Every ounce of his body ordered Jack to tell Harcourt to go to hell. He was a lord, had sat in an office during the war watching tin soldiers move on a paper map. But it wasn’t his fault and he wasn’t an ass who believed that infantry was meant to feed the cannon. Not like the other lords at Horse Guards. “No. It is I who should apologize for my rudeness. I sometimes find speaking about the war… difficult, and I forget myself.”
Harcourt nodded, the boyish charm returning to his smile. “Of course.” He gestured with his hand towards the dancers. “And this is hardly the setting for such a conversation.” He hesitated. “Would it be too bold to ask to speak with you again? I have question that I should like to ask you.”
The last thing Jack wanted to do was educate some young noble in the art of war, but if he could convince one man in power that men who came from the East End of London and from the country were better than animals, it would be a triumph. “It would be my pleasure.”
“I must leave you now. I have promised this dance.” Harcourt bowed, his body bending in the slight angle of a man of upper class. “Lady Regan. Captain Hazard.”
He turned on his heel and strode off, a spring in his step.
“Bloody hell,” Jack sighed.
“Yes?”
Jack shoved his hand through his hair. “Hasn’t anything difficult ever happened to that young man?”
Regan smiled sympathetically. “I don’t suppose it has. I knew his father. A friend of my father’s. He was a good man.” Regan frowned. “I was surprised that Harcourt is at this party. It hardly seems his type of thing.”
So, perhaps that was why Regan had been so bloody friendly to the young lord. Jack caught himself smiling and forced a serious expression to his face. “It does seem odd that a man with such sympathies should come here.”
Jack glanced over at Lord Wells. The old man stood pressed against the side of a young girl with large breasts, half his age.
“Why did you become so brusque?”
Jack looked down at Regan, his glance moving to her rounded breasts. “Pardon?”
She looked up, exposing the line of her throat. “Usually you are so controlled in public. I’ve never seen you be so rough. I don’t understand.” She stared up at him, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“Why should talk of war bother you so?” she asked softly.
Jack paused. Did she really think war didn’t bother him? The thought burned in the back of his throat like poison. He steadied his voice before answering. “Just because I was a solider and was good at killing does not mean that I took any pleasure in death.”
She frowned. “Why did you stay, Jack?” she whispered.
“Stay?” he repeated, unsure if he cared for where this conversation was heading. Especially since she seemed to have no idea that she was revealing what she had truly thought of him all along.
“In the Army?”
A bark of laughter burst from Jack’s throat. “Do you really think one can just leave? Say to his commanding officer, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but Oi think Oi should like to go home?” He shook his head. “Really, Regan.”
“But if you really hated killing then—”
Anger flashed in him like fire in the pan of a rifle. “Then what? Then I should allow myself to be killed by the men who instruct me to kill?”
She paled, her lips standing out a dark pink in her white face. “I—I am sorry. I assumed you chose that life.”
Jack gave her a mocking smile. She truly believed that he had come to love the Army, as if he had any other choice but to survive it any way he could. He fought back a bitter laugh. Did she think he had given a bloody damn for the cause he’d fought for? It had been fighting on the battlefield or execution for desertion. “It would seem you’ve assumed a great many things about me.”
Regan looked down, her red lashes brushing her white skin. “I think we have both assumed things about each other that are not true. Nor do we understand each other as we thought we did.”
His fingers relaxed and he dropped his arms to the side. What did she mean?
Tilting her head up in a fluid motion, she pinned him with her gaze. Jack’s breath froze in his chest. Clarity filled her eyes, like a tunnel of light and pain. “You see me as a noble, one of the race that has oppressed you. A product of an evil way of life. You see force as the way to change things. I see that force will only destroy what we long to have.” A tremulous smile warred with the pain in her eyes. Regan shrugged. “You and I shall always be at odds.”
She was distancing herself from him. Stepping away. Not physically, but emotionally and mentally. Coldness crept into Jack’s heart. A cold emptiness which could never be warmed. “Regan, I do not wish us to be at odds.”
