Vow: A Lords of Action Novel

by K. J. Jackson

  Though he had never been to the upper floors of this brothel, it was just like every other cheap whorehouse he had passed through in his life. Skinny hallway. The suffocating scent of heavy perfume. A distinct cigar haze. Door after door of tiny rooms—the better for volume and speed—as no man was encouraged to lounge about in this establishment.

  Disgusting. As was this entire world.

  The door to Caine’s left opened, a brute standing in the doorway, eyeing Caine.

  “In.” The one-worded brute stepped to the side.

  Caine moved past him, finding the man he was here to see sitting behind a beaten board that served as a desk. The morning light shone through a wispy red curtain pulled in front of the window behind the brothel owner, highlighting the grease on his mousy hair. Wrinkles ran deep along his forehead, drawing attention to the birthmark that covered most of his left temple. Apparently, running a brothel came with a fair amount of worry.

  This owner, Mr. Topley, usually had his splotchy red birthmark covered with a purple-dyed top hat—courtesy of the last owner of the brothel. While Topley wasn’t as flamboyant as the man that had sold Ara years ago, he was not bashful in how he ran his auctions. This one was thick, a rough brute, yet his speech was impeccably smooth, and it made sense he took over the brothel six years ago.

  Scratching a quill across paper with a wide flourish, Topley paused, looking up at Caine. He waved his hand at the brute behind Caine, and the cutthroat exited the room, closing the door. A pistol sat on the desk, conspicuously aimed in Caine’s direction.

  “I was curious how long it would take before someone came for her.” Topley’s finger twirled around the feather of the quill. “Though I did not suspect it would be you, Lord Newdale. Not as one of my most prolific customers. What matter is she to you?”

  “She is my secretary, Mr. Topley.”

  Topley laughed, tossing the quill onto the scarred board. “That is rich.” He leaned back in his chair, his wide eyes narrowing on Caine. “No one comes into these streets, into a brothel, to retrieve a mere secretary.”

  “I do. She is valuable to me.”

  Topley shrugged, threading his hands together behind his head. “Well, as you only appear to need her for her intelligence, you will not mind if I keep her for a few days. I must insist she pay off what she cost me in business last night with that debacle in the street.”

  Rage flooded Caine’s chest. He swallowed, trying to control the twitch along his jaw. “The price? I will pay it.”

  “Yet there is no price, Lord Newdale. I lost much more than just the sale of a virgin last night. I lost the integrity of my auctions. Word has already spread—the discrete haven I have created for satisfying peculiarities has been breached by your little paladin. It will be some time until I can hold another auction and recoup my losses.”

  “In all our dealings, Mr. Topley, I have never taken you for a fool.” Caine motioned about the space, fingers pointing to the many surrounding rooms. “You are a man that understands well the value of a body.”

  “Yes.”

  Caine took a step closer to the desk. “So this body is very valuable to me. I will give you anything for her.”

  Mr. Topley’s left eyebrow arched high, cutting into the lines on his forehead.

  Dammit.

  Caine hadn’t meant to offer up anything and everything right away. There was supposed to be patience involved on his part. Patience that had vanished the second Topley mentioned putting Ara to work for him.

  Caine stared at the man, waiting. He couldn’t take back his words now, he could only wait to see where Topley drove this.

  “I see.” Topley nodded. “Except that I now have what is an even bigger problem. You have been buying up my virgins for years, Lord Newdale.”

  “Yes.”

  Topley leaned forward, resting his thick arms on the table, his fingers playing with the butt end of the pistol. “So what have you done with all of them? There have been so many throughout the years, and usually, the other men deliver the girls back to my establishment after their use is complete.”

  “I dispose of them.”

