Chapter Three
B ehind the bar at the Rogue’s Lair tavern, Logan poured good scotch into an amber glass and slugged it down. What in the name of Robbie Burns had he got himself into? God knew he was nobody’s hero. He could cast aside the vow he had uttered as a foolish young man, the debt he’d never truly expected to settle. He had no one to answer to, and blast it all, honor had never been his stock in trade.
He could walk away before he was in too deep.
Too bloody late.
Now that he’d seen the fire in Amelia Stewart’s dark blue eyes, he couldn’t turn his back on her. If Paul was right—if Amelia was in danger—he had to protect her.
Blasted shame she’d looked at him as if he was a cheat and a conniver.
Kirk Murray’s gruff voice pulled Logan out of his thoughts. The barkeep swiped a rag over the counter, making a show of cleaning it. “What the hell’s got ye thinking so hard, lad?”
“Lad?” Logan deflected the question. “Ye forgetting I’m the one paying yer wages?”
Murray shrugged his bony shoulders. “Bollocks. I’ve known ye since ye were in nappies. What’s troubling ye?”
Logan rubbed a nagging ache in the back of his neck. “Not a damned thing.”
“Ye’re a poor liar. Like yer da before ye.” Murray scrubbed a hand over his gray beard. “A good man, he was. Ye’re the spitting image of him.”
The barkeep’s words brought a smile, even as a sense of regret washed over Logan. His father had been a good man, an ambitious merchant who’d built his family a fine home in the city. But Da had worked himself into an early grave. He had not lived to see his son grow to manhood. The loss still cut like a dull blade to the gut.
“I had little time to know my father.”
“He would be proud of ye.”
“Ye’ve had too much whisky for one night.”
“Ye doubt my words?” Murray went on.
“If he could see me now, Da would roll over in his grave. He wore his collar buttoned tight... respectability at all costs. That’s not me.”
“Ye’re wrong. But ye always were headstrong. Like yer da.”
Setting his glass upon the bar, Logan glanced at the clock. It’d be dark soon enough. The regulars would pile in, and thankfully, there’d be no more time for drivel he didn’t want to hear.
Murray poured himself a drink. “Ye’re going to check on the lass?”
Logan nodded. “What in hell was in her brother’s head, sending the likes of me to watch over her?”
“He knew he could count on ye, MacLain. Whatever in hell is truly going on, whoever is behind the twisted riddle ye’ve received, ye will not let the woman face the threat alone.”
*
As the door closed behind the day’s last patron, Amelia slid the latch into place. At the end of an ordinary afternoon, she would relish this time, allowing the quiet to settle in around her, finding a sense of contentment in the simple tasks of shelving books and tidying up the library that was her haven.
But this evening felt different. Nightfall had filled her with a sense of wariness she couldn’t cast aside. Logan MacLain’s unexpected appearance at her doorstep had troubled her far more deeply than she’d let on. Even now, apprehension prickled her skin like a draft of icy air.
Had his claims been yet another attempt to frighten her into abandoning the building that housed her library? Since her brother’s death, others had tried to convince her to leave. But why would Logan MacLain be interested in this place? Surely he’d have no use for a small shop that barely had room to house her collection.
Immersed in her thoughts, she took the watch from her skirt pocket and grazed her fingertips over the etched gold. The feel of her brother’s carved initials offered a gentle, calming connection. Had a sense of integrity led Mr. MacLain to return it? Or had he intended to gain her trust with a gesture of goodwill?
The question gnawed at her, unraveling the momentary peace. MacLain’s claims had been wild and utterly unexpected. But was it possible he was telling the truth?
Enough. She would not dwell on her nagging doubts. Before long, she’d go up to her flat, pour a cup of tea, grab a bite to eat, and hopefully she’d be able to put the events of the afternoon out of her mind.
She slipped the watch back into her pocket and turned her attention to a stack of recent acquisitions. Scooping up the books, she carried them to a table near the front of the library. Memories of her brother flashed through her thoughts. Paul had always supported her endeavors. When she’d set out to establish a lending library for the women of the community, he had never questioned the cost. For years, funding the library had posed no difficulty. Their father had spent his life building a minor fortune through hard work and shrewd investments. He’d left behind a substantial inheritance, trusting her brother to manage the funds to both their benefits.
The assets held in trust were hers now. Some believed her to be an heiress.
Heiress. The word rang hollow in her thoughts. After Paul’s death, she’d discovered the truth. Much of their nest egg had vanished.
Fortunately, her brother had not left her destitute. If she managed what remained of the funds with an eye toward thrift, she could maintain a life of independence, lived on her own terms. Doing so would pose no hardship. She’d never aspired to luxury. Her flat above the library was quite comfortable.
Still, the revelation that Paul had squandered much of their inheritance—and in such a short time—had struck like a body blow. He’d drained a considerable amount from the accounts in the year before his death, money that had seemingly evaporated into thin air. What had gone wrong? Had he involved himself in some venture—legitimate or otherwise—that he’d concealed from her? Had he fallen into some sort of trouble?
Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. Amelia shoved a heavy volume onto the shelf, then another, taking some small release of tension from the exertion. As she reached for another book, a quiet thud against the floor reached her ears.
Startled, she turned. A thick tome lay on the floor near the shelves by the circulation desk. Heathy’s collar bell jangled as he darted out of sight.
“Naughty boy,” she said, more to herself than the wayward pup. “How on earth did you move such a heavy book?”
Her gaze trailed Heathy’s path. He’d scurried toward the back of the library. Rather odd, that. It wasn’t like the pup to run and hide. Usually, he was quite proud of his mischief. Had Heathy sensed something she had not?
A sudden chill danced over her skin. My, she was being a goose, wasn’t she? Letting her nerves get the better of her. And all over her mischievous dog.
Perhaps Mr. MacLain’s unwanted visit had gotten to her more than she’d realized. She’d put very little stock in his jarring words. She knew better than to take his claims or the bold promises of any of the others who’d tried to deceive her at face value.
Shaking off the way her skin had prickled ever so slightly, she determined to finish her tasks and be done for the night. Then, she could relax with a piping hot cup of tea and a good book.
She snatched up the book she needed put back in its place and headed to the proper shelf.
A quiet squawk of the floorboards cut through her resolve. She froze, her gaze pulled to the back of the library.
Definitely not Heathy.
Her breath caught.
She was not alone.
Fighting the instinct to flee, she calmed herself. You are a logical woman, Amelia. Perhaps Mrs. Tidwell hasn’t left after all.
Yes, that was it, she reasoned. She doubted her elderly patron could hear the shriek of a teakettle, let alone Amelia’s voice as she’d announced closing time.
“Mrs. Tidwell,” she called, moving along the rows of bookcases. “Come along, dear. I’ll see you home.”
Behind her, the latch on the entry door rattled.
Her heart raced. Someone is trying to get in.
She spun around, her attention darting to the frosted glass.
No one there.
She let out a breath of relief. A patron had realized the place was closed for the day and gone along their way. Such a simple explanation.
Creak. One. Then another. And another, along the back shelves, betraying otherwise silent footsteps. The sounds seemed magnified by the utter quiet in the space.
She pulled in a low breath, as if that might slow her racing pulse. “Mrs. Tidwell,” she called again as she canvassed the shelves. With each empty row, hope faded.
No sign of Mrs. Tidwell.
The old woman had not been the source of the floorboards’ protest.
Another squeak of the floor, this time near the center of the collection shelves. This time, the steps were heavier, as though the intruder now made no effort to conceal their presence.
Amelia’s thoughts raced.
No need to worry. You have a weapon.
And you know how to use it.
She rushed to her office and maneuvered around a pile of books in front of the cabinet. She’d stored the derringer she carried for the purpose of self-defense in the uppermost drawer. Taking the key from her pocket, she slid it into the lock.
As she turned the key, a man’s large, heavy hand clamped over her shoulder. The intruder dragged her back against his towering frame. She cried out, her voice raw with instinctive fear.
“Quiet. Now.” He caught her chin in one leather-gloved hand, his fingers digging brutally into her skin. Sliding his hand higher, he pressed his fingers over her mouth and nose.
Stifling her scream.
Cutting off her breath.
“Do as I say. Don’t make a sound.”
Frantic for air, she nodded her understanding.
“Good.” He kept his fingers clamped tight over her mouth, even as he allowed her to take a breath. “He said you were a clever girl. Now just do as you’re told, and I won’t have to hurt you.”
He. The word echoed in her brain like a thunderclap.
Someone had sent this man after her.
But who?
His hold unyielding, he tensed against her. He seemed nervous. On edge. Instinct warned her that he was unpredictable. And even more dangerous.
Do not trigger his anger. Or his fear.
Do not fight.
Not yet.
She couldn’t see the man’s face, but the feel of his wool jacket suggested the fabric was finely made. Expensive. A slight whiff of hair pomade mingled with the odor of spirits on his breath. The intruder was not an unwashed thug. Not a street thief or burglar.
Why would someone others might perceive as a gentleman come after her?
The door latch clattered. Muttering an epithet, he dug his fingers into her shoulder. “Expecting someone?”
She shook her head, desperate to keep him calm. To her relief, the jangling at the door stopped. As an uneasy silence fell over them, he roughly dragged her toward the back of the building.
“Lucky for you they went on their way,” he murmured against her cheek. Keeping her back turned to him, he slid his hand from her mouth. “Where is it?”
She pulled in a breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He shook her. Hard. “Do not take me for a fool. He made that mistake.”
“I don’t know—”
“Tell me the truth. Where is the blasted diamond?” He curled his fingers around her hair and gave a rough yank. “Where is it?”
A cry escaped her as she braced herself against the sudden pain.
“I want the truth.” He pulled her against him. This close, she could feel the gun beneath his jacket pressing into her back. “You were the only one—”
“You’re mad.” She gasped a breath, then another. “I know nothing... nothing about a jewel.”
