Читать книгу Falling for the Highland Rogue - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 9

Chapter Two

He was coming their way. The golden Adonis from the previous evening. Charity’s heart pounded against her ribs. She wanted to disappear under the table. To flee the room. If she did anything of the sort, if she even flickered an eyelash, Jack would know. He had uncanny instincts that way. And he’d like discovering something had the power to disturb her. That someone did. He would use it to his advantage.

Ignoring disaster’s approach, she picked up her wine and gazed from beneath lowered lashes at the young gentleman sitting on the other side of the table. A young Scot with bulging pockets and the face of a new-born babe. Jack’s pawn. His mark. She curved her lips in a smile. The young man went red to his ears. Vermilion. Or scarlet. Maybe puce. She touched her tongue to her top lip, collecting the ruby drop of wine she had deliberately left there. Definitely puce, poor lad. She drew in a breath, lifting her bosom.

Gasping like a landed fish, he put down a card. Jack trumped it. The boy looked confused. Disoriented as he gazed at the cards he had left. Men and their lust. So stupid. It was the end of him, of course. The rest of the hand went Jack’s way and with a shaking hand the boy wrote his vowel. So damned easy.

At her back, she could feel golden boy, standing there, watching. Waiting his turn to be fleeced. A shudder went through her bones. An urgent need to tell him to leave. She glanced at Jack, wondering if she could excuse herself while he gathered his winnings. Use the moment to warn her green-eyed panther away from danger.

Hers. Hardly. Men, handsome or not, left her cold. Even young handsome ones.

Why would she even consider taking such a risk for a fool of a man who was little more than a boy. What was it to her, if he lost his coin? It would put more money in her pocket. Money she needed. Thank goodness Jack had recognised her worth at his tables after her utter failure in the brothel. While she might look the part, while she could drive a man to losing a fortune for the sake of a smile, men didn’t like a cold woman in their beds.

Which was why she didn’t understand why the man at her back heated her blood with no more than a glance.

The boy pushed his vowel at Jack and stood up, his face ghostly, his hands shaking. ‘I’ll send the money round tomorrow morning.’

Jack smiled coldly, a quick baring of crooked teeth. ‘You will find me at the White Horse Inn. Gold only. No paper.’

The boy swallowed and stumbled away with one last longing glance at her face. She cut him dead. He no longer existed. The next mark was waiting his turn. Him. The handsome rogue. Tonight he would lose his swagger and, like all the others, she’d consign him to the flames of unrequited lust.

It was as inevitable as day following night. It had to be.

Jack handed off the winnings to Growler standing behind him and raised his gaze, looking up at the man standing behind her right shoulder out of her line of vision, though she could see him in her mind’s eye, see the arrogant set of his head, the confident expression on his handsome face.

Damn you! Can’t you see what we are? Go away.

Jack gestured to the empty chair. ‘Faro?’ he asked around his cigar.

The other two men at the table looked up expectantly, saying nothing. They each had some winnings. Money they would return to Jack at the end of the night. His boyos, Jack called them in the private sanctum of his office at the back of Le Chien Rouge. It was the only place he ever acknowledged he knew them. They took their orders from Growler.

Lean and lithe, her panther sat down. He glanced at her face, his eyes blazing heat for a brief betraying moment, a heat that burned in her belly. She swallowed an indrawn gasp and picked up her glass, sipping slowly, retaining her mask of indifference.

Jack didn’t notice anything amiss. He was used to the hot looks young men cast her way. It was what he paid for. He assessed the young man with a knowing eye. He wore clothes quite different from last night. A dark coat of superfine slightly worn at the cuffs, the linen good, but not expensive. A man of few means, but a great deal of pride. And a fool.

She set her glass down with more force than she intended. Jack glanced her way, a quick sideways glance and a faint trace of a frown. A shiver slid down her back. It did not do to make Jack angry. To ruin his play. She touched a finger to her smiling lips. ‘Oops.’

‘A shilling a point to begin,’ Jack said, with his friendliest grin. He looked around the table. ‘All right with you, gentlemen?’

