“Love,” she said without hesitation. “Love strong enough to defy the odds.”
“I like what you’re thinkin’,” he agreed. “Love above all else.”
For the next few hours, they put that new doctrine into practice through passionate kisses and touches. The rest of their life would be what they made of it, free of the constraints of those they’d considered kin.
They were a new family, without the stains of violence and vice.
They were Thatchers.
Epilogue
Deal, July 1836
Charlie had once believed that happiness was elusive, something only for the rich and the lucky. He’d never been either, and so he refused to wish for anything more than continuing to survive.
Yet as he stood on the little beach in front of their cottage on the shore of Deal, Charlie understood what happiness truly meant. It was not achieved through a thick purse, or the procurement of worldly goods. No, happiness came through the act of love—of being accepted, flaws and all, and in returning that understanding and devotion. It was that quiet whisper that had always been in the back of his mind, telling him that Mina had been made for him, and he for her. Fate, not hunger or random chance, had brought him to the steps of the King of Spades all those years ago.
Because they were happy, the two of them. Two quickly became three, for within one year, their first child was born, a beautiful daughter with Mina’s sable locks and his soulful eyes. Her name was Millie, and when Charlie looked at her he knew that every decision he’d ever made had been for this one purpose of producing something so lovely. He was not a perfect man—he had fought and bled and almost died, sometimes for honorable reasons and sometimes not. But his union with Mina had made him whole, and their daughter was a reminder of all that was good in life.
He stood on the beach, his palm raised to shade his eyes from the summer sun, looking out at all that was now his. Mina held onto Millie’s hand and raced down to the water’s edge. Their bare feet skimmed the sand, little pebbles scattering as they ran. Once they reached the sea, Mina hiked up her skirts with her free hand, dipping her feet in the water. Millie did not bother with such precautions—she hopped straight in, petticoats and full skirt quickly becoming sopping wet. Her gleeful shrieks reached his ears; the best damn sound he’d ever heard. He was awestruck every time she laughed, which she did often, for Millie had never known strife or hate.
And if Charlie had his way, she never would. Here, many miles away from the feud between the Kings and Chapman, they were safe. The gangs’ reach did not extend out this far. Few people knew where they were—Cyrus and Joaquin, Jane, and the O’Reilly clan. For the first few months after they fled, Nigel Donaldson had tried to find them, but his resources and duplicity were no match for the Mason brothers. His attempts at revenge upon Joaquin had been short-lived, for when the Metropolitan Police received an anonymous tip that the West London Life and Fire Assurance Company was advertising nonexistent capital and selling fraudulent policies, he fled England to avoid imprisonment.
The months passed quickly when one was actually enjoying life, instead of merely existing. Soon, three years had gone by since they left London—since he promised to be true to Mina always. Sometimes, in the silence of the night as she slept beside him and Millie lay in her crib, he missed London. All of its noise and the familiarity of it, for he’d always been a city boy. But those aches for the past never lasted long, and they grew less frequent as time went on, replaced by the joys of family and friends that did not expect blind fealty.
They’d built a new life here, in this little cottage by the seashore. Not a grand life like Mina had been raised for, but a good life. An honest life. He liked his work at the tavern down the road, and Mina had blossomed in her new roles as wife and mother. They had purpose, both of them. Goals and dreams and happiness.
“Charlie, come on!” Mina called, motioning for him to join them.
“Papa!” Millie exclaimed, waving her hands wildly.
He could never resist them. Though he had a hundred things to do before his shift tonight, he kicked off his boots and socks without hesitation. He bent down, rolling up his pants. Thus prepared, he took off down the beach, scooping Millie up in his arms. She squealed with joy, wrapping her arms around his neck in an all-encompassing hug. And this time when she laughed, he did too—the rich boom of his baritone voice blending with her high-pitched peals in glorious, albeit cacophonous, harmony. Through the waves they romped until it was time for him to go to work, and for Millie to eat dinner and go to sleep.
That night as he crawled in bed beside Mina, he said a silent prayer of thanks for the one thing he never thought he’d have: a home.
Acknowledgments
This book absolutely would not have made it into your hot little hands without the help of some very fine people. As with every book, I am eternally indebted to my critique partners, who not only help me by finding all the weird wrong words I’ve put in the wrong places (brain fog from fibromyalgia is fun times when you’re a writer), but who also fix my equally weird plot holes (I don’t have an excuse for that one, guys, I apparently leave giant holes in stories when I outline).
First and foremost, my deepest thanks go to Christina McKnight and Christy Carlyle, who read this book early, when it was in its raw, unedited format, and gave me amazing feedback.
Christina, you are a rock star with plot and characterization, and I am so, so very glad I picked you up from the orphanage and adopted you. You make me laugh with your lightning-quick wit, and somehow you manage to make me stick to task even though I hate anyone telling me what to do. This book would not have been finished without you. Thank you so much for all the texts, phone calls, and notes!
