A Woman Made For Sin

by Michele Sinclair

  Chase felt his body grow cold. “Specifically, just what guidance did you give your daughter?”

  “Nothing specific. Just hinted that she should not wait for you but take the initiative to fix whatever issues are between you. In other words, I believed I had persuaded her to return to you in London.”

  “When did she leave for London?” Chase asked far too calmly. Most men would have begun to quiver in the face of Chase’s ire, but not Aldon. The man had a phlegmatic air about him, but he was made of iron. There was no bend. And he had made it clear that he believed Chase, not he, was at fault for Millie’s decision not to return home.

  “She did not leave directly for London. A week ago, she left for Gent Manor to visit a friend. She was to depart from there.”

  Chase took the glass of port being handed to him and followed his father-in-law’s guidance, downing it in one swallow. It stung the back of his throat, but it helped to revive his body, which had temporarily gone numb.

  Millie was at Jennelle’s. Jennelle had told him that she believed Aimee to be with Reece, and must have convinced Millie of the same. That left Chase as the sole topic of their conversations. And Jennelle had been so angry at his treatment of Millie that he would not be surprised to learn it was she—not Millie—behind his wife’s silence.

  “Aldon, I had intended to leave this afternoon for Dorset, but those plans have obviously changed. Do you mind if I stay and leave in the morning?”

  “Think that would be best. You are going to need a good night’s sleep before you tackle what awaits you in Tarrant Crawford.”

  Chase had little expectation of sleeping much, but his father-in-law was correct. Tomorrow was going to be a long day of dealing with two angry women, but he would recover. And most importantly, he would recover in the loving arms of his wife.

  “Clive, I need a glass of the Glenturret,” Millie said, trying to keep her voice low enough that only Clive would hear.

  She looked back over her shoulder and sighed in relief as the second-to-last group of men rose to their feet and left the tavern. The remaining lot continued their focus on Bessie, who in turn focused solely on them in an effort to elicit a higher tip.

  Clive slid a glass toward her and Millie cringed as she lifted it to inspect it. “Do you own any glasses that do not endanger men when they drink from them?” she asked, pointing to a chip in the side that looked exceedingly sharp and hazardous.

  Clive gave her what he hoped to be a menacing glare and snatched the glass from her hand. He poured the contents into another glass and shoved it back toward her. “Here.”

  Millie’s eyes stared at the obvious dirty smudge marks. Then with a small shrug, she offered him a sweet smile that caused Clive to smile back before he realized what he was doing. Millie then turned and caught Devlin openly studying her. Refusing to act flustered under his open stare, she walked over to where he sat and handed him his drink.

  Devlin took it and placed it on the small table to his left. “Why don’t you bring another drink over and join me?” he said, waving his hand to one of the empty chairs. “I’ll cover the expense with Clive.”

  Millie looked longingly at the empty chairs haphazardly scattered about her. Her feet hurt and the idea of sitting down, even for a few minutes, was very appealing. Even the idea of a drink sounded good. From the moment they knew it was forbidden, she and Aimee and Jennelle had snuck down to their fathers’ studies to drink scotch, brandy, and even gin. Millie had done so out of principle, Aimee had asserted it was to understand her dear Reece better, and Jennelle had proclaimed her actions to be in the interests of research. But whatever the reason, they all continued sneaking tastes whenever they could, until one day they realized they were not only acquainted with the flavors—they enjoyed them.

  “Sit,” Devlin softly ordered. “It’s uncomfortable watching a woman make love with her eyes to a piece of furniture instead of me.”

  Flames erupted in Millie’s purple gaze as it snapped to his, but she clamped her lips closed just in time. Instead of lecturing him on the improprieties of making vulgar comments to women, she marched over and grabbed the back of the nearest chair and turned it so that it was close to Devlin’s, facing the fire.

  Devlin chuckled as he watched her gracefully sink onto the hard surface. Under his breath, he said, “Try slouching a little.”

