The Steel Rogue: A Valor of Vinehill Novel

by K. J. Jackson

  Every inch of his body she could feel behind her. Every inch of the brutal wastrel he was.

  And he stood there. Silent. Not moving. Not letting her move.

  His head shifted down, his cheek sliding along her hair. He stopped, his mouth next to her ear. “No one attacks me on my ship. No one.” The low words reverberated in her ear. Not angry, but deadly all the same. “You will only get one warning.”

  Her eyes closed, the lump in her throat taking all breath from her.

  How had she been this stupid? Why had she followed him? Followed him all over the damn country. Sloane had known. Her cousin had said she was obsessed—to her own detriment. But it was an obsession she couldn’t explain. And now she was suffering the fruits of that obsession.

  “Do you understand, Torrie?”

  Her head jerked to the side and she looked at him the best she could from the tight angle. “What do you know of me?”

  “I know exactly who you are.”

  “How?”

  One caustic chuckle shook his chest. “And you know exactly who I am, don’t you?”

  Her eyes closed and she turned her head from him. From the heat of his breath on her face. From the dark grey eyes that were carving a dagger hole through her mind.

  “I do.” The words came out flat, all fire of injuring him deserting her.

  “Then we can dispense with the game of intrigue. You were following me in Truro, weren’t you? I want to know why.”

  She refused to say a word.

  His arm tightened around her waist, squeezing her until a squeak that she abhorred hearing let loose from her chest.

  “Your silence is all the confirmation I need. Why were you following me?”

  She pushed down on his forearm. “It would be easier to answer your question if I wasn’t in a vise taking my very breath from me.”

  “You seem to be talking just fine.”

  “Yet I’m not giving you answers, am I?”

  He scoffed, almost a chuckle, and his arm dropped from around her waist. “Sit.”

  She took a step away from him. “I’ll stand, thank you.”

  “Sit. You’ll be in front of me in case you think to try anything else.”

  She shrugged, her hands flinging out. “What else could I do—you just took from me the only thing in the room that could be used as a weapon.”

  “Did I?” He pointed to an open-topped chest wedged between the foot of the bed and the wall.

  The handles of three swords leaned out the top of the chest. She moved to her left to peek into the box. At least four dirks and several daggers and pistols were scattered about the bottom of the chest.

  “Oh. I didn’t see that.”

  He inclined his head to her. “And now you have. Sit.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing.

  “Sit before I make you sit.” The words so hard, so commanding, that she couldn’t refuse them any longer.

  With a sigh, she moved to the bed and spun, sitting on the very edge of the sheet, only the slightest part of her body atop it. Sitting. But barely.

  “Blast, what’s that on your arm?”

  Her forehead scrunching, she looked down to her left arm. Nothing.

  “No, your right arm.” He took one long stride to her and picked up her right wrist, his fingers going to her upper arm.

  A gash tore along the blue sleeve of her spencer, long and dark with dried blood.

  Lifting her arm higher, he plucked the rip in the wool and the shirt beneath it wide open and poked at her skin.

  She flinched, the sharp pain of his poking catching her off guard.

  “Hell, the blade got you as well.”

  “What blade?”

  He ripped the sleeve open wider.

  She tried to jerk her arm from his grasp. “Stop, you’re wrecking my jacket.”

  His dark grey eyes lifted to her for one second, staring at her as if she’d grown another head. He couldn’t care less about her clothes.

  He looked back down at her scabbed skin, pulling the wound wide. “It’s deep—too deep. And it’s still seeping—not just blood.”

  She yanked her arm from his grip. “It wouldn’t be seeping if you hadn’t just ripped it open.”

  His jaw going tight, he stepped back from her and drew himself to his full height—just shy of the wood planks of the ceiling.

  One last glance at the wound on her arm and his stare moved to her face. He clasped his arms across his chest. “You were following me. Why?”

