Falling for the Highland Rogue

Jack didn’t notice anything amiss. He was used to the hot looks young men cast her way. It was what he paid for. He assessed the young man with a knowing eye. He wore clothes quite different from last night. A dark coat of superfine slightly worn at the cuffs, the linen good, but not expensive. A man of few means, but a great deal of pride. And a fool.

She set her glass down with more force than she intended. Jack glanced her way, a quick sideways glance and a faint trace of a frown. A shiver slid down her back. It did not do to make Jack angry. To ruin his play. She touched a finger to her smiling lips. ‘Oops.’

‘A shilling a point to begin,’ Jack said, with his friendliest grin. He looked around the table. ‘All right with you, gentlemen?’

They murmured their assent on cue and Jack raised his brow in the direction of the young man. ‘Jack O’Banyon at your service.’ He nodded at the other two men in turn. ‘Mr Smith and Mr Brown.’

Not their real names of course. Only Growler knew those.

‘Gilvry,’ the young man said, his Scottish burr a startling velvet caress in her ear. ‘You were asking after me.’

Clearly surprised, Jack leaned back in his chair. ‘You’ll be excusing me, Mr Gilvry. I was expecting someone older.’ He glanced from him to her and his eyes gleamed with cunning, deciding how to use that first hot look to advantage. She tapped a fingernail on the wooden table. ‘My glass is empty, Growler.’ She spoke in the husky murmur men loved to hear in bed.

Not that they ever heard it in her bed. She preferred to sleep alone.

While the bruiser went in search of a waiter, Gilvry’s gaze focused on Jack. There was a wealth of understanding in that look. ‘My brother asked that I meet with you.’ His voice didn’t carry beyond the confines of their group.

‘Why don’t we play while we talk?’ Jack puffed smoke in Gilvry’s direction. ‘We’ll attract less attention.’

Gilvry’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Do that again, man, and I’ll stuff that wee cheroot down your throat.’ Then he grinned, an open devil-may-care smile that was both charming and dangerous.

Charity shivered as if she, too, had been caught in his predatory gaze. But it wasn’t quite that. It was the razor edge to his voice, the sense of a blade with a silky sheath. Her breathing shallowed, her chest rising and falling, the edge of her satin gown pressing against her skin like a touch. She wanted to scream. Anything to break this tension.

Brown’s hand went beneath the table, to the pistol she knew he had tucked in his waistband.

Jack threw back his head and laughed. He mashed the hot end of the cigar between his stubby fingers, his gaze fixed on Gilvry’s smiling expression. A battle of strength fought in silence.

Jack’s other two men relaxed, watchful, but at ease.

A breath left her body. Relief. Glad Gilvry wasn’t about to die. She caught herself. She did not care. Not at all.

Growler plonked the fresh glass in front of her and took the empty one away.

‘I’ve no interest in cards,’ Gilvry said softly. ‘Or drink. If it is business you want to discuss, we’ll do it in private. Or we’ll no’ do it at all.’

Not once did he look at her. Not once, since that first look the moment he sat down, yet her skin shivered with the knowledge of his strength of will. His blind courage. Fool man. She lifted her glass and drained it in one draught. A dangerous thing to do, to let the wine cloud her judgement around Jack, but the tension was too great, too impossible to let her resist the warm slide down her gullet, steadying her nerves, calming the frantic beat of her heart.

‘We’ll be going back to my rooms at the White Horse then, is it, Gilvry?’

‘Aye, that will do.’

‘Ride with us?’

Say no, she willed, the thought of being confined in a small space with him a suddenly terrifying prospect.

‘No,’ he said, once more flashing the smile with its edge of wickedness.

She almost sagged back in her chair with relief. Almost.

‘Give me a little credit, O’Banyon,’ Gilvry said. ‘I’m no’ advertising our business to all and various. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.’ He cocked a brow at the men at the table. ‘Am I needing to bring my own gang of ruffians?’

Jack barked a short laugh. ‘You’ll find no one with me but Growler, here.’

He nodded. ‘Half an hour, then.’ He rose gracefully to his feet, so tall and almost as broad as Jack, but not nearly so heavy set. There was an elegance, a manly grace, about him as he prowled away.

Deliberately, she kept her gaze on Jack, waiting for her cue.

He looked at his men. ‘I’ll not be needing you any more tonight,’ he said curtly. ‘Growler will bring you my orders in the morning.’

He rose to his feet with a sour look at Charity. ‘It seems you are losing your touch.’

The lad had caught him left-footed. He didn’t like it. She smiled slowly. ‘It seems to me, Jack, you are rising from this table with a pretty good profit.’

His gaze flicked to Gilvry where he was speaking to a blond man, who glanced in their direction and nodded. So, the young panther had the sense to let someone know where he was going, but he was still a fool, wandering into an old lion’s lair. It wasn’t her concern. She cared for nothing and no one. As long as Jack paid what he promised.

And he would, as long as she did exactly what he wanted. If not, he wouldn’t hesitate to take it out of her hide, even if it meant he had to find another cat’s paw.

She arched a brow at him.

‘Growler,’ he muttered, like a curse.

The pugilist handed her a couple of coins. Her percentage of the take. Her lust money. She slipped them inside her glove. It had been a good night. Two guineas in two hours. Not bad for one evening. If only the night ended here. Her heart gave a strange little jolt. Her job was done. Jack would not need her presence to conclude his business. Would he?

Outside, he helped her into the carriage. Growler took his seat on the box and the coach rocked into motion. She was looking forward to a warm bath. A chance to get the stink of smoke from her skin. Her maid always hung her clothes at the window to air them to no avail. Even the lavender she sprinkled between their folds when she put them away never quite rid them of the stale odour of beer and smoke, or the taint of her soul.

Sitting on the seat opposite, Jack was watching her face. From beneath her lowered lashes, she could see the intensity of his stare in the street lanterns’ regular flash into the depths of the compartment. She held herself still, relaxed. Waiting.

‘What did ye think of him?’ Jack asked, his rough voice cutting through the dark.

Careful now. The question was not an idle one. ‘The mark? I doubt we will be able to lure him in again. Not when his head clears in the morning. My guess is, his trustees have him pretty well under control.’

A hand moved impatiently. ‘Not him. Gilvry.’

As she’d supposed. Jack was no fool, in or out of his cups. To hesitate too long would give too much away. ‘A boy sent to do a man’s job,’ she said musingly, speaking the truth, somewhat. ‘He seems more adventurer than negotiator. Ian Gilvry should have come himself.’ Perhaps Jack would send him home to his brother and insist on dealing with the man himself. A pleasing thought. Or it should be.

Silence prevailed as Jack mulled over her words. ‘He’s got ballocks of steel,’ he said finally, ‘behind that baby face.’

The note of admiration did not entirely surprise her. Few men had the courage to face Jack down and this one had done it with a bold smile.

‘I was that way myself as a lad.’ He shook his head and sighed regretfully. ‘Still, an’ all, business is business. I’d be wise to take him down a peg or two, I’m thinking.’

Hurt him? Her insides cringed. ‘Likely,’ she murmured, keeping her voice indifferent and her hands still in her lap. Business was business.

‘He wants you.’

Anger flared. And fear? She dammed it up with a smile. ‘What’s it to be then, Jack? I’m to lure him into some dark alley so Growler and his boys can make him sorry he was ever born? Teach him a lesson in humility?’ More taint for her black soul.

Jack laughed. ‘Lordy, what a cold bitch you really are, Charity.’