A sheen lit her eyes, but she smiled. A smile that did not touch her eyes. “You do. I can see it. I have not understood until now. I believe we are fighting for the same cause Jack, but we will never approve of each other’s methods.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek. She reached up and brushed it away with her gloved hand. “I don’t think there is any more to say.”
Jack’s stomach tightened into a hard knot. Why did it sound as if she were saying goodbye? Permanently. She turned from him. No. It would not end like this. He would not allow it to. Jack grabbed her hand, the material of her gloves slipping beneath his fingers.
Regan stood paralyzed.
The golden hair of Lady Sylvia Chance flickered in the corner of his eye. She tapped him on the shoulder, her eyes full of warning. “Why, Captain Hazard, you have promised this dance to me.”
Every part of him demanded that he take Regan in his arms and take her upstairs. Upstairs to understand each other. And it hit him. Like a cannon charge. Despite what she had said, she understood him in a way that no one in his life ever had or ever would. She looked into him and saw him. She saw the destruction and the need for peace warring inside him.
Sylvia tapped his shoulder again and leaned into him.
“Let go of her hand,” she whispered. “You are giving rise to scandal.”
He needed to keep holding on to her and make Regan understand that, though his feet were set on a course he could not strike from, that she was the only person who had ever touched him. But under Sylvia’s unrelenting gaze, and the knowledge that if he held tight Regan would be ruined, he let her fingers slip away from his.
Nothing would stop Regan from finishing her own goal, especially not him.
Turning to Sylvia, he forced a smile to his lips. He offered his hand, still warm from Regan’s touch. “How kind of you to remind me of our dance.”
And Jack led Sylvia onto the floor. Regan would leave his life. He could not stay with her. If he did, he would destroy her in every way.
Jack’s life had been pain but, at that moment, pain rocked him to his very core, and he knew it would never go away. Not without Regan.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The dinging of her room’s delicate French clock rang sharply in Regan’s ears. Bracing her hands on the smooth wood of the mantel, she squeezed until her knuckles stood white. Blessed heat from the fire seeped through her thin, silk dressing robe and warmed her front.
Yet, she was cold. Colder than she’d ever been.
She glanced over her shoulder. Candlelight glowed from the wall sconces beating back the dark night. Steam drifted up from the hot water waiting her in the copper tub. The surface bobbed in little waves, distorting the reflection of her room.
She’d chosen to be alone. Needed it. But a fear grated at her. She folded her arms across her chest and dug her fingers into her skin.
At last, Regan pushed herself away from the fireplace, then slipped the dressing gown from her shoulders. The hot water would make the pain and fear go away, if only for a few moments.
The water rippled as Regan stepped into its heat. Her muscles tensed for a moment then relaxed in a shiver. As she dropped her head back, she closed her eyes, shutting the room out to darkness.
Jack.
He was still hiding something from her. It shone in his pain-filled eyes.
Regan sighed as she pressed her fingers against her closed lids. Droplets of water slid down the side of her face, soft and warm. Like his touch. She dropped her hand back into the hot water and Regan fisted it. Why couldn’t he tell her the truth?
The swishing of fabric against fabric filled the room. Regan’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes snapped open. Every muscle in her body tensed.
She hadn’t imagined it, had she? The urge to spring from the bath tore at her insides, but she remained still. Doubting herself.
Lifting her head, Regan looked to the right. Nothing.
But the sensation crawling down the back of her spine refused to go away. Someone or something was in the room. And she was naked and defenseless.
“Jack!” she yelled out.
A man in dark clothes, a black cloth over his face with two slits for eyes, strode from behind the heavy velvet curtains and rushed at her.
Regan grabbed the edges of the tub, trying to scramble out of the water, but he dashed to the side of the bath. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her down under the water.
Regan screamed. Bubbles blew up from her mouth, brushing her face. Hard, large hands stung her flesh.