  Without control, bitterness rolled into a boil in her belly and she looked up at him, all the hatred she’d stewed upon in the last nine years storming into her eyes. “You should still be rotting in Newgate.”

  His eyebrow cocked. “I should?”

  Her voice dipped into the bitter rage that she’d tried so hard to purge from her life. But sitting here, before this blackguard that thought to have every right to her body—that had taken her and stuffed her on a ship—and she had no control over it. “You killed my family, you bastard, so don’t stand there and talk to me like we’re friendly acquaintances.”

  She stood up, her shoulders pulled so far back her arms were shaking, each word punctuated with visceral rage. “You. Killed. My. Family. So yes. Yes, Mr. Robert Lipinstein, you should still be rotting in Newgate.”

  He blinked at the ferocity in her words. Again. And a third time.

  “I didn’t do it, Torrie.” His words were flat, emotionless. “I was there, at the farm, but I never made one motion to injure you or your family.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “You had a torch in your hands.”

  “I did. And I walked away.”

  “You walked away from a family burning to death. From a woman in flames.”

  He flinched.

  Exactly. He did it and she knew it.

  “I didn’t do it, Torrie.”

  “You didn’t stop it.”

  The vein in his forehead started to throb, his jaw clenching. A warning of boiling anger.

  She didn’t care. “You stood there with a torch in your hand, watching hell on earth. And you think to tell me you didn’t do it?”

  “Are you truly so bitter you cannot see the light for the day?”

  “Bitter?” An acerbic chuckle choked from her throat. “I’m much more than that. So much more.” Her words came out in rushed, sour scorn. “But at least I know what I am and I’m not lying to myself on the matter. Not like you. I know exactly who I am and I know exactly what you are.”

  His head shook, his lips pulling back in barely bridled rage as his fingers curled into fists. “I’m not that man anymore.”

  She took a step toward him, crowding him, her glare piercing him. “You will always be that man, you wretched boot scum of a coward.”

  { Chapter 3 }

  Wretched boot scum. Coward.

  Not that he could argue it.

  Clutching a needle, thread, strips of linen and a bottle of brandy in one hand, Roe took a breath, pausing with his free hand on the door.

  His anger had better be in check. Better than it had been twenty minutes ago when he’d stormed out of his quarters.

  That he’d managed to leave the room without throttling the woman had been a miracle.

  She believed everything that was ever said of him. Every accusation cast his way at that farce of a trial that landed him in Newgate. That he was a cold-blooded murderer.

  The devil himself.

  And why shouldn’t she? She’d seen him there at the farm. Seen him with a torch in his hand. Seen him turn away.

  This was his reckoning for walking away as he did.

  For taking the coward’s way out.

  One last breath to fortify himself against her hatred and he opened the door.

  Torrie had moved back to the bed, sitting atop and turned to the side, staring out the row of windows at the sea. She’d twisted her dark hair into a long braid that hung in front of her
left shoulder. A shame, for it was quite glorious hanging loose and wild about her shoulders as it had been for the last day.

  At his entrance, she spun, her hands going wide on the bed, bracing herself. Against what, he wasn’t sure.

  “So I’m to be a captive in here? Why? And for how long?” For all the accusation in her words, her voice had gone soft, deflated. Probably because she’d realized she couldn’t just swim back to shore.

  Roe kicked the door closed with his bare foot. “You’re not a captive, Torrie. The furthest thing from it.”

  “What am I doing here, then?”

  His eyebrow lifted. “You are willing to attempt an actual conversation with me?”

  Her lips pulled inward for a breath and then she nodded.

  “You don’t remember how you came aboard?” He leaned with the sway of the ship and then went to the desk, setting the needle, thread, and strips of linen down but holding onto the brandy. “You were talking when I brought you down below deck and your eyes were open for a few seconds.”

  “I was awake? What did I say?”

  He shrugged. “Nonsensical stuff.”