  “Hmmm.” Topley nodded, then looked up at Caine, his beady eyes piercing. “You must not think me a smart man, Lord Newdale. I recognized her. The moment she was dragged in front of me last night. I recognized her. One does not forget beauty like that. I was the one that spotted her first in that field years ago, and I looked at her for days as we came into town. Granted, back then I was only a hired brute, so I had to keep my hands off of her. But now—”

  “You bastard.” Caine could take no more. He dove at the desk, but Topley had the pistol in hand, pointed, a second before Caine could reach him.

  Caine froze, seething, his nose only inches from the dark metal of the barrel.

  Topley stood, the pistol trained at Caine. “My business, as you know, Lord Newdale, thrives upon my ability to remain discrete. And an earl purchasing virgins to save them from depravity does not bode well for my discrete operations. If what you have been doing for the past six years becomes known, I do believe it will destroy the most lucrative part of my business.”

  Topley started to move from behind the desk. “While I do owe you a debt of gratitude—as I believe it was you that disposed of my predecessor here and allowed me to take over the establishment—I am afraid I must put a stop to you, as I cannot have the gentlemen of your caliber going elsewhere for their wares.”

  “Wares?” Caine drew himself to his full height. “They are living, breathing women, you bastard.”

  “They are disposable.” Topley waved his pistol. “Just as you are. What is to stop me from killing you right now?”

  “Nothing.” Caine shook his head. “Nothing except for me killing you.”

  Topley charged, his heavy steps sending Caine back several feet to avoid having the pistol jammed directly into his chest.

  Spittle flew from Topley’s mouth. “You come into my house, you pompous ass, and dare to threaten me? Threats you can’t back—”

  His words cut short as the door flung open, knocking Topley hard in the side and sending his pistol arm flailing.

  Caine lunged, grabbing Topley’s wrist with his right hand and clamping it so Topley couldn’t aim the gun.

  A barrage of bodies filled the room, and then the click of another pistol silenced everything.

  The hulking forms of the Duke of Dunway and Lord Southfork swallowed the office. The duke had the barrel of his pistol on Topley’s temple in an instant, shoving him deeper into the room.

  Southfork walked around the man to rip the gun from Topley’s hand, and Caine released the bastard’s wrist.

  “She is found?” Caine asked, his eyes not veering from Topley half splayed on the desk.

  “Yes,” Southfork said. “Your friend, Lockston, found her on the top floor. He already has her in the carriage.”

  “And the guards?” Caine asked.

  “Taken care of.”

  Caine nodded. “Well done.”

  The duke shoved his pistol harder into Topley’s temple. “This is the one?”

  “Yes.” Caine moved toward the doorway, popping his head into the hallway. Bodies on the floor by the stairs, but no other activity. He looked over his shoulder into the room.

  “There will always be another monster to fill my place, you imbecile.” Topley was foaming, his face splotching red under the duke’s pistol. “We are the Hydra—you cannot cut off the head of the fucking Hydra.”

  “No. But we can cut off yours, Topley,” Caine said, disgust thickening his words. “You stole the wrong girl long ago. And that alone would have gotten you killed today.” Caine pointed to the duke. “But then you threatened his family. Even bigger mistake.”

  Caine gave a curt nod to the duke and Southfork, and pulled the door shut.

