by Lenora Bell
“Seems to me she won fair and square,” Con said. “Come along, Molly.” Con dropped Jack and gestured to Molly. She grasped her cap in her hands and followed Con.
“Don’t run,” Dalton instructed Thea, taking her arm and steering her toward Con and Molly. “Walk with confidence. Like you own the place.”
He threw some coins on the bar, more than enough for their drinks, and the four of them sauntered toward the back exit through the jostling crowd.
The alleyway behind the public house was fetid with rotting refuse.
Thea glanced back, half expecting the door to burst open and an angry mob led by Raney to follow them outside, but the doorway remained empty.
The alley, however, quickly filled.
Three large implacable-looking men stood waiting for them, black-brimmed hats jammed low over brutish brows.
Dalton stiffened and stopped abruptly, shoving Thea behind him. Con did the same with Molly, the two men forming a bulwark of solid muscle between Thea and Molly and the three brutes.
Thea had to peer around Dalton’s formidable back to see what happened next.
The men lumbered toward them menacingly. Guards hired by the tavern, no doubt. Prizefighters seeking a back-alley match.
Thea shivered and glanced at Molly.
“We’ll be all right,” Molly whispered. She squeezed her hands into fists. “We’ll fight if we have to,” she said with a fierce glare at the advancing men.
“Good evening, Albertson.” Dalton’s voice dropped to a deep and dangerous pitch. “You own this alleyway as well?”
“I’m about to own you,” Albertson replied. Up close he had a crooked nose, mangled ears, and cruel blue eyes.
He stopped inches from Dalton and poked a finger into his chest. “There’s a reward for your capture, Jones.”
Thea’s mind darted between the possibilities. Did Albertson think Dalton was Jones again? Should she speak up? Try to distract them?
She stole another glance at Albertson from around Dalton’s shoulders and quickly decided against that plan of action. The man had shoulders even wider than the duke’s and enormous fists with bruised knuckles. He was obviously a professional pugilist. Far more dangerous than the bumbling dolts at the inn yard.
“Mack,” Albertson said. “The sheet.”
Mack had a flat, wide brow and small, deep-set eyes. He fumbled in his breast pocket, drew out a sheet of wrinkled paper, and passed it to Albertson.
Paper rustled as Albertson held out the sheet. “Trent says be on the lookout for the Hellhound. Fled London two days ago disguised as a gentlemanly type. Got a drawing here of a bruiser of a fellow. Six foot. Twelve stone. With a scar.” Albertson slashed a finger along his jaw. “Just here.”
Thea gasped. Dalton had said the scar came from fighting a duel with a jealous husband. Or had he actually said those words? Maybe she’d only made an assumption.
Albertson crumpled the paper and threw it to the ground. “I’d say that matches the description of someone in this alleyway.”
Dalton’s entire body went still as a stone.
He didn’t say a word, yet Thea heard his bass voice in her head.
If the Hellhound’s real he’s a dangerous criminal . . . he’ll hang.
There’s no champion who can cure society’s ills and defend the powerless. He’s only a myth.
And then . . . You caught me. I have a secret reason for going to Ireland.
All that denial and evasion.
Kissing her in the carriage when she’d mentioned the Hellhound.
He could have a bigger secret. He could be . . .
Dalton’s laughter rumbled into the fading evening light, interrupting her churning thoughts.
“Curious way to turn a profit.” He tugged off his gloves and handed them to Con. “Accosting paying customers in back alleys must not be very good for repeat business.”
“Don’t make another move.” Albertson widened his stance and raised his fists. “Or I’ll darken your daylights.”
Following a sudden impulse, Thea darted out from behind Dalton. “You’ve the wrong man, Albertson. Mr. Jones flops more than he fights.”
Dalton caught her skirts. “Thea. Get back!”
“Is that so?” Albertson chuckled, giving Thea an appreciative once-over. “Trent said nothing about you. Pretty thing, aren’t you?” He reached for Thea’s arm. “Spoils of war, as they say.”