They murmured their assent on cue and Jack raised his brow in the direction of the young man. ‘Jack O’Banyon at your service.’ He nodded at the other two men in turn. ‘Mr Smith and Mr Brown.’

Not their real names of course. Only Growler knew those.

‘Gilvry,’ the young man said, his Scottish burr a startling velvet caress in her ear. ‘You were asking after me.’

Clearly surprised, Jack leaned back in his chair. ‘You’ll be excusing me, Mr Gilvry. I was expecting someone older.’ He glanced from him to her and his eyes gleamed with cunning, deciding how to use that first hot look to advantage. She tapped a fingernail on the wooden table. ‘My glass is empty, Growler.’ She spoke in the husky murmur men loved to hear in bed.

Not that they ever heard it in her bed. She preferred to sleep alone.

While the bruiser went in search of a waiter, Gilvry’s gaze focused on Jack. There was a wealth of understanding in that look. ‘My brother asked that I meet with you.’ His voice didn’t carry beyond the confines of their group.

‘Why don’t we play while we talk?’ Jack puffed smoke in Gilvry’s direction. ‘We’ll attract less attention.’

Gilvry’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Do that again, man, and I’ll stuff that wee cheroot down your throat.’ Then he grinned, an open devil-may-care smile that was both charming and dangerous.

Charity shivered as if she, too, had been caught in his predatory gaze. But it wasn’t quite that. It was the razor edge to his voice, the sense of a blade with a silky sheath. Her breathing shallowed, her chest rising and falling, the edge of her satin gown pressing against her skin like a touch. She wanted to scream. Anything to break this tension.

Brown’s hand went beneath the table, to the pistol she knew he had tucked in his waistband.

Jack threw back his head and laughed. He mashed the hot end of the cigar between his stubby fingers, his gaze fixed on Gilvry’s smiling expression. A battle of strength fought in silence.

Jack’s other two men relaxed, watchful, but at ease.

A breath left her body. Relief. Glad Gilvry wasn’t about to die. She caught herself. She did not care. Not at all.

Growler plonked the fresh glass in front of her and took the empty one away.

‘I’ve no interest in cards,’ Gilvry said softly. ‘Or drink. If it is business you want to discuss, we’ll do it in private. Or we’ll no’ do it at all.’

Not once did he look at her. Not once, since that first look the moment he sat down, yet her skin shivered with the knowledge of his strength of will. His blind courage. Fool man. She lifted her glass and drained it in one draught. A dangerous thing to do, to let the wine cloud her judgement around Jack, but the tension was too great, too impossible to let her resist the warm slide down her gullet, steadying her nerves, calming the frantic beat of her heart.

‘We’ll be going back to my rooms at the White Horse then, is it, Gilvry?’

‘Aye, that will do.’

‘Ride with us?’

Say no, she willed, the thought of being confined in a small space with him a suddenly terrifying prospect.

‘No,’ he said, once more flashing the smile with its edge of wickedness.

She almost sagged back in her chair with relief. Almost.

‘Give me a little credit, O’Banyon,’ Gilvry said. ‘I’m no’ advertising our business to all and various. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.’ He cocked a brow at the men at the table. ‘Am I needing to bring my own gang of ruffians?’

Jack barked a short laugh. ‘You’ll find no one with me but Growler, here.’

He nodded. ‘Half an hour, then.’ He rose gracefully to his feet, so tall and almost as broad as Jack, but not nearly so heavy set. There was an elegance, a manly grace, about him as he prowled away.

Deliberately, she kept her gaze on Jack, waiting for her cue.

He looked at his men. ‘I’ll not be needing you any more tonight,’ he said curtly. ‘Growler will bring you my orders in the morning.’

He rose to his feet with a sour look at Charity. ‘It seems you are losing your touch.’

The lad had caught him left-footed. He didn’t like it. She smiled slowly. ‘It seems to me, Jack, you are rising from this table with a pretty good profit.’

