Falling for the Highland Rogue

The difference, the small difference, was that Mr Gilvry was a gentleman. The squat man now lusting for her favours was as far away from a gentleman as the pig he resembled. She gave him her warmest, most seductive smile and batted her lashes. ‘I hope we meet again soon.’

She swept out.

‘Now,’ Jack said as she closed the door. ‘Tell me about this trouble you are having with the Gilvry brothers and what you intend to do about it.’

‘Logan is the worst. He’s a thorn in my side.’

‘Is he, now?’ Jack replied musingly.

She would have lingered to hear more, but the maid, a little mousy thing assigned to her by the hotel, trundled in from the bedroom next door. ‘Is there anything I can be getting you, Mrs West?’

She wouldn’t put it past Jack to have the girl in his pay. Watching her. ‘Brandy, please, Muira.’ She needed something to take the edge off the revulsion she’d been feeling all night.

Logan Gilvry’s innocent smile with a touch of wickedness floated across her mind. A smile she would be resisting tomorrow. Or not. She inhaled a quick breath. She’d have no difficulty keeping him at a distance, lovely as he was. Giving in to passion had served her ill in the past. A mistake she had never made again. Compared to some of the men she had dealt with, handling this young Scot should be a simple matter.

Muira handed her the brandy and she took a sip, let the warmth slide down her throat. It did nothing for the coldness inside her. A good thing, too. It was a coldness she had cultivated and now carefully nurtured. ‘That will be all, thank you.’

The girl bobbed a curtsy and left.

She took another sip. And if she refused to drive out with Jack and Gilvry on the morrow? If she sent her regrets? She leaned her head back against the chair cushions, plush and soft against her head. Jack paid her because she was useful. The world was a cold hard place for women alone without family support. Unless she had money.

She drained her glass. As usual, she would do what must be done. And to hell with green-eyed panthers.

* * *

An hour or so later, Jack entered without knocking, rubbing his hands together, his eyes glinting with pleasure.

‘What did you think?’ he asked, crossing to the console to pour a drink.

A chance to nudge things in the direction she preferred? Perhaps. She put her book aside. ‘A man who gets the job done.’

‘Aye.’ Jack brought his drink and stood with one foot on the hearth. ‘But I wouldn’t trust him with a farthing.’

True. ‘You don’t have to trust a man, if you understand him.’

He cast her a sharp glance. ‘Throwing your weight in his direction, are ye?’

She shrugged non-committally. ‘He’s a known quantity. He can deliver. He holds Edinburgh in his palm.’

Jack narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Almost. We drank Gilvry’s whisky at the alehouse, don’t forget.’

Daring. Jack was always drawn by anyone who beat the odds. His one weakness. The reason he had taken her on. She let her opposition fill the silence.

‘For all that McKenzie brags, the Gilvrys have him worried.’ He drained his glass in one swift swallow. ‘I don’t understand what makes them such a threat to a man like McKenzie.’

Intelligence. ‘Ask Gilvry. He’ll probably tell you.’

‘Aye.’ He kicked at the grate. ‘But does he have the courage to take what he wants, no matter the cost?’

Her, did he mean? She raised a brow. ‘He’s a boy. Really, Jack. You want me to waste my talents. For what? Assurance that he’s as reckless as you?’

He was across the room in a trice, pulling her up from her seat. A quick ruthless twist and her arm was pressed high between her shoulder blades. Her eyes blurred from the pain.

‘Are you questioning me?’ His voice low and menacing in her ear.

‘No,’ she gasped. ‘I am just trying to understand what you want me to get from him.’

He released her with a push that made her stumble. She rubbed at her reddened wrist. Likely she’d have a bruise there tomorrow. ‘I’ll do whatever you want, Jack. No questions asked.’

‘I thought you might, colleen.’ He sipped at his drink.

* * *

‘So what will you tell them?’ Sanford asked.

Logan eyed the languid figure on the other side of the carriage. The young lord had kindly offered him the loan of his carriage, once he’d been dropped off at Holyroodhouse where he had been called on some official business. ‘I’ll tell them the truth. That King is no’ landing today because of the rain and offer to take them tomorrow.’ He looked out of the window at the torrential rain, at the bunting and soggy flags draped across the buildings to welcome King George. ‘Unless they have some other idea. Perhaps they’ll want to go stare through the mist at his ship out in the harbour.’

‘You could take them shopping.’

He turned back to look at Sanford’s mocking face. ‘Why would I do that?’

The smile broadened. ‘Since you asked me for the loan of my carriage today, I’ve been thinking. If you really want to impress this O’Banyon fellow and his lady friend, there are several events you could take them to besides the public processions. There’s a levee. A drawing room, and a couple of balls. None of which will depend on the weather.’

Logan glowered at the smirking fop. ‘None of which I’ve been invited to.’

‘Ah, but you see, I happen to be friends with Sir Walter Scott, the man in charge.’

‘Oh, aye. And you think we wouldna’ stick out like sore thumbs at the King’s Drawing Room? You are daft in the head.’

‘As long as you wear your kilt, my dear boy, you will fit right in. But as for the lady, well, she would need something a little more...well, something different from what she was wearing at the Reiver the other night.’

He frowned. ‘I liked what she wore.’

‘So did every other man in the place. She needs a proper court dress. With ostrich plumes. And a ball gown for the Peers’ Ball. That is, if you really do want to take her and her friend.’

‘I would like to see O’Banyon wearing a kilt.’

‘The Irish wear kilts, I’m told.’

They did, but somehow he couldn’t quite picture one on this particular Irishman.

‘Have you ever had the pleasure of clothing a woman?’ Sanford asked idly, but there was a sharpness in the look he shot Logan’s way.

The man was making it sound as if it was the sort of thing a man of his age should have done hundreds of times. ‘Any woman worth her salt knows what to wear.’

Sanford grinned.

The young lord was having altogether too much fun with this new idea of his. And yet if O’Banyon liked the idea of mingling with the cream of Edinburgh’s society, it might help him decide in Dunross’s favour. ‘I’ll ask if they have any interest.’