
A Rogue to Watch Over Me (A Rogue of Her Own #1)
Chapter One
London, 1892
“T he man is trouble, I tell you. I have it on good authority—Logan MacLain is an outlaw.”
“On good authority?” Amelia Stewart scoffed at her friend’s breathless pronouncement. Glancing up from cataloguing a recent addition to her lending library’s collection, she met Beatrice’s wide-eyed gaze. “I learned long ago to pay no heed to rumors.”
After all, she’d inspired many a tongue-wagging biddy herself.
“What I’ve heard is not idle gossip. It’s a warning.” Beatrice lowered her voice as if she had revealed a solemn secret. “The man is a devil, I tell you. A born rogue.”
“So, which is it, Bea?” Amelia bit back a grin. “Outlaw? Devil? Or rogue?”
“Well...” Beatrice nibbled her bottom lip. “I suppose it may be more accurate to say he’s a gambler. But he’s up to no good. There’s no doubt about that. Heaven only knows how he filled his coffers.”
Amelia cocked a skeptical brow. “Honestly, Bea, it’s not like you to be drawn into empty-headed tales. Mr. MacLain is a tavern keeper, not a train robber fresh from a spree of pillaging.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I have heard talk of what goes on in his pub, tales not fit to be shared with a proper lady. The Rogue’s Lair, indeed.” The excitement in Beatrice’s voice betrayed her eagerness to repeat what she’d heard, indecent or not.
“I am not so very proper.” Amelia gave a little shrug. “Surely you recall the scandal .”
“Not a scandal. Not really. Mere gossip, naught but hot air.” Beatrice glanced away, a telltale sign she did not fully believe her own words. “Besides, that was a long time ago. At least the scoundrel had the good graces to make you a widow. Not a divorcee.”
Widow.
The word echoed hollow in Amelia’s thoughts. Somehow, it didn’t quite fit. Even now, years after she’d cast aside her black mourning dress and ended what had seemed a hopeless charade, pinched-face shrews with little better to do twittered about her, their innuendo-laden whispers spoken in tones meant to reach her ears. Their cruel chatter no longer cut deeply, as it had in those days when she’d been torn between despair and relief. She had broken into sobs after the accident that ended her husband’s life, but she had never admitted the bitter truth that her tears had not been born solely of grief. Blended with her sorrow, an elemental sense of solace had swept over her.
She no longer needed to fear the man she’d once loved.
Amelia sighed. “It seems a lifetime ago.”
“I pray you know better than to let a man’s handsome face blind you to his cold heart.”
“That goes without saying.”
Amelia glanced away, unwilling to reveal the unexpected ache in her chest to Beatrice’s observant gaze. Her marriage had proven a bitter lesson, indeed. She’d seen the icy hardness in Edward’s eyes from the start, but she’d believed her love could change him. How naive she had been. The man she’d wed had shown her no tenderness. No affection. If anything, he had looked upon her with a cynical contempt, his striking blue eyes viewing her innocent devotion to him as a fool’s game.
He’d tried to break her spirit. It was as if Edward had wanted to leave her jaded. But she had known better than to give in. Known better than to surrender her hope.
Genuine love existed. Of that, she had no doubt. She’d seen the adoration in her mother’s eyes whenever Mama had looked upon her father. And she’d heard the pure devotion in her father’s voice whenever he’d uttered her mother’s name, even in the moments before he took his last breath.
She wanted that kind of love.
She would not settle for less.
Never again.
“You’re wiser now,” Bea went on, pulling Amelia back from her thoughts. “But I do worry.”
“Whatever about?” Amelia forced a lightness into her tone she didn’t truly feel.
“You were a wedded woman, but you’ve no experience with the ways of rogues and seducers. With no want of a wife, they’re the most dangerous of them all.”
“And you believe Mr. MacLain is such a man—a scoundrel who would happily lure a woman like me into his bed?”
Beatrice nodded solemnly. “He’s a wicked one, I tell you.”
“How very exciting! I rather fancy the prospect of being ravished by a rogue, wicked or otherwise,” Amelia teased, eager to watch Beatrice’s face scrunch up into a little scowl.