His gaze flicked to Gilvry where he was speaking to a blond man, who glanced in their direction and nodded. So, the young panther had the sense to let someone know where he was going, but he was still a fool, wandering into an old lion’s lair. It wasn’t her concern. She cared for nothing and no one. As long as Jack paid what he promised.

And he would, as long as she did exactly what he wanted. If not, he wouldn’t hesitate to take it out of her hide, even if it meant he had to find another cat’s paw.

She arched a brow at him.

‘Growler,’ he muttered, like a curse.

The pugilist handed her a couple of coins. Her percentage of the take. Her lust money. She slipped them inside her glove. It had been a good night. Two guineas in two hours. Not bad for one evening. If only the night ended here. Her heart gave a strange little jolt. Her job was done. Jack would not need her presence to conclude his business. Would he?

Outside, he helped her into the carriage. Growler took his seat on the box and the coach rocked into motion. She was looking forward to a warm bath. A chance to get the stink of smoke from her skin. Her maid always hung her clothes at the window to air them to no avail. Even the lavender she sprinkled between their folds when she put them away never quite rid them of the stale odour of beer and smoke, or the taint of her soul.

Sitting on the seat opposite, Jack was watching her face. From beneath her lowered lashes, she could see the intensity of his stare in the street lanterns’ regular flash into the depths of the compartment. She held herself still, relaxed. Waiting.

‘What did ye think of him?’ Jack asked, his rough voice cutting through the dark.

Careful now. The question was not an idle one. ‘The mark? I doubt we will be able to lure him in again. Not when his head clears in the morning. My guess is, his trustees have him pretty well under control.’

A hand moved impatiently. ‘Not him. Gilvry.’

As she’d supposed. Jack was no fool, in or out of his cups. To hesitate too long would give too much away. ‘A boy sent to do a man’s job,’ she said musingly, speaking the truth, somewhat. ‘He seems more adventurer than negotiator. Ian Gilvry should have come himself.’ Perhaps Jack would send him home to his brother and insist on dealing with the man himself. A pleasing thought. Or it should be.

Silence prevailed as Jack mulled over her words. ‘He’s got ballocks of steel,’ he said finally, ‘behind that baby face.’

The note of admiration did not entirely surprise her. Few men had the courage to face Jack down and this one had done it with a bold smile.

‘I was that way myself as a lad.’ He shook his head and sighed regretfully. ‘Still, an’ all, business is business. I’d be wise to take him down a peg or two, I’m thinking.’

Hurt him? Her insides cringed. ‘Likely,’ she murmured, keeping her voice indifferent and her hands still in her lap. Business was business.

‘He wants you.’

Anger flared. And fear? She dammed it up with a smile. ‘What’s it to be then, Jack? I’m to lure him into some dark alley so Growler and his boys can make him sorry he was ever born? Teach him a lesson in humility?’ More taint for her black soul.

Jack laughed. ‘Lordy, what a cold bitch you really are, Charity.’

She shrugged, but the laugh and the words grated. It was all right for him to be merciless, but it made her a bitch. She was cold, though. Inside. Mark had seen to that. And she had no plans to change because of a face designed to break hearts. She didn’t have a heart. Not any more. She let her eyes drift closed. ‘Tell me what you would have me do, Jack.’

‘I’m thinking you should spend some time with him,’ Jack said.

Her eyes flew open. ‘What sort of time?’ She sat up. ‘You know I don’t like—’

‘You will do as you’re told.’ A flash of light caught crooked white teeth bared in a grin, but it was the clenched fist that caught her attention.

‘You will spend whatever kind of time is needed to keep him out of my way for a day or so while I see what McKenzie has on offer.’

‘You don’t think Gilvry can deliver?’

‘When they send a boy to do a man’s job?’

Damn Jack. Sometimes he listened too well. Spend time with young Gilvry? Torture. But her heart raced in a way it hadn’t for a very long time. An odd sort of anticipation. Her insides trembling as if she was a filly at the starting gate. Her breathing far too shallow for comfort.

‘I’m sure I can find a way to keep him busy.’