  Millie shot him another glare as she quickly caught his meaning. Just as she had deduced his background, he suspected hers. And now he was baiting her. With a slight raise to her right brow, she gave him a long, steady look. Then she reached down, pulled up the hem of her dress, and gave in to the urge to massage her calves and ankles—something no proper woman would ever do. Millie was lost to the sensation for several minutes, only to have her annoyance renewed at finding Devlin grinning at her when she at last reopened her eyes.

  “You definitely need a drink,” Devlin said firmly as he shifted in his seat in an effort to rise.

  Millie eyed the pale liquid in the filthy glass on the table next to her and shook her head. “No, thank you, Mr. MacLeery. The glass is unclean.”

  Devlin sat back and gave her a saucy grin, amused by her propriety. “Take it. It’s yours. I still have a bit left of this one to enjoy,” he said, lifting another semi-full glass and swirling it around.

  Millie smiled back, realizing that Devlin was assuming that she was curious, not knowledgeable about the taste of whiskey. She glanced at the drink but unable to help herself, she wrinkled her nose once more at the dirty glass.

  “Ah, lass, that only adds to the earthy taste of a good scotch.”

  Millie’s gaze shifted from the scotch to Devlin. He was toying with her. His eyes were a much more brilliant shade of green than she had previously realized. With his dark features and austere countenance, he was not a pretty man, but she suspected he could attract practically any of her sex without much effort. Oh, yes, he was definitely playing with her. Why, she did not know, but it removed all guilt about her decision to try to pry information out of him.

  Millie picked up the glass and held it for a moment before saying, “A drink for a question.”

  Devlin sat back and intertwined his fingers. “I agree,” he said readily.

  To Millie, too readily, but nevertheless, she lifted the glass to her lips and took a long swallow, closing her eyes as if she enjoyed savoring the flavor on her tongue. “Mmm. This is very, very good.”

  Devlin sat back and let go a small snort, once again feeling surprised and more than slightly attracted to the woman who called herself Ellie. “Interesting.”

  “Many women enjoy scotch,” Millie countered with a slight shrug. “Especially those who work in taverns such as these.”

  Devlin winked at her and shook his head. “But they cannot recognize good whiskey from average. Neither would a mere governess have knowledge of such things.”

  Millie took another small sip to hide the shot of anxiety that ran through her. “Alas, unfortunately for you, our agreement never included answering your questions.”

  Devlin smiled and pulled his left ankle to sit upon his right knee. He knew Clive suspected Ellie to have been a kept woman. And while it was possible, having been with several—including some who were quite expensive—Devlin was positive Ellie was not one of them. Ellie lacked the jaded look they all carried. And even if she had just begun her life as a courtesan, he just could not believe the petite beauty in front of him would settle for being kept on the side, receiving leftover affections as it suited someone else. So if she was not a governess, nor a courtesan, that left only one other option. Like him, she had not just lived among the upper class. She was one of them.

  “Then ask your question.”

  He watched her purple eyes in fascination as she rehearsed the question in her mind before asking it. “Why do you own a gambling establishment when you despise the occupation?” Devlin knew that she had assumed much about him, but how she had come to such accurate conclusions was irksome. He l
ooked back at Clive.

  “Clive said nothing,” Millie said, seeing where his mind was heading. “It is the way you look at the emblem on your handkerchief—pride mixed with what appears to be hatred.”

  Devlin swallowed and forced his features to look relaxed and unconcerned. But he had not realized until now that just as he had been studying her, she had been scrutinizing him as well. “Perhaps I have a passion for gambling.”

  Millie squinted her eyes in disbelief. “Mr. MacLeery, an honest drink deserves an honest answer.”

  Devlin leaned forward, bringing him within a foot of her. He could see that such nearness made her uncomfortable, but Ellie refused to pull back. He wished it were because she was attracted to him. “You and I both know each other to be liars, but I will give you the truth. I am not a gambler, nor have I ever been nor will be.”