Thrashing at the water with her legs, Regan clawed her nails into his fleshy wrists. An exhale of bubbles gurgled around her. Her lungs tightened, burning. If you scream again you will die. Regan clamped her mouth shut. She blinked and stared up through the water, spotting her red hair floating about.
The man’s figure twisted in bizarre shapes through the choppy water. Regan dug her fingers into the man’s wrists, twisting and pushing. But he wouldn’t let go. Snapping her head to the side, his cloth-covered arm brushed against her face. Regan opened her mouth and sunk her teeth into the fabric and ground down.
A cry, sounding a million miles away, thrummed through the water. She tried to pull herself up. But he shook her shoulders and banged her head against the copper tub. Pain shot through Regan’s skull. She let go of his arms, gasping. Water gushed into her lungs. A fire burned in her chest, threatening to rip her body apart.
She was floating. Her fingers relaxed and she let go of the man’s wrists. Drifting into darkness.
*
A giggle, then a low answering moan, rang through the door on Jack’s left. He snorted. Bloody house parties. Everyone was tupping everyone. Jack pulled at the lapels of his coat, then dropped his hands to his sides.
He shook his head and strode down the wide hall. Shadows twisted against the walls from the light of the candelabras.
As he neared Regan’s door, the sound of water splashing wildly echoed down the hall. A grunt, male, filtered through the splashing. Jack’s breath caught in his throat. What the bloody hell?
Panic thundered through him. Without thinking, Jack rammed himself against her door. A growl ripped from his throat as it crashed inward. Wood splintered and cracked.
The man standing by the tub, his brown jacket soaked, jerked his head in Jack’s direction. His hands were in the water, holding something down.
Regan.
Fear drummed through him, an emotion he hadn’t felt since that day at Badajoz where Devlin’s blood has pulsed out onto the earth. She wasn’t dead. She was not.
The man stumbled back from the tub, his eyes widened, stretching the black mask.
Jack lunged across the floor, wishing he had worn his pistol under his evening coat. He reached behind his back and slid one of the knives from the sheath tucked in his trousers. Gripping the blade with his fingers, Jack took aim at the man’s shoulder.
He wanted the killer disabled, but not dead. Jack threw the knife. The man groaned as the blade sliced into his side. He collapsed to the floor, his hand grabbing at the hilt.
Jack darted to the tub. Regan floated just beneath the surface, her red hair pooling about her head like seaweed. The sweep of her lashes brushed her cheeks and her mouth was open slightly.
He thrust his hands into the warm water. A growl ripped through the air around him as he grabbed her shoulders and yanked her upward. Water poured over his body and slid down Regan’s naked, white skin in sheets. He jerked her into the crook of his left arm then pinched her nose and pressed his mouth to hers. He blew. She would not die. She would not.
Her head sagged against his shoulder. Jack tilted her head back then lowered his mouth to hers again, blowing. Offering her his breath, needing her to take it more than anything in his life.
Regan coughed into his mouth, her body shuddering against his. He pulled his head back as she sucked in a great gasp of air. Her eyelashes twitched then her lids flew open.
Relief rushed through Jack’s blood, pumping him full of intense energy.
“You bastard! You have interfered—” The attacker shoved himself up. He yanked his mask further down, his blue eyes barely visible in the slits.
More than anything, Jack wanted to rush Regan out of the room. But he had to bring the man down. He let her go and she stumbled, but kept her footing. “Regan! Run!”
Jack jerked his attention towards the attacker. The man grabbed the knife and yanked it from his shoulder. A moan ripped from his lips and, instantly, a dark stain sprawled along the tear in his dark coat. His eyes darted about, searching wildly for escape. He held the bloody knife out, blade to the side, light on the balls of his feet.
Bloody hell. The man knew what he was doing.
The man cocked his head to the side. “I want no trouble with you. Only her.”
Every perfectly formed syllable grated on Jack’s nerves. “Trouble with her, means trouble with me.”
Jack yanked his evening coat off. Quickly, he twisted his coat about his left arm, then he pulled his other knife from the sheath at his waistband.