Jack grunted and his fist relaxed.

Distract Gilvry. It was what she did best. So why did she have a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach? What? Did she pity the wretch who had eyed her with heat like so many others? He was no different to any of them. None of them deserved consideration. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

Pleasure. He was a pleasure to look at, certainly.

She stared out of the window and for the first time in a very long time she wrestled with regret for what had brought her to this life. The youthful folly that had made her think she could rely on a man’s honour.

* * *

With Tammy Gare standing at his shoulder, Logan knocked on the door to O’Banyon’s chambers. The bruiser, Growler they called him, stared when he saw Tammy, but he said nothing, just ushered them into the foyer like a butler, taking his hat and his gloves and opening the door to the parlour.

‘Gilvry.’ O’Banyon came forwards at once to meet him, hand outstretched, his smile warm and his pale blue eyes dancing. ‘I see you brought reinforcements.’

Logan shook a hand that was warm and dry and just firm enough to be a warning. ‘Edinburgh’s streets can be just as dangerous as those in London, I imagine.’

‘To be sure.’ He shifted, giving Logan more of a view of the room and the woman seated on the sofa by the hearth behind a tea tray set with three cups and a pot already steaming.

The deep red of her gown was shocking against the pale fabric of the cushions. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He had not expected her presence or he would have steeled himself.

‘You must be forgiving me my manners,’ O’Banyon was saying. ‘I did not introduce you earlier. Charity, this is Mr Gilvry with whom I have some business. Gilvry, Mrs Charity West.’

Married, then. Disappointment gripped him.

Heather-purple eyes gazed at him coolly. They were not as dark in colour as he’d thought at the Reiver, but they held dark knowledge. A small smile played at the corners of her lush red lips. Blood on snow. The thought made him vaguely light-headed as he bowed over her outstretched gloved hand. Not the York tan she had worn in the alehouse, but lacy gloves through which he could feel the warmth of her skin. Searing warmth. As he bowed he was afforded a close view of the rise of her bountiful bosom and the shadow of the valley between. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Mrs West.’

Her lips tilted upwards as if he had said something humorous. ‘Oh, no, Mr Gilvry. The pleasure is all mine.’ He voice was low and husky and hinted at all things carnal.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. And he felt a throb of lust in his groin. It wasn’t the first time a woman had played the siren to his face, but it was the first time in years that his control had been this elusive.

What could not be cured, could be ignored. Something he’d taught himself well in the years since he’d run afoul of Maggie.

Pleasure was not why he was here.

He turned back to O’Banyon, who was watching him with a hard expression. Damn it all, he hoped the man didn’t notice...or think...he had any more interest in the woman than that of any male faced with a stunningly beautiful woman who had her assets on display. As instructed, Tammy now stood on one side of the parlour door and O’Banyon’s man on the other.

‘Will you be taking tea?’ O’Banyon asked. ‘Or can I pour you a dram of whisky?’

‘Perhaps you would like to try a drop of what Dunross has to offer.’ He snapped his fingers. Tammy stepped forward smartly as they had practised and handed Logan a bottle of the whisky put down in his father’s time. O’Banyon looked surprised and pleased.

Tammy returned to his place. Growler eyed him, measuring and weighing. Tammy returned the favour.

Noticing the direction of Logan’s gaze, O’Banyon chuckled. ‘Shall we dispense with their services?’

It was what he had hoped when he had given Tammy his instructions. ‘Certainly.’

‘Take Mr Gilvry’s man down to the servants’ hall,’ O’Banyon instructed. ‘Offer him some refreshments.’

Whatever he was offered, Tammy would stand by his word and only take tea. He would not let O’Banyon’s man out of his sight until he and Logan were reunited. Logan took the chair opposite Mrs West. Charity. Now there was a name for a woman who looked like sin personified.

‘I will take tea,’ he said, surprising himself.

‘With a dash of whisky in it?’ O’Banyon asked, pouring himself a glass at the table near the window and holding out the bottle to Logan.

‘No, thank you. It is your gift from my brother.’