It happened like fire licking across a field of dry haystacks.
Dalton exploded forward in a blur of fists and a flash of bared teeth.
Every motion spare and perfectly calculated.
One powerful blow to the face and Albertson crumpled onto the dirty cobblestones like a rag doll.
The other two men rushed at Dalton but he evaded them easily, cracking their heads together.
Masterful. Precise.
And so swift Thea only had time to take one step backward before it was all over.
Men groaning on the ground, paralyzed by pain, stunned into submission.
Con hadn’t even lifted a fist, just stood sentinel, with an expression of lethal intensity on his time-worn face.
Dalton rose to his full height, filling her view, his shadow looming across cobblestones slick with fresh blood.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, his fists still raised.
He lifted his head and stared at her.
Only a memory of blue in an obsidian sea.
Oh, Dalton, Thea thought. It’s you. The myth. The champion for the powerless.
It’s you they hunt.
She nearly flung herself into his arms, to tell him that he didn’t need to push her away anymore because she knew his secret.
He broke the moment, stepping over the men and retrieving his hat.
Con handed him his gloves.
“Best be on our way then,” Con said gruffly.
Molly stared at Dalton wide-eyed and curious. “Cor,” she breathed. “That was magnificent.”
“Back to the carriage now.” Con took Molly’s arm and led her around the still-unconscious men.
Dalton gestured for Thea to follow and began walking, his shoulder tilted at an awkward angle, as if it pained him.
So much pain he carried. In his bones . . . muscles. And his heart.
Thea snuck the crumpled sheet of paper Albertson had dropped into her reticule and hurried after Dalton.
They climbed into the waiting carriage, squeezing in tightly, Dalton’s knees pressed against hers.
The door slammed and the carriage stuttered into motion.
“Never a dull moment,” Con said, shaking his head.
Molly glanced at Con eagerly, and then at Dalton. “Teach me to fight like that! I may be small, but I’m fierce.”
Con laughed. “Now isn’t that the truth?”
Thea caught Dalton’s eye. “We’re coming to Cork with you.”
He nodded. “I already informed the coachman to take us to the docks. Those men saw your faces.”
Thea’s breath caught. He wanted to keep her with him.
The clinking of coins sounded as Molly patted her pocket. “Enough to replace Mam’s savings, and then some. That’s one sailor who’ll think twice before betraying a girl’s trust.”
“The Dread Dark Baron strikes again,” Thea said.
“I’m only glad you didn’t bring the pistol,” Con said.
Molly grinned. “Didn’t need the pistol to make ’im quake in his boots.” She sobered. “Did you pretend to be my uncle to scare Jack, or is it the Lord’s truth?”
Con hesitated. Thea saw fear flit across his face. Then he nodded. “’Fraid you’ve got me for an uncle, Molly my love.”
“Were you going to tell me?” Her lower lip trembled.
“Hadn’t made up my mind yet,” Con said truthfully. “You see, I knew your mam a long, long time ago. You look just like her.” He tugged Molly’s braid. “Except for the trousers, of course.”
“Ha.” Molly frow
ned. “If you’re my uncle you’ll probably make me put on a gown now and cane me if I don’t wear it.”
Con’s whiskers bristled with emotion as he quickly shook his head. “Never, love. I’ll never hit you. I’m nothing like Seamus.”
Molly bit her lip. “You don’t look like him, that’s sure.”
Thea’s heart swelled with hope for these two lost souls. Molly desperately needed kindness, and Con deserved a second chance.
Everyone deserved a chance at happiness.
Thea stole a glance at Dalton from under her eyelashes.
She couldn’t be this close to him and not want to wrap her arms around him. Did he feel it, too?
Their eyes met.
He felt it. She knew he did.
He reached for her hand and closed his fingers around hers.