To Christy, I owe my sanity, basically. Thanks for being that quiet, determined voice in the back of my head that says “hey, you got this.” We’re totally different people, but man, I’m so glad to know you. You listen to me rant and rave, and then somehow you turn it into something that actually makes sense. Thanks for solving my problems when I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.
To Susanna Ives, thanks for your help figuring out what kind of fraudulent company Donaldson could run. And Isobel Carr, thanks for helping me figure out my gang territories. You saved me a ton of time spent aimlessly researching.
To Emma Locke, for always being my cheerleader. Thanks for being the eloquent voice when I can’t verbalize my emotions, and I’m a giant ball of curse words and rage. I hope you know how deeply I appreciate everything you do to make my life fabulous.
To my girls Kristine Wyllys and Ali Trotta, who’ve got my back no matter what. I’m so utterly blessed to know you both. Ali, your kindness astounds me, and I swear to God you are a real Disney princess. Kristy, you’re the fiercest person I’ve ever known, and knowing that you’re in my corner makes me feel unstoppable.
To my Daring Dames, thank you for always, always being enthusiastic, even when I’m yammering on for a two hour live chat that I’m still not sure why all y’all stayed for. You’ve got some questionable tastes (I jest, really), but I’m so thankful you call my little corner of the Internet home.
To my cover designer, Teresa Spreckelmeyer, who manages to take my “IDK GRITTY?” notes and always turns it into something that somehow manages to be both beautiful and suspenseful all at once.
To my editor, Meghan Hogue, who pretends she doesn’t mind when I blow through a deadline and come in way over word count. You’re a peach, and I’m very grateful for you.
To my friend Jessica Chapman, who sees the injustice in the world and immediately works to change it. You’re caring and considerate, and I appreciate you from the bottom of my black, bitter heart. Thanks for teaching me to play Magic and DND!
To my husband, for all the reasons. I could write an entire essay on all the ways you enrich my life and all of the wonderful things about you, Kev, but suffice to say you’re my everything.
And lastly, but never, ever least, to
my dearest friend, Eileen Richards, half second mom, half sister, half…I’ve added too many halves. You remind me that I can move mountains, if I’d just stop panicking. Your faith in me keeps me going, and I obviously cannot go a day without seeking your sage advice. I want to be YOU when I grow up.
Thank You for Reading
Out of all the books you could choose, thank you for picking up Stealing the Rogue’s Heart. I hope you’ll take a few minutes out of your day to review this book – your honest opinion is much appreciated. Reviews help introduce readers to new authors they wouldn’t otherwise meet.
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The Rookery Rogues
Stealing the Rogue’s Heart is the fourth book in The Rookery Rogues. While each book reads as a stand-alone, the series is best enjoyed in chronological order. Joined by the poorest neighborhoods in London, called rookeries, the heroes and heroines in this series defy social expectations and find love in the darkest of circumstances.
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A Dangerous Invitation (Kate and Daniel)
Secrets in Scarlet (Poppy and Thaddeus)
Beauty and the Rake (Abigail and Michael)
Stealing the Rogue’s Heart (Mina and Charlie)
Excerpt
Read on for an excerpt from
A DANGEROUS INVITATION
Rookery Rogues, Book 1
Purchase here
* * *
London, 1832
* * *
Kate Morgan’s neck prickled with awareness. Someone was following her.
It was not an unusual occurrence. As a fence for stolen goods living east of the City in tenement housing with more thieves than honest men, Kate had grown accustomed to being followed. They approached slowly, until she crossed the alley that divided Upper Shadwell from Broad Street, where the light from the lamps grew dim.
There they met her, thinking the darkness would give them sufficient cover to filch her valuables. That was their grave mistake.
She had nothing of value left.
Her pace was steady as she neared the alley, but her hand clenched around the worn wood handle of a Forsyth flintlock pistol. She breathed in deep, instantly regretting it when the sick smells of excrement and bodily fluids assaulted her senses.
She glanced over her shoulder discreetly and saw the tall, muscular frame of a man with a hat pulled down low on his brow. Without a lantern, she could not distinguish his exact features. She moved her finger to the trigger. The pistol was fully cocked and loaded.
His footsteps echoed in the alley. He made no pains to keep his presence unknown. When he was several yards away, Kate spun on her heel, lifting the gun upwards. She took a step back to lead him into the lamp glow that shone bright in a nearby window. If he would attack her, he must do it face to face, so that she could describe him to the Metropolitan Police. The Peelers had at least one use: there were more of them around than there had been of the old Watch.
No man would make a victim of her again.
She leveled the gun at the stranger’s chest. “I don’t want to shoot you.” Her voice was calm, even confident. In the past two and a half years, she’d learned to lie, to steal, and to brazen through the worst of situations. She’d had no other choice.
One more step forward, and she could see him clearly in the light.
The man stood his ground. Fear tightened her throat and she forced it down, until it was only a burning sensation in her stomach. Like every other useless emotion, fear was meant to be mastered.
He stood in front of the window, his damnably handsome features on display for her. Doffing his hat, he carded a hand through his short ginger hair, a gesture as familiar to her as the soothing weight of her pistol. His wide forehead was creased with worry, strong jaw set with determination. His straight nose led down to lips reddened from the cold.
