Falling for the Highland Rogue

by Ann Lethbridge

  She closed her eyes briefly to break the spell of a gaze that seemed to see all the way through her with a blinding purity.

  Unsettling thought. Horrifying, when she inspected her own darkly stained soul. A dark twisted creature from a Gothic novel, drawn to his light like the proverbial moth to a flame and the inevitable burning of wings.

  One more such singeing and she’d float away as ashes.

  Purity? Even as she mulled over the word, she dismissed it out of hand. No male of the species deserved the adjective. No matter how handsome. For all their talk of honour, beneath their coats of superfine and bright white linen, their hearts were black as night.

  The coach halted at the front door of their hotel and she shook Jack awake. His eyes were shadowed, but his lips curved cruelly as he focused. She cursed her cowardice. If she’d not made him leave so early, he would not be nearly so wide awake.

  ‘Let us have champagne, shall we?’ she murmured in sultry tones. ‘To celebrate your winnings.’

  His gaze dropped to her breasts. ‘Aye. Champagne first.’ He grabbed her and hauled her towards him so she landed hard on his chest, his hand pressing her fingers against his arousal. Winded, she stared up into his square face with its cruel thin lips, hawkish nose and cold blue eyes. ‘And then you can play me a tune with that pretty mouth of yours.’

  A shudder rippled down her spine. It was a jest, but like all Jack’s jibes it carried the edge of a threat. Something he couldn’t help. A habit. Swallowing the bile of revulsion, she retreated behind her wall of ice, presenting a false smile that masked her inner turmoil. A drunk Jack was a dangerous man. And if she couldn’t avoid him...she’d do what she had to do. This was business. And the path to freedom to live life the way she wanted.

  Only a fool let a pair of pretty green eyes and a jaunty open face melt a hole in hard-won defences. To remind herself where she stood, she gazed up at the man who held her future in his hands and smiled. ‘Not before I offer you a toast.’

  She freed herself from his grip with a light laugh and descended the steps to the path.

  Arm in arm they walked inside, his grip possessive as if he sensed her fear. It would not be wise for Jack to sense fear. It always brought out the worst and winning had stirred his appetites, something she usually managed to avoid. Their relationship was all about business. Nothing else. But it did not mean she could relax her guard. A couple more drinks beside the fire and he would fall asleep. If she was lucky.

  She closed her eyes and once again saw those clear green eyes gazing at her with awe. It was as if he somehow saw her how she had been, not how she was.

  Damn him.

  * * *

  The next evening, to his surprise, Logan found himself in very different surroundings and company.

  ‘Well, brat,’ Sanford said, squinting at him through eyes already fogged with the effects of wine at dinner followed by several bumpers of whisky. Such a dandy, this Sanford. Blue-eyed, pale, delicately built, his fair hair carefully ordered, his linen white and crisp. Logan wouldn’t be surprised if the young lordling spent as many hours at his toilette as did most women.

  ‘If this is the best entertainment Auld Reekie has to offer,’ Sandford continued, ‘I can see I am in for a great deal of dullness over the next week or two.’

  Sanford was an acquaintance of Lady Selina, his brother’s wife. The Sassenach lord was part of a contingent of gentlemen preparing for the King’s upcoming visit to Scotland. He had invited Logan to dine at The New Club in Princes Street, Scotland’s finest gentleman’s club. From here there was an excellent view of the castle. For some reason, Logan had been intrigued by the idea of seeing the inside of the place. So much so, he’d borrowed an evening coat from his brother Niall.

  Sanford was right. It was as stuffy inside as it was imposing outside.

  He shrugged. ‘Edinburgh has it all. High or low. Drinking. Gambling. Women.’ Perhaps he could leave the lordling at the nearest brothel.

  ‘Definitely low,’ Sanford said with a sardonic twist to his mouth. He brushed at the sleeve of his immaculate black coat. ‘A little drinking and gambling wouldn’t go amiss, if the stakes are right.’

  As far as Logan could see, Sanford had too much of the former and was ripe for the plucking at the latter. But he wasn’t the man’s keeper. He’d run into Sanford by chance and been swept into the young dandy’s orbit like a stray asteroid. He rather wished he’d been rude and ignored the man when he’d heard himself hailed on the Royal Mile earlier in the day. He’d intended to unload the Sassenach right after dinner.

  Apparently not. He swallowed a sigh. ‘I’ve an appointment at the Reiver in Old Town just off The Lawn Market. There’s gambling to be had there.’ And women. A particular dark-eyed beauty. A high flyer to whom he’d responded on a visceral level. And was still responding to, damn it all. He shifted in his chair.