“Do not go tempting fate. There’s no telling what trouble a man like him might stir up.”
“Oh, don’t be a goose. It’s not as if Blackbeard has purchased the pub around the corner.”
“Not Blackbeard, my dear. Truth be told, this man might be even worse. Mr. MacLain spent years in America. In the wild west, no less. That’s where he made his fortune. Ill-gotten gains, indeed.”
Amelia set aside the book she’d been holding. No point in attempting to apply the Dewey Decimal system to the volume’s classification while Beatrice rambled on about seducers and ne’er-do-wells.
“And now, the rogue has opened that den of sin,” Bea went on. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The tinkle of a small bell pulled Amelia’s attention to the door of the reading room. A jaunty pup that looked to be a cross between a Cairn terrier and heaven-only-knew-what trotted across the rug, his head tilted as if he inspected the premises. Gazing up at her with unabashed mischief in his velvet brown eyes, the dog settled at her feet.
“Oh, Heathy, what did you get into this time?” Reaching down to pet the cocky ball of fluff, she smiled despite the nagging suspicion that the pup had been nibbling on something he shouldn’t have. She’d learned soon enough after rescuing the abandoned puppy never to leave her shoes or anything else she held dear within his reach.
“He does look a wee bit guilty, doesn’t he?” Bea observed with a chuckle.
“Unfortunately, I must agree.” Not that his antics made one bit of difference to her affection for the dog she’d come upon in the park on a cold, dreary day nearly three years earlier. Huddled together with his littermates in a battered old crate, the tiny pup had tugged at her heart from the first. Amelia had taken in the lot of them, finding good homes for the wee pups, but she simply couldn’t part with the affectionate little creature that bore a pointed resemblance to a chimney sweep’s mop. Heathy had been at her side ever since.
Beatrice fixed her gaze on the silver-trimmed leather collar around the hound’s neck, her brows knitting. “This little beast of yours wears more finery than you do.”
“Heathy’s collar was a present... from my brother.”
“Quite lovely.” Beatrice leaned closer to inspect the ebony and silver band. “Did Paul acquire it during his travels?”
“He commissioned it in London.” Amelia gulped against a fresh wave of grief. Her brother’s death had gouged a wound in her heart she doubted would ever heal.
“Whatever possessed him to purchase such an elegant piece for a dog?”
“Paul was motivated by the bell on the collar, not the beauty of the piece. He was weary of the bloody creature , to use his words, sneaking up on him.”
Beatrice’s expression softened. “How long has it been, now?”
“Three months.” Amelia brushed away a tear trickling down her cheek. “It still feels like a bad dream.”
A nightmare.
In truth, no words could fully describe the heart-shattering news of her brother’s death. The very thought that the authorities believed Paul had taken his own life was nearly too much to bear.
The detectives were wrong. Something had led Paul to that decrepit building. To that rooftop. He had been lured to his death. She felt that truth in her bones. If only she could prove it.
She wouldn’t rest until she’d found justice.
Beatrice’s eyes warmed with compassion. “I am so very sorry. I will not speak of it again,” she said gently as the chimes at the entry door announced a guest.
The divided skirt of her teal walking suit swishing with each step, Edith Monroe strolled up to the desk. She uttered a few pleasantries before heading directly to the display of the lending library’s latest acquisitions.
Taking quick advantage of the distraction, Heathy roamed over to a low shelf by Amelia’s desk. As he reached up on his hind legs to sniff a bisque doll she’d placed there, she shooed him away.
“Naughty boy. That’s not your plaything.”
Her gaze danced over the beautifully garbed doll, and she traced a fingertip over its delicate painted features. A dull current of pain rippled through her, and she struggled to hold back tears. Her brother had given the French Fashion Lady to her following his last trip to Paris, but the memory was now bittersweet. Scarcely a week after she’d received the elegant keepsake as a birthday present, Paul’s lifeless body had been discovered in an alley behind a bustling hotel.
Not an accident.
The circumstances of his death made no sense. None whatsoever.
“I’m delighted you’ve acquired Miss Braddon’s new work.” Edith’s animated voice tugged Amelia from her thoughts, a welcome intrusion.
