by Lucy Ashford
She became conscious of rough-looking people assessing her from open doors, of the smells of greasy cooking and ale from the various taverns. Her heart missed a beat. Time, most definitely, to go. She turned to head back to Bishopsgate, where the street would be busy with shoppers and the atmosphere less menacing. Suddenly, she heard footsteps coming up behind her. And a hand grabbed her arm.
‘Now, what may you be wantin’?’ a rough male voice demanded. ‘Some kind of charity lady, are yer?’
She spun round to see a small but fierce-looking individual in a tattered soldier’s uniform, his whole demeanour made even more sinister by the black eyepatch he wore. A big golden dog hovered close to him, growling softly. And soon there were more men looking her suspiciously up and down, men who’d been loitering outside the ominous building known as Two Crows Castle.
Despite her apprehension, she couldn’t help but gasp, ‘How many of you are there in that place?’
‘None of your damned business, pardon my French,’ Eyepatch said tersely. ‘I’ll let you off with a piece of advice—don’t go stickin’ yer ladylike little nose into other folks’ affairs. Now, be off with you!’ The dog barked in agreement.
In the circumstances, it seemed sensible to do precisely what he said, but at least a dozen ragged men had come to crowd round her in a distinctly menacing sort of manner. They were big. They were blocking her path. Rosalie’s heart was thumping hard. You idiot, coming here alone …
‘I’ll be on my way just as soon as you let me pass!’ she said, rather faintly.
She felt acute relief as the men slowly stepped aside.
Then Eyepatch said, ‘Wait. What’ve you got in that bag of yours?’
Rosalie swallowed. ‘It’s empty. I’ve just been delivering something, and now I really must go.’
‘Empty, eh? Let’s just have a little look-see.’
Eyepatch was drawing closer. Rosalie looked round desperately for help that clearly wasn’t going to arrive. She’d remembered that her bag wasn’t quite empty, after all. Grasping it tightly, she turned to run. But her long cloak hampered her and suddenly Crispin Street was alive with scowling ruffians, appearing from every doorway, every alley, from the walls themselves, it seemed. Could things get any worse?
They could, and they did. She dropped her bag and saw it fall open. Oh, fiddlesticks. Yet more men gathered, and Rosalie whirled round, her heart pounding painfully. The lethal piece of paper that had fluttered from her bag was drifting towards the gutter; one of the men snatched at it and gave it to Eyepatch.
Rosalie, feeling a little faint, saw Eyepatch scowling at it. Not The Scribbler, but a few notes she’d been jotting down in the cab—ideas for her next article. Something not intended for public scrutiny anywhere, let alone here. What a tumble, as Ro Rowland would say.
‘Please give that to me,’ she said rather weakly. She was fervently hoping the ruffian wouldn’t be able to read.
‘No, hold on,’ said Eyepatch, ‘this looks interesting.’ And slowly he began to decipher her scrawled notes, while his companions gathered round.
‘Your fellow about town wants today to draw your attention to the scandalous practice of rackrenting. Rackrenting?’ He lifted his head to glare at her. ‘Who wrote this?’
‘Just somebody—well, it’s me! I—I amuse myself, during carriage rides, by writing things down, silly things—’ She tried to grab the sheet back, to no avail.
He hung on to it grimly. Started again. ‘Scandalous practice of rackrenting. What is truly—truly—’ Eyepatch broke off. ‘Can’t read the rest of this flummery.’
Thank God for that.
But there was no reprieve. For someone else—a big, redheaded man—was announcing, in a broad Scottish accent, ‘Awa’ with ye, Garrett, I can read the rest. It says, “What is truly shameful is that many of those who are thus exploited are former soldiers, forced to live in squalor at a place called Two Crows Castle …”’
The dog barked. They were all pressing around her again. Eyepatch looked at her with his one eye. ‘Exploited? By God, we ain’t exploited here at Two Crows Castle. We don’t like people who write filthy lies about our Captain, do you hear? As he’ll tell you himself—’cos he’s on his way right now!’
Her heart, she was sure, had stopped beating. The Captain?
Don’t be a fool, Rosalie. There must be dozens of ex-army Captains in town. Nevertheless she pulled down her veil as far as it would go, until she felt like a blinkered horse with a fly-gauze over its face.
