The Rake's Revenge

by Ranstrom, Gail

  “Stop!” she squeaked. “Let loose of me!”

  Instead, the stranger lifted his free arm, wielding a cudgel. He brought it down toward her head. She deflected it with her raised forearm and a sharp pain raced down her arm, causing her fingers and wrist to tingle.

  “Thought ye were goin’ t’ gi’ me the slip, I did.” His grip tightened, cutting off her circulation. He raised the cudgel and aimed for her head again. “Won’t get me pay if you gets away,” he explained, as if speaking to a simple child.

  “H-help!” she shrieked, flailing her other arm and kicking out, hoping to make contact. The occupants of the tenement would not come to her rescue—they were too accustomed to being deaf and blind to their neighbors’ quarrels. “Help!”

  Voices grew louder and Afton realized the occupants of the pub must have heard her calls for help and come to see what was transpiring. She threw her entire weight toward the street. “Please! Someone, help me!”

  Douglas McHugh’s horrified face was the first she noted, and then Rob directly behind him. “Get her, Doogie,” Rob called as he reached over her to grab her attacker by the neck.

  As the man released her, Douglas caught her before she could slam against the wall. “Steady, Miss Lovejoy,” he cautioned, cushioning her from the scuffle.

  “Mind ye’re own business, ye bloody bastard!” the man croaked. McHugh had him by the neck and was squeezing tighter.

  “She is my business,” he snarled.

  “She’s me wife,” the man lied. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”

  The crowd hooted and catcalled. Judging by their cries of encouragement to McHugh, the man—called “Dirty Eddie” by the crowd—was not popular with them. Afton could guess why.

  McHugh’s backhand caught the man across the face and split his lip. Blood spurted from his nose, crooked now and broken. “Who the hell are you?” McHugh demanded.

  “Er ’usband!” He flinched and brought his hands up in a defensive gesture when Rob raised his arm again. “Wait! Wait!” he begged. “I don’t even know ’er. Take ’er, gov’nor. She’s yours.”

  The crowd lost interest now that the scuffle was over. They dispersed back to the pub, calling advice for the disposal of the villain, while coins changed hands from the quick bets that had been made. McHugh waited until they were quite alone before continuing his questions.

  “Who are you?” he asked again. “And who sent you?”

  “I don’t know what ye mean,” the man whimpered, wiping at his nose with the back of one sleeve.

  McHugh’s remorseless hands tightened around the man’s throat. “Think harder.”

  “I just thought I’d get me a piece o’ arse, gov’nor. No ’arm in that, is there?”

  McHugh slammed the man against the tenement wall so hard that Afton thought he would lose consciousness. “Gi’ me the truth or I’ll tear your lying tongue out wi’ my bare hands and feed it to the dogs.” The pause drew out a fraction too long and McHugh drew his arm back to deliver another punishing blow.

  “Wait! Wait,” the man squealed. “I ain’t nobody. I don’t even know ’er, gov’nor. Take ’er. She’s nothin’ to me.”

  The savage blow opening a cut on the man’s cheekbone caught Afton by surprise. Now she understood what Grace had meant when she’d warned that McHugh was completely ruthless when pursuing a goal. “Who sent you? And why?”

  Blood and mucus oozed down the man’s chin and cheek and over his jacket. “I was supposed to put ’er out of the way, gov’nor. Quiet and cleanlike,” he whined. “’E said I was to use a knife an’ leave a rope around ’er neck.”

  Her? Afton’s head swam. Someone had hired this man to kill her? The knowledge turned her knees to water and she tightened her grip on Douglas’s arm to support herself.

  “Son of a bitch,” Douglas murmured, staring at the man.

  A muscle tensed in McHugh’s jaw and Afton knew the questions were not over. He was so fierce, so determined, that she could easily see why he had gained his ruthless reputation.

  “You were supposed to leave something when you were done with the job,” McHugh said. “Give it to me.”

