by Gaelen Foley
It was difficult to find a woman that did not suit his tastes, true. He had a lusty appreciation for them all—tall, short, curvy, thin, blonde, brunette, commoner, aristocrat. But there was something particularly appealing about that . . . luscious little mess. Her plump, rouged lips and those sweet erect nipples like hard pink candies pressing against her plunging gown had roused in him a mental groan of lust; and yet, the expression in her big, emerald eyes had looked so vulnerable and lost—pathetic, almost—that it had summoned up an even fiercer protective instinct in him.
Quite bewildering.
Something about the shivering, shoeless, tipsy tart had nearly touched the chunk of stone that had once been his heart. In that moment, he had not known which he had wanted more: to gather her onto his lap and comfort her, or to lay her down and ride her into mindless, sweaty ecstasy.
He cast off the question with a restless shrug, deciding to do both as soon as he was done here.
Until he was ready for her, however, she’d find the solar upstairs much more toasty. The girl had been obviously freezing cold—and foxed, to boot. He had not liked seeing her tremble so with the chilly drafts inside the castle. As for her state of inebriation, he had noted that she could barely stand without weaving on her feet.
He scowled, recalling how the little tosspot had even forgotten her shoes. What was it about the harlot breed that they did not know when it was time to quit drinking?
Well, she could sober up while he concluded matters with the smugglers. She was a bed warmer; let her warm his bed until he got through here.
Then he would join her, and they would have some fun.
He still couldn’t help wondering, though, why she had stared at him so strangely . . . as though she was scared of him. Those big, green, haunted eyes. Even now, he found himself perturbed by her strange, disquieting allure, plaguing him with equal parts desire and uneasiness.
Maybe her possible mission as a spy for the smugglers had suddenly seemed too difficult for her once she was in his presence. Most people realized on sight he was not to be trifled with, but surely she did not think he would ever hurt a woman.
True, there was the old family curse that might claim otherwise about the men in his line, but surely she didn’t believe in that rubbish.
At least he liked to think it was rubbish.
If she was nervous of his size, she needn’t have feared that, either. He knew how to safely wield the oversized weapon with which Nature had endowed him.
Perhaps she had never been bedded by an aristocrat before, but if that was the case, she had better get used to it, he thought cynically. She’d soon find out that dukes had the same base needs as any other blackguard.
Forget her, man. There’s work to be done! You’ll join her soon enough. With that, he dismissed her from his mind, refusing, as ever, to let a woman distract him. They were objects of pleasure, a favorite hobby, the reward for a hard day’s work, and nothing more.
He stood as Doyle’s men brought in the troublemakers, some of them cursing and struggling as they were marched in. He maintained a stony silence until Caleb had bullied the miscreants into line.
“These are the lads behind it, Yer Grace,” Doyle said at last.
Resting his hands on his hips, Rohan searched the faces of the guilty men for a long moment with a brooding stare. Scanning the line of angry, resentful scowls, he took note of Pete and Denny Doyle, Caleb’s nephews.
Each about twenty years old, these two alone seemed resigned to their fate. The other four looked prepared to start fighting again.
“Take them to the dungeon,” he ordered his black-clad contingent of personally trained guards.
“Yes, sir,” said trusty Sergeant Parker. He and his men took the shipwreckers from the chastened smugglers, answering their curses and attempts to writhe free with a rough bit of muscle.
Rohan watched as his soldiers marched the villains out of the great hall in chains.
There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? he almost said to the remaining smugglers, who were to be spared. But when he looked at them again, he saw they were distraught, faced with their mates’ doom, and he managed to curb his sarcasm.
Hopefully, this would at least scare the rest of them back into relatively good behavior. The hall was silent after the guilty had been marched off to the dungeon.
That, God knew, was one place not even he would have wanted to spend a night, not after some of the weird phenomena he had witnessed down there.
Flesh-and-blood enemies were one thing, but even the most invincible warrior could not battle vengeful apparitions.