  “So you did bring me on board this ship—and not only that—you brought me onto the ship and set sail. Why?”

  He turned fully to her. “You don’t recall what I extracted you from? The band of men—hyenas—about you?”

  It took her several full seconds until recognition flashed across her golden green eyes. “Oh. That.” Her shoulders drooped. “That was you that charged into that circle?”

  “Yes. And some injuries had to happen in order for me to grab you.”

  Her hands left the bed and pulled inward, wrapping around her stomach. “Yes. Well, thank you for that. I was in a spot of trouble there.”

  “A spot?”

  “A dollop.” She shrugged. “But you could have deposited me into a carriage and had me delivered far away from the docks.”

  He shook his head. “Not an option. That crowd was out for blood—my blood, since I was the one taking their sport away.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. There were twenty-plus men that were bent on a turn with you, Torrie. And my ship was the only way out. Should I have left you there?”

  Her lips pursed. She shook her head.

  “So, no—no, you’re not a captive. The next port we are in we can send you safely home. Until then, you’re free to wander about the ship as you like, as long as you don’t get in the way of the men. But you’ll be sleeping in here.”

  Her look jerked to him. “What—why? No.”

  “Yes. As much as the men are under control, they’re men. And sailors. And you’re a woman. You’re to sleep in here.”

  “But I’m sure a hammock would do me fine. You have hammocks on a ship, correct? I don’t see why I cannot—”

  He leaned down, his face in front of hers, his voice brutal. “I’ll not argue this order with you. If you’re not in this room at dusk, I am finding you and dragging you in here. In front of all the men. You do it more than once and you will find yourself captive in this room.” His dark grey eyes skewered her through, reinforcing his order.

  Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She nodded.

  Better than he could hope for.

  He stood and held out the bottle of brandy to her. “I need you to drink this.”

  “Drink that? All of it? What is it?”

  “No, not all of it. But a few healthy swallows, and then some more. It’s brandy.”

  “Why?”

  “Great Zeus, must you question everything I utter?”

  “When you don’t give me reasons, yes.”

  He drew in a long breath, expelling it in an exaggerated sigh. “You’re going to want the numbness of it for what I have to do to your arm.”

  “What do you think to do to my arm?”

  “I think to sew the cut closed so it doesn’t become infected and kill you. I think to keep you alive, Torrie.”

  Her look flitted about the room. “You? You think to sew it? Isn’t there a doctor on board?”

  “You’re looking at the closest thing to one.”

  “No.” Her green eyes went wide. “But—truly—you think to sew my skin? My skin closed?”

  “Yes.” He nudged the bottle into her hand. “Now drink.”

  Her face had gone slightly pale, but she didn’t continue the argument. Instead, she lifted the lip of the bottle to her lips. One swallow. Two.

  She dropped the bottle to her lap, but then quickly lifted it for one more healthy drink. Her face scrunched as the fire of it slid down her throat.

  Roe stepped to the desk, took off his coat and draped it over the back of the chair, then rolled the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms. He unfurled a strip of linen, then refolded it, meticulously creasing the lines again and again as he stalled, waiting for the brandy in her belly to move to her head.

  Interesting that her speech changed the more she was aggravated—her Scottish lilt surfacing every time her ire was raised. Living in London must have washed most of Scotland out of her blood.

  She cleared her throat. “You said injuries had to happen—I hope no one was hurt?”

  He looked to her. “You were hurt. That was more than enough.”

  She shrugged, her left fingers tightening about the neck of the bottle. “Aside from me.”

  “Just those ruffians attacking you. And then the ones that thought to stop our escape.” He flicked his thumb upward to himself. “I took a blade to my shoulder and that’s what must have sliced you as well—it had to have nicked off of me and across your arm.”

  She looked down at the cut on her upper arm just above her elbow, using her pinky to pull at the skin about the wound. “Was yours deep as well?”

  “Enough.”

  She pointed to his shoulder. “Yet you didn’t have it sewn.”