  The man’s eyes rounded with fear. He fumbled for his jacket pocket and brought forth a small white linen square embroidered in white with a G and a small raven. Glenross.

  “Who hired you?”

  The man whimpered and shook his head. “Don’t know. I never saw ’im.”

  “You are stretching my patience,” McHugh snarled. “Do not ask me to believe you took this on without pay. Unless—” his hand around the man’s throat tightened “—you love your work.”

  The man’s words tumbled out in a rush. “I didn’t see ’im, gov’nor. Never seen ’im before an’ never since. I swear it. ’E ’ad his collar up an’ ’is ’at pulled low. ’Twas dark. ’E gave me five quid an’ said there’d be five more when I finished the job.”

  “How were you to be paid?”

  “’E said ’e’d leave the money at the Crown and Anchor when ’e knew the job was done.”

  McHugh’s hands relaxed and he dropped them to his sides. He stared at the man for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe him or not. “I know who you are, Dirty Eddie, and do not doubt I will find you if a single word of your story proves false.”

  “She’s just a skirt, gov’nor,” the man wheedled. “Nobody’ll miss ’er. ’Ow about we share ’er? You c’n ’ave ’er first.”

  Afton tensed. McHugh had been turning, ready to accept the man’s story, but those words brought him around, fists doubled, to lay the ruffian out unconscious with blinding speed.

  “Jaysus,” Douglas breathed. He let go of Afton and knelt by the man to feel for a pulse. “He’ll live, but he’s going to look like hell tomorrow. And he’ll have a headache to end all headaches.”

  McHugh turned and met her gaze. “Get a coach, Doogie,” he said.

  Afton’s knees wobbled, more from the look on Rob’s face than from the attack. What was he thinking?

  McHugh did not trust himself to touch Afton or speak during the coach ride to Zoe’s salon. He honestly didn’t know if he would rail at her for being alone, ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, or grab her and hold her close.

  Instead, he retrieved her parcel and led her back to the street corner where Douglas waited with a coach. He handed her up, then followed, taking a place on the facing seat.

  “Tomorrow, Doogie. You know where,” he said as the coach pulled away from the curb.

  The silence between Afton and him was unnatural and awkward. It did not escape him that her hands trembled and tears shimmered in her eyes. He suspected that she was holding herself together with every scrap of strength she could find, but he could not comfort her. Their physical passion was too volatile, too explosive. If he started, he would not stop until he had possessed her completely. And he’d promised that would never happen again.

  He still needed her, needed to confirm that she was safe and unharmed. With a slowly rising intensity, he wanted to pull her against him and absorb her into his being. But she needed his reassurance more than his passion, his gentleness more than his strength.

  Twice now, Afton had been the target of murder, yet she swore she had no enemy but him. He was no longer her enemy. Far from it. But she was in danger because of him, and he did not know how to protect her.

  Marry her. The surprising notion came to him with heartstopping clarity. If he married her, he could take her home to Scotland and keep her safe from the insanity of London and the Foreign Office. If they were married, he would never have to leave her side, never risk losing her to the vagaries of fate. The institution he had sworn he would never enter into again suddenly seemed the most blissful solution to his dilemma.

  She sighed deeply and shifted in her seat. Again his desire stirred, and he realized that if he married Afton, he would lose her to his own intemperance. If he had been too demanding of Maeve, whom he hadn’t loved, what
might he demand of Afton, whom he did love?

  Yes, he loved her. He loved her independence, her courage, her determination, her gentle teasing, and the fire of passion that burned as deep as his own. But she’d made it clear she would no longer welcome his attention when she’d admitted that they were both too damaged to love one another.

  The coach pulled up at La Meilleure Robe, and he let her go ahead to unlock the door while he grabbed her parcel and paid the driver. By the time he joined her, she was kneeling in front of the hearth, laying kindling on the banked embers and fanning them to life. He locked the door behind him and set the parcel on the little table. Afton had shed her cloak and hung it on a peg by the door, and he did the same.