  Sanford lifted his quizzing glass and observing the men seated around the baize tables playing whist and faro. ‘As long as it’s for more than a few pennies a point.’

  ‘I’m no a gambler myself.’ Logan got more than enough excitement pitting wits against excisemen, ‘but from what I saw, the play looked deep enough. And if you are looking for low, you canna do better than the wynds of Old Town Edinburgh.’

  Jamie arched one fair brow, his lips curving in a cynical smile. ‘It sounds like my kind of place.’

  They left the club, Logan leading the way through the tenements and closes of the streets crowding at the foot of the castle. The evening was warm, which meant the usually dense air of Auld Reekie was breathable, though, of course, fires were always needed for kitchens so the air was never completely fresh. He dove into Ridell’s Court where Archie’s tavern hunkered at the end, the light from its windows gleaming off the muck in the runnels. He ushered his guest inside.

  Sanford lifted his quizzing glass at the occupants of the taproom, some engaged in dominoes or a rubber of whist with tankards of ale in their hands. ‘Hardly a hive of vice,’ he said mildly.

  ‘This way,’ Logan said and took the stairs down to the cellars, into the noise and the smoke.

  As he left the bottom step, his gaze went straight to the table beside the hearth. Not there. He should be glad. But he was not. He was disappointed.

  He shook his head at himself. At the strange longing to see her again. He was not in the petticoat line, he had enough excitement in his life, and nor could he afford such a high flyer, even if he wanted her.

  But want her he did. In the worst way. Not something he needed to be thinking about now or at any other time. Wanting was one thing, having was quite another.

  With a judicious shove here and an elbow in a rib there, he secured them a place at the bar.

  Archie grinned at him. ‘Back already, is it then? Do you have word for me?’ His gaze slid to Sanford, who was idly looking around him.

  Logan shook his head in warning. ‘Just visitin’. An ale for me and a whisky for my friend.’ He gave Archie a hard stare. ‘The good stuff, mind.’

  Archie served up the drinks. After a quick look at Sanford, he leaned over the counter to speak in a low voice. ‘There’s a man asking after you. A gent from London.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Aye. He’s against the back wall behind the pillar. Ye noticed his woman yesterday.’ Archie leered.

  Logan’s heart stilled in his chest. He forced himself not to look. ‘Did I now?’

  ‘You did.’

  Casually, he glanced past Sanford and over the heads of the men standing at the bar. He saw them now. The table squeezed into a corner far from the hearth. And there she was. In a gown the colour of blood, her lips painted to match. The colour made her skin look like snow. Against his will, his body tightened. He forced himself to look past her, to the man at her side, the big brawny fellow with a chero
ot clenched in his teeth and a pile of gold coins at his elbow. The man she’d helped to his feet the previous evening. And behind them a ruffian with a face flattened by more than a few fists.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘O’Banyon,’ Archie said. ‘And that’s his doxy.’

  Logan bristled at the word even as he acknowledged the truth of it. He nudged Sanford in the ribs. ‘If you are looking for high stakes, I would say that’s your man.’

  Sanford’s seemingly bleary blue eyes sharpened for a moment, taking in the Irishman and the play. He shook his head. ‘Not me. I’m no green boy, my friend. I have no desire to fatten the pockets of a Captain Sharp.’

  ‘You know him?’ Logan asked as Archie moved away to serve another customer.

  ‘Runs Le Chien Rouge in town. Where the play is deep and the women deeper. A place where a man can indulge in every kind of vice imaginable.’ His smile was self-mocking.

  ‘And the woman?’ Hell, why had he asked?

  Sanford raised his quizzing glass and took his time perusing the lass. Logan kept his gaze focused on Sanford, aware he was holding his breath, but unable to do anything about it. ‘Quite the piece, ain’t she. And as hard as nails, I’d wager.’ He dropped the glass and looked at Logan. He raised a brow.

  Logan shrugged.

  ‘Ah,’ Sanford said, amusement pulling at his mouth. ‘I see a couple of gentlemen over there who will give me a chair at their table.’ He nodded to the middle of the room where a dandy was waving. ‘You are welcome to tag along.’

  Logan shook his head, astonished at the thunder of his heart in his ears that blocked out the noise around him and the sudden unexpected dryness in his throat. He hadn’t felt like this since the first night he’d taken to the trade. ‘I’ll take my chances, yonder.’

  ‘You are a fool if you do,’ Sanford said with an indifferent lift of one shoulder.

  Aye. Perhaps he was. But his idiocy had nothing to do with the depth of the play and everything to do with the lady in red. But then what could he do?

  O’Banyon was the man Ian had sent him to Edinburgh to meet.

  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 dev
il-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.