  “I did.” He knew she wouldn’t believe him, so he pulled wide the gape of the white linen shirt he’d changed into, letting her see the ragged tear that cut in from the outer edge of his shoulder. Ten cross stitches of black thread tugged the skin closed.

  “Oh.” A deep-set frown pulled her face downward. “I do apologize for that.”

  “It is not a bother.”

  “Wait.” She moved to the edge of the bed, her bare feet dropping to touch the floorboards. “Who sewed you? That person can sew my wound as well. Your stitches look even enough.”

  “I did my own.”

  “You sewed up your own skin?”

  “Aye.”

  “You are left handed, then?”

  “Aye.”

  An exasperated exhale left her and she slumped slightly. “I am not about to escape this, am I?”

  “No.”

  Her left hand flitted in the air. “Let us get this done, then.”

  “We can wait longer for the brandy to seep to your head.”

  “I am fine.” She balanced the bottle of brandy on her skirts between her thighs and then tugged off her blue spencer, exposing the white muslin shirt layered beneath it. She curled her left forefinger under the rip of the sleeve in her shirt and yanked it downward. The muslin tore, ragged about her forearm, but fully exposing her arm and the wound to him.

  An extreme, but efficient motion. He’d torn her jacket and shirt only slightly to look at the cut, thinking it could be re-sewn. She clearly had no such thoughts on the matter.

  She held the bottle of brandy up to him.

  He took it and sopped the linen folded in his hand with it before moving to her. Pressing the brandy-soaked cloth to her wound, he pulled the skin about the cut wide so the alcohol could trickle deep into the wound.

  What should have caused an instant flinch of pain produced no more than a simple blink and a casual glance down at her arm.

  One step back and Roe deposited the cloth on the desk and picked up the needle and thread.

  He tied off one end of the thread as he moved back to Torrie, then dropped to his knees i
n front of her.

  His focus on threading the needle, he attempted to ignore the scent of her. Vanilla with a tinge of citrus. The scent that had haunted him for years, ever since it had wafted into his cell at Newgate.

  Thread secure in needle, he looked at her. “You are ready?”

  She shifted her arm forward, settling her wrist and forearm solidly onto her lap. “I am.”

  Roe set the tip of the needle to her skin, the point poking into her smooth flesh.

  He never paused at this point, just forged forward before the injured could jerk away, but with Torrie, he faltered as the tip of the needle indented her skin.

  “You do not need to worry on me.” Her words were calm, indifferent.

  He pushed the point of the curved needle through her skin, angling it to the opposite side of the wound. It broke free and he tugged it through quickly, his breath held.

  Not the slightest twitch from her. Not a quick breath. Not a sound.

  He drove the needle through her skin again.

  “You aren’t even flinching.”

  Her stare set on the far corner of the cabin, she didn’t afford him the slightest glance. “I’m accustomed to pain.”

  Another poke through her skin and he sealed the raw flesh further closed.

  Not a blink from her.

  “Too much pain, apparently.” He muttered the words as he sent the needle across the wound. Six more stitches and the angry red flesh disappeared.

  Not his best work. Her skin would heal with a curve and a pucker at the end. But he’d never been unnerved like that, having to hold his fingers steady against shaking. In the years since Doctor Lewis had taught him how to set bones and sew wounds shut in the bowels of Newgate, he’d never once faltered in the steadiness of his hands.

  Roe leaned back on his heels and stretched across the cabin to the desk, grabbing the brandy-soaked linen. He swiped it across the closed wound, wiping away the tapering fresh blood.

  Torrie lifted her arm, assessing the stitches. “They look even.”

  “They will suffice. The blood was running clean again so hopefully there is no infection. But tell me if your skin gets red and puffy. I’ll need to drain it before it becomes an issue.” He motioned to the strips of linen on the desk. “I don’t want to wrap it until the scab starts to form, though—the better to watch it.”