  When flames crackled brightly, she stood and held her hands out to the warmth. “I am so cold,” she confessed, breaking their silence.

  He had a hundred questions. A thousand. But they would wait. He went to her and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her into his warmth. She melted against him with a little sigh.

  “Thank God you’re safe, Afton. If he had hurt you…”

  “He did not,” she mumbled against his shirtfront. Long overdue sobs shook her slight frame and she clung to him as if to a lifeline in a stormy sea.

  “There, there,” he soothed, feeling clumsy in his attempt to comfort her. “You’re safe. No one will hurt you now.”

  “I cannot help wondering…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What?” he prompted.

  “Who hates me enough to want me dead?”

  He shook his head, drawing her closer. “It is not you, Afton. It is me. If you had been found dead, you’d have had my handkerchief in your hand.”

  “Yes,” she sighed. She tilted her head back to look into his face, and smiled. “But you’d have an alibi. You were in the pub across the street with Doogie.”

  “Yes…Doogie.” And the questions came crowding forward again. Mustering every ounce of strength he could, Rob held her away at arm’s length. “We have to talk, Afton.” He led her to a chair and sat her down. “I warned you not to go out alone. What were you doing outside the tavern tonight?”

  “Following your brother.”

  “Why? Did you hope he would lead you to me?”

  “I thought he might be the murderer.”

  Rob sighed, exasperated at her disregard for her own safety. “Did I not tell you to leave that to me?”

  “Yes, but I had a new theory about the murders. I wondered why you knew only some of the victims. If you did not know them all, then there could only be one common link.”

  “And that would be?”

  “The killer. He would have to be someone who knew most of the same people as you, but was killing for his own reasons. And you are one of his victims, because you are being set up to hang for his crimes. Therefore, the killer must have something to gain if you should die.”

  “Christ! And that led you to Douglas,” he said, finishing her line of reasoning. “There is a certain logic there, but I would stake my life that Douglas is not the murderer.”

  “He came to town barely a month before the murders began. Who else has so much to gain if you are dead?”

  “There are other motives than physical gain,” he allowed. L’amour ou l’argent, monsieur, she had told him the first time he had seen her as Madame Zoe. Love or money. If it was not money, then—

  Love? Who had he spurned? He’d sown his wild oats long before he and Maeve had said their vows. And after Hamish was born and Maeve had locked her boudoir door, she’d given him her blessing to find comfort elsewhere. He’d had other women since, all of them meaningless, and none who expected more from him than a night’s pleasure. Certainly none that were pledged to or belonged to another man.

  Rob tugged at the hair on the back of his neck. There was something to Afton’s theory that rang true, though, but he couldn’t think with her sitting within reach. Every time he looked at her, she was studying him with those deep azure eyes that revealed her soul. His arms ached to hold her. He wanted to feel her heart beating next to his. Once, just once, before he let her go, he wanted to make love to her as she deserved. Not angrily, not like a schoolboy who could not wait, but softly, sweetly, deeply, as lovers do, thinking only of her, bringing her the best instead of the worst of him.

  She stood and touched his arm. “I am sorry, Rob. I should not have doubted Douglas.”

  He lifted his gaze from her hand to her eyes. She’d called him Rob. He could not even remember Maeve calling him that. The unexpected intimacy sent a tingle of pleasure up his spine and made him smile. “Ye called me Rob, lass. For real this time.”

  She smiled back. “You must be mistaken. I would never do that. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Are ye sure? I could have sworn I heard it.”

  Her lips twitched and she turned away, busying herself with the string securing the parcel. She removed a loaf of bread, a large wedge of cheese, a bundle of candles, a bottle of wine and four apples. “I thought you might need these,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because you cannot go back to your hotel. The authorities will be waiting to arrest you. Aunt Grace told me that Lord Barrington authorized the warrant late this afternoon.”

  He fought the urge to grin. She was protecting him. When had that ever happened before? “I am not surprised,” he said. “I have been expecting it. What surprises me, Afton, is that you are willing to shelter me. That is a considerable risk if you are discovered.”