He coiled one arm roughly over her chest, threateningly close to her throat. “There’s only one reason to keep you alive. Tell me what you know.”
Or he will choke the life out of me.
Raw instinct flooded her veins. She had to fight. Had to get away.
“Perhaps I do remember something,” she said, hoping the brute might believe her and let down his guard.
“That’s better. Now start talking.”
“He told me...” she said, leading him on as she shifted on her feet. With luck, he would not realize the subtle movement had a purpose. Years earlier, her brother had taught her a lesson in defending herself against an overly determined suitor. Or an attacker.
“Tell me,” he demanded against her ear.
“There is a certain place . . .”
She pulled in a low breath. Summoning all the force she could muster, she stomped her foot down onto his boot. Her heel plowed into his instep.
As he let out a groan of pain, his hold eased. She jerked away, bolting for the door. Her fingers closed around the knob.
His large hands clamped down on her shoulders, holding her with a vise-like strength. Dragging her to him, he stared down at her. “That was a mistake.” His tone was cold. “The diamond—I know it’s here.”
A bitter truth crashed over her. If this brute did not care that she saw his pale, broad features, he had no intention of letting her live. She clasped the skeleton key from the door in her hand. Carefully, she hid it against her palm. Not an ideal weapon, but it could inflict pain. And with that, she could buy time. She could find a way to escape.
“I have money,” she murmured with a passiveness she did not feel. “I will give it to you.”
An ugly laugh passed his thin lips. “Save yourself. Tell me where he hid it.”
“I cannot tell you what I do not know.”
“Where is the bloody treasure? Tell me.” He bit the command between his teeth. “Before I choke the breath out of you and tear this place apart. Board by board.”
The anger in his voice fueled the desperate fear deep within her.
Fight the cur!
She pulled in a breath and called upon a strength she’d never known she possessed. Wildly, she struggled against his hold. Still, it wasn’t enough. His fingers dug into her upper arms, pinning her. She had to free herself. With a sharp twist of her body, she drove an elbow into his side. His low, pain-filled grunt told her she’d hit his ribs.
His breaths came fast and ragged. “You little shrew!”
With another sudden, violent motion, she wrenched her arm free. Careful to conceal the key in her hand, she eyed his face, steeling herself against a wave of revulsion.
“You will regret that.” He reared back, raising his thick hand.
Now!
She struck his face, the slim metal key plunging into his left eye. Agony turned his voice raw as he cried out, instinctively releasing his hold on her other arm.
Run! Can’t be trapped here!
Amelia darted to the door.
Heavy footfalls of pursuit sounded in her ears. Thick fingers grazed her back. Still, she evaded his grasp.
Suddenly, his hand clamped over her upper arm. Wild with fear, she searched the room for something—anything—to fend him off.
The bookends.
Fighting wildly against his hold, she strained to reach her desk. Her fingers brushed one of the sturdy metal braces.
Must reach it.
He yanked her nearly off her feet, but she coiled her fingers around the bookend’s column-shaped base. His fingers coiled around her wrist, tight as a vise. With a vicious twist, he contorted her arm. She bit back a cry, but the small sound that escaped her only seemed to encourage his cruelty. Slowly, he increased the tension. More and more, nearly to the breaking point.
Pain rippled through her arm. Intense. Relentless.
She heard herself scream as the bookend tumbled to the floor.
Still, he did not ease the cruel pressure. Hauling her close, he stared down at her. His bloodied face sickened her. “I will wring your scrawny neck. Tell me where—”
Heathy’s low growl cut through her captor’s threat. The dog lunged.
With a roar of pain, the intruder staggered backward. “Blasted mongrel.” Frantic to dislodge the dog’s teeth from his shin, the brute let her go. Muttering a string of vile curses, he reached for the gun beneath his jacket. Gaslight gleamed off the barrel of his revolver.
Desperation surged through her. She eyed the bookend near her feet. Could she reach it before he pulled the trigger?
Dear God. She couldn’t take that chance.
“No!” Dragging Heathy into her arms, she put herself between the dog and the gun.
“Move away,” the intruder ordered. “Or I’ll kill—”
A sudden, guttural groan cut through his threat as his knees buckled. He crumpled like a puppet untethered from its strings.
Amelia lifted her gaze to the man who’d claimed he had been sent to protect her. Standing over the assailant, a leather cudgel in his hand, Logan MacLain regarded her with an expression that bore no hint of triumph. Rather, his full mouth betrayed a look of resignation, as if even he had not quite believed the threat was real. Until now.
Her pulse raced as he came to her.
“Are ye well, lass?” His words were a husky brogue.
She nodded, meeting his dark eyes. “How did you know... I needed you?” She asked the first words that came to mind.
“I’d a notion ye might need some help.” His voice was quiet and matter-of-fact as his attention shifted to her unconscious attacker. “From the looks of this bastard, I was right.”