfection, that face of his. A temptation for most women, But more attractive to her was his pleasant smile, his gentlemanly demeanour and his aura of innocent pleasure in the day.

Innocent? He was no better than Jack. A smuggler. A man wanted by the law. Yet so confident in his ability to charm, he sat opposite her in the carriage, his long legs stretched out before him as if he had not a care in the world.

She, who had thought she was dead to all emotion, fairly seethed with irritation.

Did he have no idea the danger she presented? The knot of guilt in her stomach pulled tighter. Guilt. She had no reason in the world to feel guilty. He knew she was Jack’s creature. His tool. If he did not, then he was a fool and he deserved all he got. She clenched her hands in her lap and cast him a look from beneath her lashes that hinted at erotic desires.

It gave her some satisfaction to see his gaze drop to her mouth, to see the movement of his strong throat as he swallowed, to know she had not lost her touch. Even as it galled her to know he was no different to the rest of them.

Though why that should be, she did not understand. And not understanding increased her anger.

It would cost him dear to parade her about like a prize. To a ball, no less. And worse yet, a Drawing Room. Something five years ago she would have taken as her due. Would have revelled in. Now she could only think of it with dread. But that wasn’t the reason for the knot in her stomach. It was the knowledge of the price he would expect her to pay for his generosity. He would expect to take her into his bed.

Her stomach gave an odd little flutter of excitement.

Horrified, she pressed a hand to her waist.

‘Are you nae well?’ he asked in that soft burr of his that she felt rather than heard. It was as intimate as a caress across her breasts. She felt them tighten and grow heavy against her will.

She prevented her fingers from curling into claws and raking across his pretty face, or from sinking into his shoulders to test the strength of him, to feel muscle and bone. Either response would not help her cause of remaining detached.

But he would pay for causing that little jolt of lust.

She smiled calmly. ‘Perfectly fine, Mr Gilvry. Your Edinburgh roads are less well made than London’s.’

He grinned, his eyes lighting with a flash of humour. ‘Please accept my apology. We Scots are a rough lot, so we do not mind a bit of bouncing around.’

A double entendre? Likely. She pretended not to understand. ‘And is it like this in Dunross also?’ She frowned. ‘Where exactly is Dunross? I do not believe I have heard of it.’

His smile broadened. ‘Oh, aye. Not too many people have heard of it, even in Scotland.’

‘I assume it is not a large place, then?’

‘Not large at all.’

He was hardly being forthcoming. Did he suspect her of an ulterior motive in her questions? If he didn’t, he should.

‘And you have brothers, I understand. Do they also live in Dunross?’

‘My older brother, only. And his wife. My other brother Niall lives here in Edinburgh.’

Not someone she would be meeting, no doubt, but she could not help sharpening her claws on his conscience.

‘Oh, how nice for you. Are you staying with them?’ Her expectant look said she hoped he would take her for a visit.

His mouth tightened a fraction and his gaze slid away from hers. ‘I have lodgings elsewhere.’

The man had quick wits, clearly. ‘So you live and work in Dunross. It must be hard, living so far from civilised society. From town. From all this activity.’

He shook his head with a rueful smile. ‘I am thinking I get activity enough in my line of work.’

‘Smuggler.’

‘Aye. Not that I’d be admitting it to just anyone, you understand.’

‘Naturally.’

He leaned back against the squabs with an expression of curiosity. ‘What about your family, Mrs West?’

‘I have no family.’ None that would admit to a relationship, anyway.

‘Then no Mr West, waiting for you in London.’

Checking out the pitfalls. He was a smart lad. A husband might be one way to keep him at a distance. But, no, Jack would not countenance such a move on her part. ‘Sadly, no.’ She gave him a mocking smile and saw faint colour stain his cheekbones. ‘I am quite alone, now.’ Except for Jack and his damned schemes.

‘I am sorry for your loss.

He looked sorry. And her heart gave a stupid little hop.

‘You find living in London to your taste?’ he asked.

She hated London and its dirt and corruption. ‘There is no finer city in the world.’

He glanced out of the window with a grimace. ‘I might have argued, but this weather does not help my cause. Hopefully you will see Edinburgh on a better day.’

‘It is certainly full of people.’

‘Aye. All the folk have come to see the King. It is not usually quite sae full as this. O’Banyon was lucky to find rooms so close to the heart of it all.’

The carriage slowed, then halted. He leaned forwards to peer out at the street. ‘We are here.’ He opened the door.