  “I feel somehow responsible for this mess. If you hadn’t come looking for Madame Zoe—”

  “I’d still be in this tangle. The killings started before I found you, Afton.”

  “I know.” She sighed.

  He touched her arm. “I do not want you taking the blame for any of this. Whatever set the wheel in motion, it was not you. You were merely a means to an end.”

  “I should have told the authorities about Auntie Hen,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “If they had known…”

  “God, no,” he whispered. “If I had known she was dead, I wouldn’t have come looking for her. I’d never have known you, Afton. And I wouldn’t have missed that for any price. Even hanging.”

  She moaned, recognizing the truth in his words, the deep emotion, and she wanted him more in that moment than she ever had before. She lifted her mouth to his. “This is madness.”

  “I know,” he answered, his lips moving against hers. He pulled her against him and stroked the length of her spine. “We cannot do this.”

  By the time his hand reached the nape of her neck and fondled the curls there, she was trembling. “No. We mustn’t.”

  “It would only end badly,” he murmured against her throat.

  “Horribly,” she agreed, reaching up to cup his head and hold it to her. She would die if he stopped now.

  “And God knows, I’ve been less than considerate.”

  “Much less,” she gasped when he nibbled delicately on one earlobe. Her breasts began to tingle and ache for his touch.

  “Nothing can come of it,” he warned.

  She bit gently at his lower lip until he opened his mouth to let her tongue in. “Nothing,” she said, savoring the sweetness of his kiss.

  His voice betrayed incredible strain when he lifted his head to look into her eyes. “I swore I would never do this again.”

  “I swear I will not tell.”

  He chuckled, squeezing her closer. “I should stop now.”

  “A pity,” she answered, coming up on her toes to fit her hips to his, “since I would kill you if you stopped now.”

  “So my choice is—”

  “Face me or the hangman’s noose.”

  “You, Afton. It will always be you.” He lifted her and carried her to the little bed at the back of the room.

  Instead of falling on her like a starving wolf, he placed her carefully against the pillows. When he straightened, she was afraid he intended to lea
ve her, but he pulled off his jacket and unknotted his cravat. His slow smile told her all she needed to know. This was going to be different than what they’d shared before. Their passion was not mixed with anger this time, or urgency. This was something deeper, more significant. That realization made her breathing quicken. She pushed herself up and began fumbling with her buttons.

  “Leave that to me.”

  Settling against the pillows again, she watched in fascination as his chest came into view. Though she’d seen the scars before, she had never fully appreciated how the muscles beneath his skin were firm and defined. She was reminded again how strong this man was, how brave and determined. He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots.

  She traced one livid scar with her fingertip, marveling that anyone had survived such savage treatment, and he shivered, whether from her touch or the cool air in the salon, she did not know. She only knew she wanted to possess McHugh for as long as he would let her.

  He did not flinch from her touch when she began stroking his chest and back. She was dimly aware that he was unfastening the buttons down her back, but that had less importance than what she was doing. She was intent upon exploring McHugh, learning the secrets of making love to a man.

  Would they like much the same things as a woman? she wondered. Beginning at the hollow of his throat, she traced a line of kisses down his chest to the light matting of dark hair. Curious, she shifted her attention to his nipple, kissing and nibbling until he groaned and wove his fingers through her tresses.

  “Afton, you’re the devil. How can you make me want ye so? I’d forsake everything for your touch.”

  “Magic, McHugh. The same magic you work on me.”

  “Aye,” he growled between clenched teeth, “and I’ve no right to ask ye, lass, in view of m’ past behavior, but could ye leave me wi’ a shred of self-control?” He held her away and groaned. “I need to feel your skin against mine,” he said, fumbling to free her from her dress.

  His gentleness was a stark contrast to his rage at the stranger who had tried to kill her. To know that he had that power and fury within him, and was still capable of such tenderness, was incredibly arousing. His touch made her feel cherished and…and loved.