‘Charity, my dear?’

‘No, thank you, Jack,’ she murmured in a voice that made Logan think of skin sliding against skin.

Glass in hand, O’Banyon wandered back to sit at the other end of the sofa, facing Logan, while Mrs West poured tea in the style of a well-born lady. Come to think of it, her voice was also that of a lady, not the rough accents of the street or the drawl of the country. She spoke much like his brother’s wife, Lady Selina. But accents could be learned.

She smiled at him and once more his body tightened. ‘Your tea, Mr Gilvry.’ She held out a cup and saucer and he rose to take it from her hand. Somehow their fingers touched, though he was sure he had been careful enough not to do anything so clumsy. The heat of that brief touch made his hand tremble and he had to catch the cup with his other hand to prevent a spill.

Not that she seemed to notice. She was pouring another cup for herself and he could see only the crown of artfully arranged curls the colour of toffee as she bent to the task.

O’Banyon was busy gazing at the whisky in his glass.

Logan sat down and, getting command of himself, took a sip from his cup. Tea. He’d far rather have ale any day of the week.

The Irishman took a slow sip, swirled the liquid around his mouth and then swallowed. His eyelids lowered as he slowly nodded approval. ‘Fine. Very fine. And expensive, I am thinking.’

‘Naturally. It is the best we have. Old. But we have grades to suit all tastes and purses.’ He waited for O’Banyon to rise to the bait. There was a reason Ian had sent Logan to woo this man from London. Over and over again they had proved that one look at his face and men trusted him to speak the truth. And he did. But trust was hard-won in this necessarily illegal business of theirs. The English Parliament continued to keep a boot on the neck of Scotland.

‘I could see serving this to some of my special customers,’ O’Banyon said, his gaze direct, chilly, fixed on Logan’s face. ‘But I’d need to taste the other stuff, too. The Chien serves gentlemen who might not want to be paying for the very best, but it has to be decent.’

Despite the hard gaze of the man he was facing, he could feel the woman’s eyes upon him, too. She was looking him over, as if waiting for him to fail to impress. Why he had that impression or why he was even aware of her, when this deal with O’Banyon was so important to the clan, he could not fathom.

He took another sip of his tea, let the pause grow just enough to make O’Banyon’s shoulders fractionally stiffen. He loved the twists and turns of this game. The risks, whether it was in the taverns where the deals were done, or on the heather-clad hills where gaugers lurked behind every bush.

He put down his cup. ‘You were drinking it tonight. Archie served you this year’s distilling.’

O’Banyon’s eyes widened. ‘Did he now?’

Got you. ‘I delivered it yesterday.’

The Irish man’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I heard it was only McKenzie whisky in Edinburgh.’

‘It appears you heard wrong.’ Logan shrugged. He glanced at Mrs West. There was a look on her face he could not quite interpret, her lips were parted and he could have sworn a smile lurked in her misty gaze, but she had already turned that gaze on O’Banyon as if waiting for his reply.

‘And what makes you think you can do business with me?’ O’Banyon asked.

‘The Laird looked into the Chien Rouge through his contacts before he answered your enquiry.’

Her gaze dropped down to her teacup as if to hide her thoughts, but then she looked back up at Logan. ‘Your brother is a clever man, Mr Gilvry.’ Her voice held a trace of amusement, but whether at his expense, or his brother’s, or even O’Banyon’s, he had no way of knowing, because her expression was quickly one of indifference. The woman kept her secrets well in hand.

But he was not one to avoid a challenge.

‘He would not remain in business long if he was not, Mrs West.’

O’Banyon grinned. ‘It seems we may be able to do business, Gilvry.’

Logan did not like the word ‘may’. With Edinburgh mostly shut off to them by McKenzie’s ruffians, they needed to get an outlet in London as soon as possible. But smuggling held risks not to be taken lightly. ‘What more is required?’

‘Naturally, I will want to see your terms.’

‘I can bring the documents around in the morning.’

‘I will also need to consult my partner in London.’