They circled each other, but never drew close enough to slash. He wanted the man’s blood. To make him pay for touching Regan. For nearly killing her.
The man darted in, sweeping the knife in a slicing movement towards Jack’s midsection. Jack jumped to the right then came back and slammed his free hand into the man’s jaw. The man’s head cracked back and he staggered.
Lunging back, Jack kept his eyes trained on his opponent’s movements. Looking for weaknesses. They circled and Jack darted in with his knife, slicing through flesh and scraping rib bones. The attacker shrieked then grabbed hold of Jack. His thick fingers dug into Jack’s arm and he pulled Jack towards him. His knife hand came up jabbing towards Jack’s neck.
A movement of white and red flashed in the corner of Jack’s eye. Regan swung a poker high over her head then brought it down with a bloodcurdling scream. A loud crack of bone breaking pierced the room. The attacker screamed and dropped his knife. Jack grabbed the man’s shoulders and rushed him up against the wall.
The wall shook and a painting crashed to the floor.
Firmly holding his knife to the man’s throat, Jack glanced over his shoulder to make sure Regan was all right. She stood near the fire, her eyes wide and flashing. Her hair streamed over her naked body, her fingers gripping the poker as if it were a part of her hands. Confusion and fear warred in her eyes.
“Regan,” his voice rasped. He didn’t know what to say, but at that moment, nothing stood between them. Nothing except for the fact that they had fought for their lives and survived. She dropped the poker. It clattered on the floor and she flinched.
Anger boiled inside him as Jack jerked back to the attacker. Jack shoved him harder into the wall, relishing the feeling of his fingers digging into the man’s flesh. The faint give of the man’s neck skin slitting ever so slightly beneath the point of his knife. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The man closed his eyes, his lips pressing into a tight line.
Jack slammed him harder against the wall. A decorative wall plate crashed to the floor. “I said, who are you?”
The attacker opened his eyes. Defiance glimmered in them
. “Go to the devil.”
Jack cocked his head to the side. “You’ll tell me or I’ll find out if you breath as well with blood bubbling in your windpipe.”
Regan ran to the bed and swept up the long bath sheet draped over the blue coverlet. Wrapping it around herself, she yelled, “I shall call for help.”
In that moment, the man gritted his teeth, grabbed Jack’s wrist, and drove the knife deep into his own throat.
Jack’s eyes widened as blood flew into the air. Regan screamed as the attacker’s body jerked. His mouth opened and closed. He shuddered, the man’s muscles tensing under Jack’s fingers. And then the attacker’s body went limp. Jack grabbed the body before it could hit the floor.
What the bloody hell? Jack stared at the dead man. The knife stuck out from an odd angle in the space between the mask and his dark cotton shirt, and he lay twisted, his body resting unnaturally on his arm. He’d killed himself. The man had grabbed the knife and shoved it into his own throat.
Shaking her head, Regan crossed the room and dropped to her knees beside the dead man. Holding her sheet closed with one hand, she stretched the other shaky hand out to the body. Her forehead creased as her face tensed with disbelief.
Jack drew in a steadying breath and wiped the warm blood from his hands onto his pants. He slid his fingers around Regan’s cool, naked shoulders. His fingers brushed the linen sheet wrapped around her chest as he pulled her back. Hoping his presence would reassure her. For no words ever could.
She opened and closed her mouth, staring down at the knife sticking out of the man’s throat. Blood dripped from the severed flesh, trailing in a slow drip, drip, to the wood floor. Her hair fell over Jack’s fingers, damp and heavy. “Regan.”
She continued to stare at the slain man.
Gently, Jack pulled her up and against him. Her breasts, covered in thin linen, pressed into his chest. He cradled her head against his shoulder and ran his hands in circles over her naked back. “I didn’t kill him. I swear it. He pulled the knife straight into his own throat.”
Her head nodded in jerking motions. “I k-know. I’ve never seen—Not like that. This cannot be real.”
Lords of the Isles Page 201