Just in time.
For at that very moment, the crowd was parting to let someone through. A man who was saying, ‘What in the devil’s name is going on, Garrett? And—what’s that damned dog still doing here?’
At the sound of that husky male voice, her heart sank to the soles of her little laced boots. No. No. It can’t be …
Eyepatch had for some reason shoved the dog out of sight. ‘This woman, Captain,’ he was saying importantly, ‘she’s come ‘ere bold as brass, with a pack of filth about this place, and about you!’
The bruise on his cheek had darkened since last night. Otherwise he looked just the same, in that loose grey overcoat that hung carelessly open over his tight buckskin breeches and dusty riding boots. And, hands on his lean hips, he was just watching her, with those hard eyes in which, today, there was no hint of the humour or kindness that he had allowed her to glimpse last night. He took the sheet Eyepatch thrust at him, absorbing her brief but lethal jottings swiftly; then he said levelly to Rosalie, ‘Well, madam? Are you or are you not responsible for this pack of lies?’
She prayed fervently for the ground to open up and swallow her. He must be the rackrenter. The owner of Two Crows Castle. The man whom she’d allowed, to her eternal shame, to kiss her last night. All she could hope was that, in her spinsterly garb, he would continue not to recognise her. And it was too late, now, for denial; she just had to brazen this out.
‘Lies?’ She lifted her veiled face to boldly meet his dark gaze. ‘Perhaps you just cannot stomach the truth!’
Eyepatch gave a nasty leer. ‘Oh, you’re a brave ‘un, to challenge the honour of Alec Stewart, the best swordsman in town!’
Oh, my God. This time she really did feel the blood freeze in her veins. ‘Did you say—Alec Stewart?’
The Captain surveyed her, still clearly puzzled by her veiled visage. ‘That’s me all right,’ he said narrowly.
And horror—nausea—shook her.
For the name Linette had breathed as she lay dying was—Alec Stewart.
Chapter Seven
Alec had been up and about early, for he’d had appointments to keep. But he’d arrived back at Two Crows Castle to find the place in utter uproar, because of some sanctimonious lady do-gooder. Alec read those scribbled notes Garrett had handed him with dawning disbelief. ‘The scandalous practice of rackrenting … rapacious landlords … Two Crows Castle …’
Hell and damnation!
Well, the charity lady who’d penned this heap of lies had made one mighty bad mistake. She hadn’t run fast enough. Alec’s men were holding her tight; as he tried to scan her face, which was all but hidden by a truly hideous bonnet and veil, Alec began to feel sheer shock coursing through his veins.
‘Take off that bonnet,’ he grated at her.
‘No! I won’t!’ The slender captive was struggling again in Garrett and Ackroyd’s strong grip.
Alec walked up to her and pulled the repulsive thing off himself. Swathes of long, silver-blonde hair fell around her face. His men gasped. One or two of them whistled softly and clicked their tongues in lewd sounds of appreciation. ‘God’s blood, Captain, she’s a ripe little piece!’ ‘Take off her cloak, then we can all ‘ave a good look …’
‘Shut up,’ Alec told his men. And he grimly readjusted to this new reality.
Yesterday this do-gooder had been parading her delectable wares on stage at the Temple of Beauty. Last night the taste of her softly parted pink lips had disturbed
his dreams. All through the hours of darkness he’d been haunted by images of her long fair hair cascading around her breasts, her naked limbs entwined with his between silken sheets … Yet this morning, she was dressed like a church mouse—a very defiant church mouse—and was in possession of some hideously insulting notes about himself and his men. Who the hell was she? What was she playing at?
He rapped out to her, ‘Who wrote this filth? And why is it in your possession?’
She tossed her lovely wild hair back from her face. ‘Why should I tell you anything?’
He registered the swiftly concealed fear in those blue eyes, along with something else that was almost hatred. But then it was gone again, replaced by steadfast defiance. ‘Take her inside,’ he ordered Garrett. ‘We’ll keep her here until she changes her mind.’
‘No!’ She started struggling again. ‘You cannot do this!’
‘Try me,’ was Alec Stewart’s terse answer.