“Kate.” His voice sent a shiver up her spine. A hint of a brogue, mottled with thicker country English, like he’d been raised by Irish immigrants.
It could not be Daniel.
He had fled London three years ago. Surely, he’d not be foolish enough to return. One hint of his whereabouts and the Peelers would be out for his blood.
“I won’t hold you accountable if you shot me.” His gaze never left her gun, green eyes wide.
Her heart pounded in her ears, every part of her body awakened by his presence. She didn’t meet his eyes, instead letting her gaze travel down from his face to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He was lanky and well-built like a bar brawler, with powerful hands that had once brought forth the most salacious of moans from her lips.
Powerful hands that an eyewitness claimed had been used to slit a man’s throat with such force that it ripped out his esophagus and severed his windpipe. Those hands were currently raised, unarmed, in supplication. But Kate knew better: a man could secret away many weapons on his body.
With Daniel, his greatest weapon had always been the destruction he wreaked upon her carefully ordered existence.
“Put down your barking iron, love. I’m not going to hurt you. I only want to talk.” He placed his hat back on his head.
She narrowed her eyes. “There is nothing you could do to me that you haven’t already done.” Her hold on the gun shook and she quickly steadied it.
“While shooting me might be justifiable, it’d make a hellish mess…” A small smile creased his lips, an attempt at a joke she didn’t appreciate.
Kate lowered the gun but left it cocked. Stubbornly, she held on to that last defense. She tried to make herself believe she would fire on him―if the need arose.
She should be furious. Enough to want to shoot him, for if anyone in England deserved shooting it was Daniel O’Reilly. She should want to do anything but fling herself in his arms, crush up against his chest, and press her lips to his to see if they still fit so wondrously against hers.
This, like everything else, was a situation that could be met with order and rationality.
Kate tapped the butt of the pistol against her leg. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m proving to you that I didn’t kill Tommy Dalton.”
So simple, so direct, she almost believed him. As if the years were nothing and losing him hadn’t torn her carefully arranged world apart. But things had changed, and she couldn’t stand across him from as the besotted girl she’d been, desperate for his love and willing to do anything for him.
“Three years I’ve waited for you to bloody come back,” she hissed. “I thought you’d died, Daniel. For so many nights, I imagined you lying in a ditch off Brighton Road, with nobody to identify your body. I can’t come back from that.”
“I’m sorry. I thought if I left―” He stopped. Bit his lip, like he’d done whenever he wasn’t certain of something.
He damn well better not be sure of what they were to each other. She’d gone through too much to get him out of her head, too much to let him back in only to hurt her again.
Her eyes narrowed. “You should have stayed if you were innocent.”
“I know.”
Was that guilt in his tone? He tugged on his hat brim, pulling it lower over his eyes until it was a mourning shroud. Did he grieve the time lost, the life he could have had with her if he hadn’t been so foxed? Maybe he would have remembered more about the murder and proven to the police he wasn’t guilty.
No, he couldn’t regret the past. Because a repentant man―a caring man―would have reached out to her again.
She sunk back into anger, her voice rising with each question. “If you knew you were wrong to leave, why didn’t you come back? How am I supposed to believe in your innocence when you escape transport to Newgate? When you don’t write?”
He held a hand up to stop her. “Please, quiet your voice.”
“Why should I? Because this isn’t good and proper for you?” She spat the words out, refusing to lessen her volume. “Because someone might find you? God forbid, you finally face the Met’s officers.
”
“Do you truly believe I could have slit that man’s throat?” His voice broke.
No. The local constable had an eyewitness to the murder. But here she stood across from Daniel, and part of her wanted to fall back against him and never be alone again. Even if being with him meant she’d lose everything she’d worked for―a life where she answered to no one.
His eyes never left her face, as if memorizing the contours. She fought the urge to cover her face with her hand. In the lamplight, every imperfection was on display. Time had not been kind to her. When he fled, she’d been on the cusp of the lowest levels of the ton, almost accepted but not quite. She had worn tailored silk, not a secondhand dress from the rag shops in Field Lane, originally made for a woman on a better diet than scraps.
Kate didn’t know who she hated most: the spoiled woman she had been then, the harridan she currently was, or Daniel.
She stepped back from him. “It doesn’t matter what I believe.”
“It matters to me,” he pleaded.
“You know, the Peelers interviewed me after you fled.” She ran her finger along the handle of her gun, tracing the inlaid roses. The pattern was familiar, but a comfortable familiar, one that did not fling her headfirst into a strange abyss like his presence. “They dredged up every bit of our past, told me all about finding you with that warehouse laborer’s corpse, and all I could think about was how we were supposed to be married. We were supposed to be happy.”
Happiness was illusive. It didn’t come to ruined women like her.
“I never lied to you. I’ve done many wretched things, but I never once lied to you.” His voice dipped lower, gentle and intimate, a caress to the tired parts of her soul that had ached to hear such confessions.
When a Rogue Falls Page 27