He refused to say much to anyone about his occasional brushes with the dead around this haunted pile. His brother agents back in London were fond of ribbing him for his superstitions, but he shrugged off their laughter.
He knew what he knew. None of them came from cursed bloodlines, after all. In his circumstances, a man did well at least to pay attention to such things.
As if on cue, a burst of howling winter wind slammed the castle, like the Alchemist himself unleashing some dark new spell. Rohan shrugged off the chill, but such eerie thoughts made him all the more glad they had brought him the girl. On so foul a night, it would be good to have a warm body beside him in bed. And beneath him, and on top of him . . .
He cleared his throat, eager to get his hands on her.
“Mr. Doyle, gentlemen, you may go,” he said sternly to the remaining smugglers. “You were wise to cooperate. We may now consider this matter resolved. But if I hear of any similar mischief in future,” he warned in an ominous tone, “rest assured, you will not find me so forgiving.” He waved his hand with an idle motion, signaling their dismissal.
“Aye, sir. Good night, then.” Doyle bowed his head to him, then nodded to his followers. They hurried after the old man, no doubt as happy as he to be hastening toward the exit.
“Doyle!” Rohan called after him.
The old chief paused and turned back. “Aye, sir?”
“About the girl.” Rohan looked at him wryly, wondering if he could get the old man to admit the truth about her assignment here. “She did not happen to wash ashore along with the rest of the booty your boys picked up on the night of the shipwreck, hm?”
Caleb looked astounded at the accusation. “Nay, sir! Not at all!”
His lips twisted. “Who is she?”
“A village lass, Yer Grace! She’s as tired of livin’ hand to mouth as we all are, but unlike the rest of us, she’s pretty enough to find herself a better life in Town.”
Rohan narrowed his eyes, sizing him up in amused vexation. Why so nervous, Caleb?
“Many a wench not half so fair as she has made a fine career in London entertainin’ highborn gentl’men like yourself,” the smugglers’ chief hastily explained.
“These are her wishes?” Rohan inquired.
“Aye, the lass aspires to be a rich man’s ladybird.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Surely you do not expect me to keep her?” He already had more women in London, almost, than even he could handle—a harem, as the scandal sheets preferred to call it. What they saw in him other than a thorough rogering, he was never sure.
Not promises, that was for certain.
Doyle was shaking his head emphatically. “Not at all, sir! It’s just that seein’ as how Yer Grace is such a favorite with the ladies, she hoped you might be willing to, ah, show her the ropes, if ye don’t mind.”
A few of Doyle’s men stifled coughs.
“Oh, it’ll be a sacrifice,” Rohan drawled. Doyle grinned—rather in relief. “What is she called?”
“Kate, milord.”
“Kate what?”
“Madsen.”
“Hm.” The name was not familiar. “Had a bit to drink, I take it.”
“Nerves, Yer Grace,” Doyle answered without blinking an eye. “Well, sir, you do have, er, a certain reputation as a man of high standards. But from what I hear, our Kate should be able to keep up wit
h you, no problem. Quite a hussy in the making, she is. We’re awful proud of ’er.”
Rohan’s lips tilted sardonically. Leave it to a band of criminals to be proud of their daughters who grew up to become notorious London courtesans. “Thank you, Mr. Doyle. That will be all.”
“Then we shall leave you to your night’s enjoyment!” Doyle’s cheery grin faded as he bowed out, hurrying after his men.
Eldred discreetly sent Rohan a wry look before gliding off to show their rustic visitors out.
A hussy in the making, he mused, casting a lusty glance toward the staircase as he rose from his chair. Sounds like my kind of girl.
Chapter 3
Free at last to turn his full attention to his waiting bedmate, Rohan set his weapon aside and left the great hall, still musing cynically on what Doyle had said about the girl’s career ambitions.
So, he mused with a speculative gleam in his eyes, the young temptress desired a little instruction from a man of the world on how she might go about joining London’s demimonde.