Two of his men led her down a stone staircase and locked her in the basement, where the only light came in through a high-up single window. Rosalie had fought them all the way, but now she simply stood and shivered with cold and fear as her faith in her own judgement came crashing down around her.
Alec Stewart. Last night, he’d seemed—different. He’d assumed she was a whore and that hurt, but otherwise he’d seemed totally unlike the rest of the men at that hateful Temple of Beauty—so much so that she, Rosalie, whose defences against men she’d considered bullet-proof, had let him kiss her. And had felt her insides melt with a strange, sweet sensation she’d never experienced before.
Could he be Linette’s seducer? Yet there must be many more men of that name! Wildly she clutched at straws. His name had not, after all, been listed in Dr Barnard’s secret book as having visited the Temple that fateful June nearly three years ago!
Her heart sank again. He might have given a false name to the doorman. And it might have taken only one night for him to cast his spell on Linette and whisk her away. For heaven’s sake, she, Rosalie, had submitted to his charms swiftly enough! Captain Alec Stewart. He has a castle, Rosalie. A wonderful castle …
Clearly he’d never brought her sister to this crumbling heap. Her stomach cramped in torment. If it was him, he probably didn’t know or care that Linette was dead. Probably didn’t even remember her.
Rosalie would never, ever have guessed. But then, neither had Linette. You idiot, Rosalie. You thought Linette was so stupid, thought yourself so clever … She paced the floor. She lacerated herself with reproach.
Suddenly she thought she heard low voices out in the passageway. She’d been in here how long? An hour? It felt like for ever. She heard a bolt being drawn back and, as the door opened, she sprang round to face it.
Alec Stewart walked slowly into the room, loosening his necktie with his right hand. There was an unreadable look in his hard dark eyes, and somehow the sheer physicality of him, the extremity of male power emanating from that rangy, muscular body, slammed the breath from her lungs. She was reminded, in a surge of excruciating emotion, of the sweet knowingness of his kiss. The melting ache of his fingers on her breasts.
Then she realised he was holding that piece of paper.
He kicked the door shut with his booted foot and just looked at her. Rosalie hitched up her chin. ‘Locking up women now,’ she declared with scorn. ‘What right have you to keep me here against my will—Captain Stewart?’
He ignored her question. ‘I’ve been making enquiries,’ he said. ‘About who you are. You’re versatile, aren’t you, Athena?’ He stepped closer and pointed at the finger on which she wore the cheap little wedding band. ‘You weren’t wearing that last night. Does your husband know you were playing the whore at the Temple of Beauty?’
Fiddlesticks. She should have taken the stupid thing off. She jutted her chin. ‘I’m a widow, as it happens!’
‘My condolences.’ His sympathy was shortlived. ‘And your real name is …?’
‘R-Rosalie.’
‘Rosalie,’ he echoed thoughtfully. ‘And do you by any chance pen scurrilous articles for a rag called The Scribbler?’
Oh, Lord. ‘I don’t see why you should—’
He waved the sheet at her. ‘Fellow about town. That’s how the journalist Ro Rowland describes himself—or should I say herself? I wasn’t born yesterday; I am acquainted with London’s gutter press.’
The colour drained from her face. That meant Helen was being dragged into this! This was just what Rosalie had wanted to avoid; this was one reason why Rosalie had never told Helen or anybody the name of Linette’s seducer, even though she’d realised it might have hastened her search … Helen, I’m so sorry.
She squared her slender shoulders. ‘Sometimes, I’ve written pieces for The Scribbler. But often I just make notes—like the ones your men stole from me!—for my own interest. And what I’m doing isn’t against the law!’
‘It is if you’re intending to print lies. Defame my reputation.’
‘Reputation! Oh, believe me, I could write so much more about you that you wouldn’t like, Captain Stewart!’
She saw the gleam in his steely eyes and dragged air into her tight lungs. Too far. Too dangerous, Rosalie. You cannot possibly tackle him right here in his stronghold.
He was still staring thoughtfully down at her. ‘Is that so? Might I suggest you can hardly afford to take the high moral ground, Mrs Rowland, since I could retaliate by asking—what the hell were you doing last night, parading on that stage half-naked?’
‘I really don’t think that’s any of your business!’