It felt so right, touching him. Knowing he needed to touch her in return.
Her heart beat faster, thinking of tonight.
What drove a man to become a myth?
His brother’s death. His mother’s seclusion and fear.
His father’s greed.
Everything began to slot into place, like the symbols in an allegorical painting combining to provide a deeper meaning.
The liaisons, the trysts, the widows and their rose trellises. The outrageous wagers, the duels, the scars . . . all were . . . diversions?
Dalton the consummate rake hid Dalton the force of justice.
She thought back to the evenings when she’d observed him ruling London’s ballrooms. The golden rake the world revolved around, keeping the broadsheets in ink and the scandalous widows in breathless anticipation of his next exploit. She’d thought he was just like her father. Careening from woman to woman, leaving heartache in his wake.
Was he that man?
Or something entirely different?
Early-evening sun painted the sky amber as the carriage made its way to the quay. Obviously if he’d fooled so many people for so long he was skilled at lying, and if he was a skilled liar . . . did he truly want her, or were his kisses only a diversion as well?
She would convince him to open up to her and reveal his secret.
He trusted her. And he didn’t have to carry the burden alone.
He could be himself with her.
And she could be herself as well. Formed from courage, not fear.
Seize life by the hand and travel the path of pleasure.
Thea pressed Dalton’s hand and he looked at her, his eyes glittering in the gathering dusk.
Nothing had changed. She would choose to take a skilled, attentive lover tonight.
Everything had changed.
That lover would be both rake . . . and warrior.
Chapter 19
When they’d boarded the Truth and Daylight, Con had informed the shipmaster of the extra passengers. Of course he’d also informed the man that Thea was Dalton’s wife, damn his scrubby gray whiskers.
Dalton hadn’t been able to muster the strength to argue. The master had smiled and said his cabin would prove adequate.
They’d eaten a quick supper of cold meats, cheese, and bread in the galley. Thea had gone with Molly to settle her into her berth.
The master’s cabin was surprisingly spacious, located at the stern of the upper deck and spanning the entire width of the ship. The beautiful woodworking of the built-in cabinets, table, and benches glowed in the evening light that streamed through the windows wrapping around the seaward walls.
Dalton’s shoulder was killing him. Throbbing from the force of the cracking blow he’d given Albertson. Nearly jarred his bone out of the socket, that blow.
Dalton needed to rest. Preferably on a bed.
And if that bed had Thea in it, as most tended to these days, Dalton would just have to be too tired to do anything about it.
He lowered himself to the bed. The ship’s master evidently slept in comfort, and Dalton sighed as his aching muscles melted into the featherbed atop the well-made horsehair mattress.
Trent had probably spread word to every gaming hell and tavern across London to be on the lookout for a man with a cut across his jaw. But it didn’t seem as though Trent had connected the Hellhound with Dalton. Albertson had called him Jones. But Albertson had seen his face. In daylight. With no soot in his hair and no kerchief to mask his features.
He’d have to be extremely careful now. Trent’s men would be looking for the four of them. They couldn’t be seen together again. They would have to separate, Con delivering Molly to Bronagh, and Dalton seeing Thea home to her aunt.
Then Dalton would have a day to find more details about O’Roarke before he confronted him. When forcing a confession it was best to be armed with vivid details of a man’s life. Potential triggers for trapping a man to admit his sins.
He splayed across the large bed without bothering to draw the curtains, lulled by the rocking of the ship beneath his body, and allowed his eyes to close.
He heard Thea arrive. Listened as she scooped water from the washbasin and splashed it on her face.
Which meant she’d already shed her straw bonnet.
Which meant her hair was accessible and his fingers would want to twine in those curls.
He opened his eyes.
She stood in front of the circular mirror in its gilt frame, removing hairpins.
A slice of wary blue-gray eyes.
Fragment of lush, full lower lip.
The convex glass of the mirror gathered the last red caresses of the sun and painted them across her cheeks.
