Falling for the Highland Rogue

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.