‘Unfortunately it is, since you’ve set yourself in judgement on my affairs. You were putting yourself up for sale at Dr Barnard’s—why? To dig up filth for your news rag? Is that why Dr Barnard was after you?’
Rather too close to the truth, that. ‘I was not for sale!’
‘All right, I correct myself.’ One dark eyebrow arched. ‘You were, in my case at least, offering it for free.’
She gasped and struck out at him. But he caught her hand in an iron-hard grip.
Blue eyes, turquoise-blue eyes, whose bed did you sleep in last night? Yesterday Alec Stewart had found himself rather hoping that there was some reason—and not the obvious one—for this girl to be appearing on stage at the Temple of Beauty.
Well, perhaps he’d found that reason and he didn’t like it one bit. She made money out of digging up prurient details of other people’s lives. Hence her appearance at Dr Barnard’s, hunting, he guessed, for lurid gossip about the visitors to that seedy place. Hence her temerity in coming here, to cast her blue eyes boldly over Two Crows Castle, while carrying in that bag of hers some nasty notes about the crimes of a so-called rackrenter. Yet—how stunned she’d looked when she realised he was the owner of Two Crows Castle! And why was it that everything she did, or said, challenged all his preconceptions of her?
He remembered the way she’d reacted to his kiss last night. Even now he caught his breath at the way her silvery-blonde hair tumbled like a silken waterfall around her shoulders, at the way her drab cloak had fallen apart to allow him a distracting glimpse of the small but ripe breasts that were prominent beneath her shabby gown.
Very pretty, and very professional. Get a grip, man. Not only is she a courtesan, but she writes for a news rag. She’s damned dangerous.
As if to confirm his every suspicion, she made a dart for the door. He grabbed her easily with one outstretched arm. Still she struggled, panting to get away. He pulled her closer and his physical desire reared inevitably at the sensation of her warm body agitating against his. ‘Little fool,’ he uttered. ‘Little fool, stop that. Or I won’t be held responsible for my actions, do you understand?’
That quietened her. Her turquoise eyes flew up to his in shock and she went very still. Then she tossed back her glorious hair. ‘You need not think, Captain Stewart,’ she shot up at him, ‘that I’m afraid of you and men like you!’
‘Then you damn w
ell ought to be,’ he said dispassionately. ‘Though to be fair, you dealt with Dr Barnard’s customers—myself included—most professionally last night.’
She gasped. ‘Last night was a mistake! If I’d known everything about you …’
‘Known what, exactly?’ he drawled.
‘Do you deny that you pack this—this hideous old ruin with impoverished ex-soldiers?’
Frowning, he let her go. But now his broad shoulders and back were planted solidly against the door and he made a formidable barrier indeed to any thought of escape. ‘My friends know the truth.’ His eyes blazed danger. ‘Write what you like, Mrs Rowland, and be damned to you.’
‘I will, if I choose! And I could also write about the way you expect young women to just melt at your feet! How you promise them—promise them …’
His eyes gleamed. ‘Promise them what, exactly?’
‘Nothing,’ she muttered. Oh, Lord. She should not have said that.
He was drawing nearer. ‘Promise them what, Mrs Rowland? I want to know.’ Now a truly wicked smile was curving his lips. ‘Money? Pleasure? Perhaps you’re more tempted than you care to admit by what you think our encounter last night promised?’
She gazed up at him, speechless. It was impossible. It was incredible. Yet—desire, raw and primitive, flooded her veins. Her breasts ached traitorously for his knowing touch. Her eyes were locked with his as she wildly sought inspiration that didn’t come. And he was drawing nearer, a wicked light in his gaze. ‘Playing coy, are you, Mrs Rowland? Who knows—if you promise to be … generous, I might consider letting you go, with no more questions asked.’
‘Generous?’ Her heart shrivelled. ‘Exactly what—?’
‘You were only too happy,’ he silkily prompt ed, ‘to allow me a sample of your wares last night. Now, what’s the price of your freedom, I wonder?’ He’d reached out, to touch her cheek. This woman, thought Alec grimly, was testing his self-control with her dangerous games. Desire was licking hungrily at his loins; his manhood was thickening, and though he had no desire to lower himself to her level of trickery, he most certainly wanted to teach her a lesson.