She removed the last of her pins and fluffed buttery curls over her shoulders, where they twisted to the small of her back.
Dalton squeezed his eyes shut.
“Is your shoulder troubling you again?” she asked softly.
He threw his left elbow over his eyes so she wouldn’t see the pain. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. Your mouth’s all twisted.”
The bed moved as she sat on the edge.
Her hands brushed a lock of hair from his brow. “What can I do?”
Hell, he’d been hurt before. Beaten to within an inch of his life. Injuries were nothing new. He threw his body around recklessly, feeling invincible even though he knew death lurked around every dark corner and in every footpad’s knife.
“I’m fine,” he repeated.
“What does Olofsson do for you, exactly?”
“Sometimes the shoulder freezes. Olofsson manipulates the muscles so I can move again. I’ve an old boxing injury I sustained when I was going a few rounds with my friend Hatherly.”
“Oh yes. Boxing.”
Dalton paused. There was a new note in her voice.
“That’s right.”
“Turn over,” she commanded.
He thought about refusing for a moment, but the promise of her hands on his bruised and aching flesh was too enticing.
He rolled onto his stomach, lifting his arms and cradling his head on his forearm.
“I’ll need to remove this shirt,” she said briskly.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Suit yourself.”
She kneaded his right shoulder through the linen of his shirt.
Her small hands weren’t doing much but it felt so incredibly good just to have her touching him. She pushed a little bit harder, digging into his shoulder blade, and he released a long sigh.
“Is that the place?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“You flattened those three brutes in the blink of an eye. Impressive, I must say. A far cry from your performance . . . or lack thereof . . . in Bath.”
“Albertson grabbed your arm. I saw red. I struck.”
She spread something crinkling and flat onto the bed next to his face. He cracked an eye open. Trent’s drawing of the Hellhound, with the scar in exactly the right place along the jaw.
He crumpled the paper in his fist.
She brushed a finger down his jaw. “Is there anything you want to tel
l me?”
So dangerous this impulse to share, to reveal himself. What would happen if he told her the truth?
“Dalton. Look at me.”
He lifted his head.
Silken waves of hair fell around his face as she bent her head closer to his. “You trusted my instincts in the tavern. And you allowed Molly to make her own decisions. Now I’m asking you to trust me again. Tell me the truth. I’m strong enough to bear it.”
He wanted to tell her . . . he wanted to unburden himself, but if he did, she would be in even more danger than she was now.
He buried his face back in his arm. “Nothing to tell. I defended you. Any man would have done the same.”
“You’re lying.”
“Thea,” he groaned. “Leave off. It’s been a long day. Why don’t you lie down.”
“Tell me the truth,” she persisted.
“I can’t.”
“Then at least admit that you want to.”
The longing to bare his soul to Thea had built and built and now it was nearly unbearable.
“Thea . . . I . . .” I’m out on the wide sea with no compass.
She made him realize that he was completely and utterly lost. Her insistence on truth was a rope tossed into the stormy seas. He could grab hold of that rope and pull himself to safety.
Grab hold of her.
He reached for her hand and pulled her down next to him on the bed. He buried his head in her neck.
She stroked his hair. “You don’t have to bear this alone.”
He folded his arms tighter, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair and the calm resolve in her voice.
He didn’t want the waves to close over his head.
She lifted his head and held his jaw in both her hands. “I know the truth, Dalton.”
He closed his eyes.
“You’re honorable and noble,” she whispered. “And I want you. Desperately. I need you.”
She knew.
He hadn’t been able to save Alec or stop his mother from descending into madness, but maybe Thea would be able to save him, and open his heart. Maybe he could be the man she needed him to be.
He was weak with the wanting of it.
So he reached for her and he held on tight.
And she twined her arms around him. “I want to know what my body is capable of experiencing.” She climbed on top of him and settled her legs to either side of him. “I want to drown in pleasure.”