Not what he wanted to hear. He had not planned to linger. Other customers were waiting. ‘I understood you had carte blanche, Mr O’Banyon. Perhaps it is your partner to whom I should be speaking.’

O’Banyon ignored the jab. ‘A letter giving my positive opinion is all that is required. And of course the transfer of funds. A payment sent on account for the first shipment. Unless you wish to dispense with such formality.’

This was the problem doing business outside of Scotland. He acknowledged the other man’s hit with a slight nod. ‘Certainly not.’ Knowing his propensity to work on nothing but a handshake, Ian had warned him to agree to nothing without money up front. Such trust was all well and good between Scotsmen, Ian had said, but Sassenachs, other than his wife of course, were not to be trusted.

‘And besides,’ O’Banyon said, ‘Mrs West is anxious to catch a glimpse of Edinburgh’s welcome of the King.’

‘His ship arrives the day after tomorrow, I understand,’ she said, becoming animated. ‘The first visit of a reigning monarch to Scotland since Charles the Second. There are several grand spectacles planned. Cavalry, Highland regiments in their kilts, the newspapers are saying...’

For the first time, her eyes were sparkling. No longer did they remind him of heather at dusk, instead they were as bright as amethysts in sunlight, her lips curved in a smile so lovely it stole his breath.

‘Mr McKenzie has offered us a place at his window overlooking the Golden Mile from where we can watch a procession later in the week,’ she said, looking pleased.

O’Banyon shot her a silencing look. She dropped her gaze and caught her lip with white teeth. ‘It was kind of Mr McKenzie to offer, but I expect it will be nothing of consequence.’

The heat of anger at that small gesture of submission flared in Logan’s chest. His fists wanted to smash O’Banyon in the face, which made no sense at all. ‘McKenzie, is it?’ he said, not bothering to hide his disgust. ‘If you are so deep in bed with him, then I doubt we can do business.’

O’Banyon looked at the glass in his hand. ‘McKenzie has nothing to match what I have tasted from Dunross.’

But that didn’t mean he would buy it if the price wasna right. Ian had warned him to tread carefully. To turn the man up sweet. He reined in his anger and forced himself to think.

‘If Mrs West is so keen to see the King, I can drive you both out to Leith the day after tomorrow to see his official welcome.’ At least he hoped he could. Surely Sanford could get him a pass.

The smile he had thought lovely before became utterly enchanting. And yet, it seemed a little too practised. She turned from him to O’Banyon. ‘Can we, Jack?’

Jack grimaced. ‘All you’ll see is a fat old man waving, but if it pleases you to go, then we will do so.’ He got to his feet and offered his hand to Logan. ‘I will look forward to seeing you in the morning with the documents, then, Gilvry. Let us hope we can conclude our business satisfactorily in a few days.’

‘I am sure we can.’

He took Mrs West’s hand in his and was once more aware of the feel of her warmth and the fine bones of that elegant hand in his palm and the shadows deep in her eyes. Shadows he wanted to pierce. ‘I will come for you and Mr O’Banyon at nine in the morning on Tuesday, Mrs West, if that will suit you?’

‘Jack and I will be ready,’ she said, giving him a sultry smile that sent heat careening straight to his groin.

An effect she’d intended. The knowledge showed in her eyes as plain as day. He found it irksome to say the least. She was not the kind of woman he imagined ever finding attractive, though he doubted there were many men in whom she did not engender lustful thoughts. He had thought himself more in control. Forearmed, as it were, with the knowledge of the damage a woman could do to a man not on his guard.

‘The day after tomorrow, then,’ he said, and did not fail to catch her glance at O’Banyon. A glance seeking his approval. But for what?

The back of his neck tightened.

The well-being of his family hung on the success of this deal with O’Banyon. One wrong move and it could all go to hell.

Without doubt O’Banyon’s woman was temptation incarnate. A move in her direction and he would see his negotiations fall to ruin. Still, he wasna likely to make such a stupid mistake with a woman of her ilk. He had years of practise controlling the urges that got most men into trouble.