Rain splattered his hair and face and shoulders. He reached up, grabbed an umbrella from the footman perched on the box, opened it and let down the steps. He held the umbrella up, ready for her to alight. Held it so it covered her completely and left him in the rain. She did not hurry. Let him catch a cold from a damp coat, or soaking wet feet. Not that he seemed to care about the rain as it trickled down his face and disappeared into his collar.

She took his hand and stepped lightly on to the pavement. ‘Thank you.’

He nodded. ‘Come back for us in an hour,’ he called up to the coachman and she trod daintily across the flagstone and under the portico of the shop. Petty. Very petty. It was almost as if she had to remind herself to despise him. How could that be? She wasn’t one to play favourites. She despised them all equally.

He opened the door and she stepped into the dry of a well-appointed dressmaker’s shop.

The seamstress came forwards with a smile of greeting when she saw him. Her smile turned to a slight crease in her brow as she realised Charity was not someone she recognised.

‘Good day, Mr Gilvry,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting you, was I? I don’t think I have any items for Lady Selina.’

Lady Selina, was it? Not just a common smuggler, then. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he, if he could command an invite to a ball attended by the King. Oh, he really deserved to be punished for that piece of folly. Even if it did fall in with Jack’s plans.

‘What a lovely shop you have, Mrs...’ She arched a brow.

‘Donaldson,’ Gilvry supplied. ‘This is Mrs West. She needs gowns for the King’s Drawing Room and the Peers’ Ball.’ He flashed the woman a charming smile. ‘I told her that you are the best mantua-maker in Edinburgh.’

The seamstress preened at his flattery, then caught herself with a frown. ‘I am no’ sure I can do anything so grand at such short notice, Mr Gilvry. I don’t mean to be disobliging, you understand.’

Charity trilled a little laugh. ‘Oh, come now, ma’am, any dressmaker of note in London would not disoblige a customer of Mr Gilvry’s standing.’ She unbuttoned her spencer. ‘I swear I am damp to the bone after braving the rain. A cup of tea would not come amiss.’

Mr Gilvry helped her out of her coat. His eyes widened when he took in the gown beneath it. A sheer lemon-muslin creation that had a bodice more suited to the drawing room of a bordello than an afternoon of shopping. She smiled up at him. ‘Do you like it?’

One look at the dress had the seamstress as stiff as a board. ‘Mr Gilvry. I really do not appreciate you bringing your—’

For the first time since she had met him, his jaw hardened as if carved from granite and Charity felt a flash not of the pleasure she had expected from making him pay for his lustful thoughts, but of anxiety for the seamstress.

‘My what?’ he asked in what to Charity sounded like a very dangerous tone.

Apparently it had the same sound to Mrs Donaldson. ‘Your friend,’ the seamstress gasped. ‘This is a respectable establishment. Please, Mr Gilvry. I have my reputation to consider.’

‘And how many other ladies are you dressing for the King’s Drawing Room?’ he asked. This was the man who challenged revenue men and criminals like Jack. She should have guessed that the youthfully innocent demeanour was a front.

She should have known better than to throw down such a challenge. And yet his anger thrilled her in the oddest of ways. It touched a place in her chest that seemed to warm with a feeling of tenderness. Because he was acting as if she was a lady. It had been years since anyone even hinted she had a shred of honour worth defending.

She hardened her heart against such nonsense. Such weakness. He was a man. He wanted what he wanted and would do anything to get it.

Still, she felt sorry for the seamstress’s quandary. She put a hand on his sleeve. ‘Really, Mr Gilvry. We can go elsewhere. It does not matter.’

‘It will matter to Lady Selina,’ he said grimly.

Mrs Donaldson sank inwards on herself. ‘Well, if the young lady is a friend of Lady Selina’s,’ she said, weakly grasping at a very fragile straw, ‘I am sure I will do everything in my power to...please.’ Desperation shone in her gaze. ‘I have a private room in the back...’ she swallowed ‘...where you can view...fabrics. Fashion plates. Take tea. I will have whisky brought on a tray...’

The green eyes were chips of ice as he sent an enquiry Charity’s way.

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, not wanting him to cause the woman embarrassment. ‘Thank you.’

The woman whirled around. ‘This way please, madam, Mr Gilvry.’

He put his hand on the small of her back and urged her to follow. The pressure of his hand seared through her gown and came to rest low in her belly. Heaven help her, what was she going to do about him?

Nothing. She could not afford to be weak. To care how low she brought him would be a mistake that would cost her dearly. Sentiment had ruined her life once. She could not let it happen again. Even so she would let him dress her respectably. She had no reason to want to shame him before his peers and his King.

She owed him that much for his defence of her today.

That much and no more.