  He had a carriage to get to.

  ~~~

  They passed Charing Cross, and Caine finally managed to tear his eyes away from the carriage
window, relaxing against the possibility of being followed or attacked.

  They were safe.

  Ara was safe.

  He looked at her, and another wave of nearly uncontrollable anger surged.

  His gaze shifted back to the window, as he tried to quell the pounding in his chest.

  Ara was here, across from him, and for the most part, unscathed as far as he could tell. She had said in the brothel that she had not been harmed.

  While he believed her, he didn’t care for the swath of dried mud that ran up her cheek to her temple and then disappeared into her hair, muddying the blond strands. Her dark blue muslin dress was intact, though she held her palm tenderly along her ribcage as the carriage jolted over the cobblestones, which told him she had suffered some bruises.

  According to the story Lewis had told him, she had been tackled from behind, slammed onto the street. Which had to have stung. Regardless, she wasn’t in enough pain to complain vocally about it.

  After verifying the girl from the previous night was safe at the Baker Street house, Ara had not said one word since he climbed into the carriage—not that he had been able to speak himself.

  But she had stared at him.

  He felt that the whole time. She wasn’t about to speak, to poke his anger, but she stared at him, waiting for him to calm. Waiting for a crack in his fury.

  She would be waiting a long time.

  Well into the West End, the coach slowed as Caine had directed Tom to do so.

  Ara leaned forward, scanning the passing buildings. Her eyes went wide as the carriage came to a full stop. Her face swung to Caine.

  “A church? You are not taking me home?”

  “I am taking you home, Ara. My home. So we need to complete our business inside before that can happen.”

  She leaned back against the squabs of the seat. “But you have not said a word to me and now this…” Her voice trailed off as her hand lifted, pointing at the tall spire of the church.

  “We have much to discuss, Ara, but we are not going to do so until you become my wife.”

  “But we have to—”

  “No. We do not have to do a thing. There is only one thing we need to resolve at the moment, and that is that we are unwed. I am going to marry you, Ara, drag you in there if I have to.”

  She shook her head, her voice small. “You do not have to drag me.”

  “No?”

  “It is just…you are so angry.”

  “Yes, I am.” Caine leaned forward, pulling forth the voice that had sent grown men scurrying in the war. “Do I need to drag you in there, Ara?”

  She shook her head, motioning for him to exit the carriage and then she stood, taking his hand as she stepped down the carriage stairs.

  “I am a mess, Caine. Can I at least right my hair?”

  “No.” He started to the door.

  “Five minutes? I have mud on my face.” She stopped, pulling on the crook of his arm.

  He glanced down at her, his fingers tightening around the hefty gilded handle of the ancient church door. “Three minutes. But I am watching, not letting you out of my sight.”

  She gave him an annoyed smile. “Do you honestly think I would abscond and dare to leave you at the altar?”

  “You do not want to know what I am thinking at the moment, Ara.”

  Her eyes flickered to the door. “But Fletch is not here. He should be here.”

  “Fletch stayed behind to clean up the mess you made, Ara. So no, he will unfortunately miss our nuptials. I am sure he will understand.”

  Her hand dropped from his arm, stung. “You do not need to be so callous about it.”

  Caine stared down at her. He was being a brute. But he was also forming coherent words at the moment instead of throttling her, so it would have to do.

  He attempted and only moderately succeeded in softening his voice. “Mrs. Merrywent is inside, along with my man-of-affairs that you have suspected of being worthless time and again. They have arranged everything.”

  Ara shrugged, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth as she wrinkled her nose. “Maybe he is not so worthless.” She nodded to the door. “Do you think he brought me flowers?”

  Caine bit his tongue, pulling open the thick door.

  Flowers.

  She was worried about bloody flowers.

  Unfailing optimism.

  Caine sighed, ushering her into the building.

  And damned if he didn’t look over his shoulder to the church’s side garden, noting blooms he could easily pluck, should his man fail his soon-to-be wife.

  { Chapter 19 }

  The ceremony was quick.

  The quickest one in existence, Ara imagined.

  Not that she minded. Or had the right to mind after the debacle she had caused.

  Nor could she mind when the succinctness of the ceremony rewarded her with being in Caine’s home at the moment, sinking into the steamy waters filling the wide copper tub in his dressing room.

  When they had arrived at his townhouse, he had immediately sent her to his chambers to scrub off the muck from the street and the dinginess of the brothel that had hung onto her skin.