“I quite enjoyed it,” she said, placing the doll on a higher shelf before joining Edith at the circulation desk to complete the lending slip. As she penned a notation in her journal, the door latch jangled and the chimes sounded once again.
A man strode through the door, the solid clunk of his boots against the wooden floorboards jarring her from the task at hand. Tall, dark, and effortlessly imposing, he met her eyes as he headed directly to the desk behind which Amelia stood.
“Oh, dear,” Beatrice murmured.
Oh, dear—indeed.
“It’s him.” Edith’s not-quite-a-whisper brought a hint of a smile to his full mouth.
Amelia’s breath caught.
Logan MacLain.
In the flesh.
Long-legged and lean-hipped, the sable-haired Scot possessed the look of a raider of old. Clad in an ebony coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, black trousers, and polished leather boots, Mr. MacLain certainly would have made a most dashing outlaw.
Pity he was not a buccaneer at the helm of a ship, pistol at his side, spiriting her away to an oh-so-decadent fate.
Good heavens.
She gave her head a little shake to banish the scandalous notion. What had come over her? She might not be an entirely proper lady. But she was, if nothing else, a sensible one. Perhaps Bea’s flights of fancy were contagious.
She fashioned a bland expression, even as her pulse sped, if only just a bit. She certainly was not expecting to see the man face to face—close enough to touch.
Close enough to detect the faint aroma of bergamot soap on his skin.
If not for the way he’d neglected to wear a tie around his neck—or to fasten the buttons at the collar of his pristine white shirt, for that matter—Mr. MacLain might have passed for a gentleman. Or perhaps not, she reasoned, even as her attention lingered over the vee of deep brown hair at his open collar. Decidedly improper.
Drawing her gaze like the glow of a flame lured a hapless moth.
With a little gulp of breath, Amelia forced her attention higher.
Ah, that might have been a mistake.
My, he was an appealing man. Logan MacLain’s straight, dark hair brushed his collar. Perhaps too long to be in fashion, yet she longed to touch the rich brown strands. His classically carved features were undeniably rugged, while his dark brown gaze held hers in a most intriguing manner.
Mr. MacLain was undeniably handsome. Undeniably bold. And so very tempting.
Don’t be a goose, Amelia.
Reining in her rebellious thoughts, she drummed her fingertips against the desk. Beatrice’s talk of the rogue around the corner had taken its toll. It wasn’t like her to be rendered nearly speechless by the mere sight of a man. A man who had no business crossing the threshold of her library, at that.
Amelia stepped away from her desk and squared her shoulders. She’d simply send him on his way. Of course, it was actually quite a simple task.
But when she spotted the gleam in his dark-as-midnight eyes, she sensed she’d made another mistake.
“Sir, this library serves an all-female clientele. Perhaps I might point you toward the establishment you seek.”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I am in the right place, lass.”
This was certainly unexpected. Undeterred, she held her tone steady. “It would seem you have been misinformed. I must ask you to leave.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “Ye’re Amelia Stewart, are ye not?”
“I am.” Determined to project a look of confidence, she cocked her chin. “If you have business to discuss, I will provide you with the name of my solicitor.”
“I’ve no need to speak with anyone but ye.” He spoke in a rich, husky brogue, his tone quiet, yet firm and all too appealing.
He took a step toward her. Then another. One more stride, and he’d be close enough to touch her.
A wave of apprehension washed over her, but she steeled herself against it. She felt no fear of this man. But deep within, an instinctive warning sounded.
Something was wrong. Of that, she was quite certain.
“Please leave,” she said. “Now.”
Again, he shook his head. “I must refuse yer request.”
She lifted her chin higher. By thunder, she was not about to let this stranger intimidate her. “In that case, I shall summon a constable.”
“I would not do that if I were ye.” He shot Beatrice and Edith a sly look. “I suspect these women already know who I am. The new scoundrel in town, purveyor of liquor and all manner of debauchery. Or so I’ve heard on the street. But for ye, lass, I will offer a more proper introduction. My name is Logan MacLain. I have come bearing a message from yer brother.”