With her looks, she could make a fortune, and certainly, he could show her the road to perdition. Alas, he knew the route well. As it happened, he was acquainted with two or three grand madams in London discreetly offering high-priced whores to a most selective clientele.
One of these elegant abbesses would no doubt be happy to take on an alluring new girl, especially if she came recommended by him. He could hardly wait to find out if this Kate possessed the requisite skill for the courtesan’s trade. If not, and she proved awkward, why, generous soul that he was, he was perfectly willing to serve as her tutor until the Coast Guard chaps arrived to take their prisoners into custody.
Of course, he still believed Caleb had placed the girl with him to act as their little spy, but given her overindulgence in drink, the smugglers had chosen a poor secret agent. She would soon find the vice a considerable impediment to stealth.
Hopefully, she had sobered up a bit by now, having been left to her own devices for about half an hour.
As he climbed the stairs, bewitching moonlight streamed through the tall, pointed Gothic window and flooded the soaring vault of the cold stone stairwell with its silver glow.
As he reached the landing, blue shadows from the window mullions crisscrossed his rugged countenance like the war paint of his most ancient Celtic ancestors.
He paused at the window, habitually scanning for trouble. From his tower stronghold, he had an excellent view of the surrounding territory. He could see the distant lanterns of the smugglers’ carriages heading back down to the village, tiny orange spheres inching down the road.
At closer range, the windows of the gatehouse, where his men remained on duty, gave off a cheerful glow.
Before he turned away, his lingering gaze took in the frigid beauty of the winter night. The castle grounds had become an ice kingdom, dark but sparkling in the moonlight; hoarfrost coated the frozen garden statues and topiaries like diamond dust. No doubt, it would melt by morning, and all would be cold and bleak and gray again.
As his slow, warm breath fogged the glass before him, his hard-eyed reflection looked back at him, transparent as a ghost.
His thoughts wandered, the situation back in London gnawing at him, especially concerning their missing agent.
Rohan did not know Drake personally—only the team leaders were allowed to communicate with each other, a structure that helped to secure their covert web as a whole. The Order now believed that Drake was being held by one of the Promethean Council’s most powerful members, James Falkirk, and his ever-present bodyguard and assistant, the one-eyed killer known as Talon.
He wondered if any progress had been made to locate Drake since he had left London, but just then, Rohan felt a draft waft behind him. It raised the hairs on his nape.
Instantly, he whipped around, his heart pounding—but there was no sign of the Gray Lady, no sighting of any vengeful apparition. He had only seen her once in his life, as a youngster, after all.
He could feel . . . something. But, no. There was only darkness, empty air, and the guilt of all the previous dukes in his barbaric lineage.
The Kilburn Curse.
His belligerent posture eased, but the odd, eerie tingle still ran down his arms. He shook it off with a gruff snort and, mocking himself, went on his way, marching up the rest of the stairs with a scowl.
Absurdity. A grown man, an educated man, a peer of the realm, spooked by his own bloody house! Good God, he was a top assassin for one of the deadliest organizations in the world, taken from his boyhood like a Spartan to be turned into the fiercest of warriors.
And so he was. It was in his blood. The Warrington line had always produced the most gifted killers.
That was precisely the problem.
Hundreds of years ago, a medieval ancestor, a typical vainglorious Warrington knight, had incurred the wrath of a Promethean sorcerer, Valerian the Alchemist, who had laid the curse on his line.
“Ye mighty warriors, be ye doomed to kill that which ye love.”
Ever since, every few generations, Warrington dukes had exhibited an unfortunate tendency toward killing their wives—mostly by accident, but occasionally on purpose.
This was their doom, allegedly.
Local lore claimed that his forefathers’ cherished victims still roamed the silent halls of the castle by moonlight, yearning for revenge on the current duke, for whatever bloody fate had befallen them at the hands of their Warrington husbands.
All he knew was that he would be glad to leave this eerie place as soon as possible.