  That Millie did believe. Devlin MacLeery was not a gambler. His voice cracked with hatred at the very subject. Still, he had told her nothing more than what she already knew. “While I delight in free information, I am still waiting for the answer I purchased.”

  Devlin grimaced, acknowledging she was correct. He had not answered her question. He could lie, but untruths bothered him. He preferred dodging and hedging truths. “I do not like gamblers. But I need money and rather enjoy the idea of relieving foolish men of theirs.”

  Millie decided that she could drink a whole bottle of scotch, but nothing more on that subject would be volunteered by Devlin. “Did you grow up in Scotland? At your ancestral home?”

  Devlin’s face hardened and he closed his eyes. She had changed topics, but not for the better. “Aye,” he answered, preparing himself for questions about his home, family, and place of birth.

  “I always wanted to go there.”

  “We could go to Gretna Green tonight. Just give me a moment to call for my coach.”

  Millie rolled her eyes playfully. “Such a tempting proposal when put such a way, but I cannot.”

  Devlin licked his lips and studied her face. Cannot she had said. Not will not. He had called them both liars and he meant it. But they also loathed to lie, and therefore did it sparingly. Truth to Ellie’s real identity just might be buried in every comment. He just needed to read between the lines and find the truth.

  “I suspect if you came back home with a new English bride you met working in a tavern, your family would be more than a little upset.”

  “You’re right about that,” Devlin confirmed before taking a large gulp from his own glass. “Still, you would look good in Drumindaloch.”

  Millie blinked. She knew the names of the castles of only a handful of clans. And Drumindaloch was one. It was the very castle that Mother Wentworth had left to visit nearly six weeks ago. “You are not of the MacLeerys,” she whispered, “you actually are a MacLeery.”

  Devlin froze. MacLeery was not a common name, but then neither was it uncommon. In all the years he had made London his home and spent time with nobles, not a one had ever deduced just how closely he was related to the chieftain of their clan. Then again, he had never mentioned Drumindaloch castle. Still, how many would know the name of a castle that was in much need of repair and belonged to a clan with little power? Very few—and that included the nobles who had known his grandfather, before his father took over and with his gambling ruined their family in every way thinkable.

  His curiosity was shifting to something else. Just who exactly was Ellie? And if Ellie knew what hardly a soul outside of where he lived in Scotland knew of his clan and his home, just what else did she know about his family? Did she know his father tried to rectify his repeated losses by forcing a horrific marriage to a wealthy woman on his only son? She may know of his refusal, but whoever Ellie was, she did not know his real reasons. Devlin would have done his duty and married his wealthy neighbor’s purportedly malevolent daughter, except he knew his father would only spend his wife’s money as well. Only when his father was dead did Devlin intend to return.

  There was noise in the background, but the silence between them was growing. Devlin finally said, “So if you know who I am, then you know why I cannot go home, but I cannot fathom why you cannot return to yours. Why is that?”

  For a second, he saw her eyes grow large before they returned to their normal kind but curious expression. Still, it was enough for him to realize that he had guessed correctly: It was not that she did not want to; she could not. Ellie was afraid of the idea of going home, and it was that fear which kept her from going back. Fear of whom? Just who was she running away from? If she was gentry, an abusive husband would send her into the arms of friends and family—not here. Perhaps she had done something illegal. And yet Clive had relayed how she had been quite vehement in her assertion that the law was not after her. But that didn’t mean the law was not involved.

  Devlin swallowed as he realized just what could send a gentleman’s daughter to this life. Ellie had not done wrong, but she was hiding from someone who had. There had been a lot of murders of nobles the past Season. Had she witnessed something that placed her in danger? Was that why she was here—a place no one from the upper class would look?