  As much as she needed to talk to Caine, Ara had not fought his insistence.

  She just hoped he was taking the current moment to pour himself a full glass of brandy to help dull his anger.

  She scrubbed her toes with the lemon-scented soap—where the maid had procured it from, Ara did not know. She had never once known Caine to smell like lemons. A knock on the door made her head perk up, sending a ripple across the water.

  “What is it?” She hoped the maid had not returned so soon. She needed this time alone to gather her thoughts, not to mention she wasn’t accustomed to being waited upon so fully—much less by a stranger.

  Without a reply, the door opened.

  “Fabulous, my darling.” Greta swooped in, closing the door behind her and settling herself onto the upholstered stool near the foot of the tub. Patch got up from his spot by the hearth to set his chin on Greta’s lap. Greta scratched his nose with her left pinky. “Mrs. Merrywent just returned from the church, and now that I have witnessed with my own eyes that you are fine and well, I can berate you appropriately. Believe me, I have waited years for this opportunity, my darling Ara.”

  Ara choked back a giggle, every sweeping motion Greta made with her hand exaggerated. Greta did not lack for confidence as of late. But she was Ara’s prize—one of the first girls they had rescued, and one that had transformed herself so fully from the terrified girl they had first met. Ara flipped her fingers toward her own face. “You may unleash yourself.”

  Greta leaned to the side, her forearm resting on the lip of the tub as she dangled her fingers into the water. “Excellent. I will start with how I always believed you were the smartest person I knew, but as it happens, you are an idiot, Ara.”

  Ara sank a little in the tub, her chin dipping below the surface of the water. “I am becoming aware of that fact.”

  “What drove you to create this mayhem? Going to the brothel on your own accord? Without the earl? Madness, my darling. And such a poor example.”

  “I will say, in my defense, that the scene outside the brothel last night could have just as easily happened with Caine there.”

  “But it did not—that is why you are an idiot. Not because you went there on your own—I expect nothing less from you as a girl was in need—but because you knowingly went without the earl. There is no greater cut to a man’s pride, than what you did—leaving the earl behind because he was in a weakened state.”

  “He was recovering from a bullet wound and a head injury, Greta. I could not ask him to gain his feet and attend the auction—that would have been madness.”

  “Yet he was well enough to save you?”

  “Yes.” Ara’s voice went small, Greta’s words sinking in.

  “So instead you belittled him by leaving him in the dark. Yet you say you love him. But this—this was not
respect of him.”

  Ara sighed. She had not considered that. Considered how insulting her sneaking out and leaving Caine at home would be to him.

  She had thought she was taking care of what needed to be taken care of. Instead, she had demeaned the one thing above all others she needed to be attending to—Caine.

  Her bottom lip jutted out, peeved at her own blunder.

  Greta flicked a few droplets of water at Ara’s face. “Magnificent. I can see you are contrite. So I will move on now to your next offense—the wedding that took place without me. I must scold you on how terribly offended I am that you married without me or the Baker Street house girls.”

  Ara sat up slightly in the tub. “I am sorry—you must know I would have wanted all of you there. Caine insisted we stop immediately to take care of it.”

  “No, my darling. One does not ‘take care’ of a wedding. It is not done. Now we must hold a celebration—a much larger one than we would have, had you done it properly—to compensate for your earl’s hastiness. That is the only thing I will accept in this situation. Mrs. Merrywent agrees with me.”

  Ara swallowed a groan. “Just who will be planning this celebration?”

  “Why you, my darling. Mrs. Merrywent will help as well, I imagine. I am much too busy with the designs for the Countess of Deggard to be drawn away by details at the moment.”

  Or ever. Ara nodded, hiding a bemused smile. If they didn’t pertain to her creations, Greta would avoid details until the day she died. “Of course. And just when will this celebration take place?”

  “Soon. It must be before my wedding to Mr. Flagerton, which you will need to afford yourself time for planning as well. As I am the epitome of magnanimous, I have decided you may still attend to the details of my wedding.”

  “Your generosity does astound.”

  “It does. Plus, I am also working on a very special design for you, my darling.” Her hands clasped, Greta winked at Ara. “One that will need to be ready by your celebration. And, if I may say, if what is in my mind becomes true with the metals and jewels, it will be my finest work yet.”