Good God, he was comfortable anywhere on earth except for here, could sleep soundly in a desert wilderness, indifferent to scorpions and snakes, or doze on a ship’s hammock with perfect tranquility in the midst of a tempest. He feared nothing and was damned proud of it.
But here in the seat of his hallowed ancestors, he knew what it was to be haunted, if not by murdered duchesses, then certainly by the thought of what he had willingly become for the sake of the Order.
The Beast.
He never doubted that he fought on the side of good, and no one could ever say he had flinched at his duty, but killing was killing, and with his superstitious nature, he could not help but think that someday, he would have to face some sort of divine retribution for the blood he had shed.
Of course, the targets he hunted were dangerous players in the Promethean hierarchy, corrupt men in positions of power who had to be eliminated.
But some of those men he had finished in Naples had had wives and families. Sometimes he woke up in a sweat with the screams of the children he had orphaned ringing in his ears.
Indeed, he might as well be cursed, for a man such as he, an assassin, a Beast, was not fit for love, in any case.
Fortunately, he had made up his mind a long time ago that he would never allow their family curse to befall him. Especially not after seeing firsthand as a boy how love had nearly destroyed his father.
His own solution was simple: Love no one. Do not get attached. Avoiding entanglements was easy if a man channeled his energies toward women he could neither trust nor respect. The world was full of lecherous widows, vain adulteresses, assorted conniving whores.
Like the one waiting for him now.
Yes. Such women served their purpose. Refusing to let his dark thoughts spoil the night’s much-needed release, he shrugged them off like a heavy cloak as he reached the upper hallway.
All the while, the bitter wind moaned through the castle’s ancient stones like an anguished spirit.
Striding down the dark corridor, he came to the door to the solar and took out his key. Many of the castle’s medieval drop-bar doors had been replaced ages ago with modern ones with keyed locks. His men had locked his chamber door to keep the girl from wandering off into certain regions of the castle not meant for prying eyes.
He unlocked the door with a quiet click. Time to have some fun.
But even as he turned the handle, he was al
ready on his guard. Given his life in the Order, he was accustomed to people trying to kill him unexpectedly for no apparent reason. He stepped into his bedchamber, ready for anything.
Where is she? Sweeping the room with a glance, he spotted a dainty white elbow poking out over the arm of the leather wing chair facing the fire.
Tallyho. The quarry had been spotted.
“Kate?” he greeted her softly, not wishing to startle her. He closed the door behind him and locked it again with a sly gleam in his eyes. “I believe you and I have not yet been properly introduced.”
He slipped his key back into his waistcoat pocket. Still getting no answer, he stayed on his guard as he crossed the room, approaching her slowly.
In the next moment he saw why she had failed to respond. The girl was curled up in the armchair before the fire, and to his wary dismay, she was passed out cold.
Or was she? He raised an eyebrow. In the world as he knew it, things were not always what they appeared. She could be faking. She could be armed, for all he knew. No way in hell was he about to trust her, given her criminal associations.
“Kate,” he said more firmly.
As he lowered himself to the ottoman across from her, staring at her intensely, what he saw before him was the very sketch of young, feminine vulnerability.
And of an excess of wine.
Damn. The toasty fire in the hearth must have warmed her into a lull, but the liquid courage that Doyle said she had imbibed appeared to have been her undoing.
Someone’s going to feel pretty dreadful in the morning, he thought with an ironic tilt of his mouth. She was so still, it occurred to him he had better make sure she had not drunk herself to the point of danger.
“Kate, it’s Warrington. Are you all right? Can I get you anything?” he inquired as he slipped his fingers past the soft wavy fall of her light brown hair and pressed them gently to her neck, feeling her pulse.
Normal. Glad you didn’t drink yourself to death, my girl. “Hullo? Anyone in there?”
No such luck. Impatient to find that his hunger to sample the tantalizing beauty had been so inconveniently thwarted, he studied her for a moment longer. “Very well, then. We’ll play tomorrow,” he whispered. “Up you go.”