  A rush of protectiveness suddenly overcame him. He wished he could take back his flippant comment about Gretna Green and propose the idea more seriously. He could protect her then. He could remove her from this life and give her one to which she was accustomed. He certainly had the funds. As the idea started to take shape, Devlin found it more and more appealing. Ellie was far more than just beautiful. She had a wild spirit that spoke to his.

  “But I do go home. To a very nice one. Every night,” Millie said, interrupting his thoughts.

  It was Devlin’s turn to narrow his eyes in disbelief. “We both know your destiny was not meant for the Thames.”

  “Neither was yours.”

  “Aye, but whoever cast you out should be shot.”

  Millie shook her head, then drank the last of the scotch and put the glass on the small table. “Unlike you, I deserve to be here. I doubt that you do. Otherwise you would not look so—”

  “Defeated?”

  “No,” Millie countered softly. “I would say sad. As if the only way to preserve your honor was to leave.”

  Devlin looked into his empty glass, wishing it was full to the brim. Ellie understood him. It was as if their souls recognized each other. He thought his destiny had been ripped from him seven years ago, but had God sent him another? “You guess correctly. I was banished.”

  Millie sighed. Of all the things she understood, being cast out of your home was something she knew all too keenly. “I too was asked to leave my home.”

  Devlin blinked. Did he just hear her right? “You aren’t hiding from someone?”

  The idea that she was hiding from someone puzzled Millie and she shook her head.

  “So you came here? You had no other options but working at a tavern?” he blurted out with obvious disbelief.

  Millie felt the need to defend herself. “While I have no desire to be found, I came here intentionally, Mr. MacLeery. I . . .” Millie swallowed and decided that if she were ever going to get his help in finding Aimee, then he would need to know at least something about why she was there. “I . . . am looking for something.”

  Devlin cocked his brow, encouraging her to continue.

  Millie swallowed again. “Do you know which ship has a green and white pinnace?”

  Devlin blinked at the very unexpected and extremely odd question. Was that what happened? Did the man she love leave her? Was she trying to chase after him? He looked at her and realized she was waiting for an answer. “I do not.”

  The hope he saw stirring in her lavender eyes faded away and Devlin felt his heart wrench.

  Millie rose to her feet and clasped her hands in front of her. “Thank you, Mr. MacLeery, for your time and the drink. If by chance you ever do learn of the ship’s name, would you let me know?”

  “Of course,” Devlin responded, wishing he had something else
to say.

  He watched her walk away and begin to tidy up the near-empty tavern, vowing to learn exactly who owned a green and white pinnace and why such a fact would have great meaning to a beauty who was slowly taking over his heart.

  Chapter 18

  October 27, 1816

  It was the early morning hours before Aimee realized what JP’s parting comment had meant. Maybe something or someone will convince the captain to change his mind. He could have only been meaning her. She was the someone who needed to change Reece’s mind about sequestering her for the rest of the trip. But how?

  Aimee glanced at the door. If she truly put her mind to it, she suspected she could convince Hurlee to let her out. However, it would be her one and only chance. Reece would barricade her in and not risk using his men again as guards. So whatever she planned to do, the end result had better resolve things between them once and for all.

  Aimee began to pace. How was she going to convince Reece to let her out and mingle with the crew? The idea seemed impossible in his current state of mind. Why did men have to become so soppy at the idea of a woman getting hurt? Chase was practically nauseating, the way he worried over Millie. Unfortunately, that was not the primary reason Reece was keeping her inside this cabin. Not fear of her getting hurt, but fear of her getting to his men—and most of all, to him.

  Aimee stopped in midstride and began to tap her finger against her chin. She was thinking about this all wrong. Her freedom was a byproduct of what she had been seeking in the first place—a claim to Reece’s heart. She did not need to convince him to let her out, but that he loved her. This voyage was her one chance. If she had not secured his love by the time they reached Savannah, it would never happen. For once they arrived, he would quickly put her on another ship, and any future opportunities to be alone with him would vanish.