Chapter Six
L ogan folded his arms with a casualness he did not feel, rocked back on his heels, and watched the set of Amelia’s features shift like quicksilver. A brewing storm flickered in her gaze. Blast it, the lass’s face expressed her feelings louder than words. She’d likely be damned poor at poker, telegraphing her thoughts with every flash of emotion in those gorgeous blue eyes of hers. As she took in his words, her teeth grazed her lower lip, the sight as tempting as any he’d seen in a very long time.
Too damned long a time, in fact.
He wanted to kiss her. No, not want . The word was far too tame, not even close to describing the sudden hunger to taste her sweetness.
In his youth, he had spent months that seemed an eternity as one of the crew on a ship that sailed across the Atlantic. He’d found beauty in the white-capped waves of summer storms, even as the wind would howl around them, fierce as a banshee’s cry.
Like those turbulent ocean waters, Amelia was beautiful.
Fascinating.
From the slight tilt of her chin to the way her half-parted lips countered the cool ire in her eyes, Amelia could draw him in with the crook of a finger. Something about her he couldn’t attempt to define—something so genuine, it seemed to render her incapable of guile—rekindled a yearning he had thought long extinguished.
If a man was not careful, he’d be swept into the deep. Over his head in dangerous waters.
He would not let a fool’s desire get the better of him. He’d come to make good on his pledge. There could be nothing more to it than that. Seducing Amelia was out of the question. A woman like her deserved a man who’d come home to a fire in a hearth every of night of his life.
No, she was not meant for a man like him.
He wanted no part of love, no part of the charades that inevitably went along with it. Once, when he was younger and far more foolish, he had thought to make a life with a woman he’d adored, offering that lass his heart and his passion and his name.
But that was not enough. Not for his beautiful bride-to-be. Not for her family and their blasted highbrow aspirations. Maeve had revealed that brutal truth not long before they were to speak their vows. Another man had offered for her hand in marriage, a man who could give her both the riches and the title she craved.
Now, when he hungered for a woman, he sought pleasure. For himself. For the woman in his bed.
But love was a myth, no more real than the dragons in a childhood fairy tale.
Love was for fools.
So, he would settle his debt.
He would protect Amelia. Whatever the risk. Even if it meant putting his own neck on the line.
Reining in his rebellious thoughts, he tore his gaze from her mouth. What in blazes had come over him? It wasn’t as if he was a wet-behind-the-ears lad.
He met the storm in her eyes. “In case ye wonder if yer ears are deceiving ye, they’re not.”
“Well then, that settles it,” she said, her tone cooler than her gaze. “When you claimed my brother had sent you, I wondered at your motives. But now, it’s clear. It would appear you’ve gone mad.”
Mad. He considered her words. “Seeing as I’m on a fool’s errand to play the protector to a woman who does not want to be protected, I am inclined to agree with ye.”
“In that case, I trust you will be on your way.” She turned her back to him and marched up the steps. “I am more than capable of letting myself in my own residence, locking the door behind me, and pulling the bedcovers up to my chin to settle in for the night.”
He joined her on the small porch as she fished her key out of her reticule. Throwing him a hint of a scowl over her shoulder, she looked as if she wanted to sigh but thought better of it. “I intend to spend the night in my flat. Alone. ”
He shook his head. “Mad or not, I won’t be leaving ye on yer own tonight.”
She whipped around as if he’d pinched her. “I will not remain under the same roof with you tonight, Mr. MacLain. Not here.” Her full mouth pinched together before she added, “Not on the blasted moon.”
“The bastard named Jack was the first to come after ye. But I’d wager my last coin he won’t be the last.”
“I suspect you will lose that bet.” She cocked her chin, then once again showed him her back as she fiddled with the lock.
“I will not leave ye defenseless.”
“Please, go. I do not wish to disturb my neighbors.”
As she whispered the words, a sudden movement caught his attention.
He turned.
Across the cobblestone road, a shadow against the apothecary’s shop shifted, low against the brick.
Probably a stray dog. Nothing more.
He turned back to Amelia. Suddenly, he caught the motion again, out of the corner of his eye.
The silhouette crept closer. Not so low to the ground now.
Not an animal.
Gaslight flashed against metal clutched in the man’s hand.
Bloody hell.
“Mr. MacLain,” Amelia continued, “I assure you, I do not need—”
He took a step closer to her, putting his body between Amelia and the man lurking in the shadows. In his mind’s eye, he worked out a strategy.
But first, she had to be safe behind a sturdy door.
He kept his voice low. “Go inside. Now.”
“You are not—”
A crack thundered through the night.
Bollocks!
Instinctively, he threw himself over Amelia as the bullet slammed into the wall above them. Fragments of brick tumbled over their shoulders. Pressing her against the side of the porch, he heard her gasp, felt her voluminous skirts fan out beneath her.
“Good heavens!” she cried out. “You’ll be hit!”
The notes of anguish and fear in her voice stunned him. Her concern had not been for herself. But for him.
That was a bloody first.
“I’ll hold him off.” He unholstered the revolver he’d worn beneath his coat. “Go inside. Lock the door behind ye.”
Another shot rang out.
The slug splintered a wooden sign. Its remnants dangled over the window, an arm’s length from their heads.
Bugger it. Was the bastard in the shadows that damned poor a marksman? Or did he only intend to send a message?
Amelia’s key scraped against the lock. Her body tensed against him, and he felt the uneven cadence of her breaths. Finally, the hinges squawked a protest, the door creaked open, and she darted inside.
“Bolt the door,” he told her, training his attention on the gunman.
“But you—” Concern colored her low tones.
“I know what I’m doing,” he ground out. Bloody hell, he hoped he was right. “Do not open this door until ye hear the sound of my voice.”
She gave a reluctant nod. The hinges squeaked again, and he heard the lock fall into place.
Crouching low, he scanned the street. The gas lamp cast hazy shadows against the buildings on either side of the road.
No sign of the shooter.
Out of the darkness, a cat darted over the cobbles.
Gaslight from the lamp at the corner beamed dimly through the fog. In the darkness beyond Logan’s line of sight, boot heels thudded against the pavement.
Heading to the alley.
Running away.
Blasted coward.
Logan followed the frantic beat of the assailant’s footfalls. The bastard seemed to blend into the darkness, but the pounding against the pavement guided Logan through the thick mist.
He moved toward the alley, weapon at the ready. “Come out, ye bloody coward.”
He couldn’t see the gunman.
Couldn’t take a shot.
Within the shadows, metal clattered against stone. He spotted a refuse can tipped on its side. Had the gunman toppled it in his rush to flee?
Senses on alert, Logan continued his pursuit. In the distance, horses whinnied. Carriage wheels rumbled over the street. Reaching the end of the alley, he spotted an elegant coach racing into the night.
Bugger it.
The gunman had escaped.
*
Amelia milled about the library, straightening shelves that were already in perfectly reasonable order, completing minor tasks as if doing so might soothe her nerves. Growing weary of the mindless activity, she moved to the window, ducked behind the curtain, and peered into the gaslit night.
No sign of Mr. MacLain.
Uttering a quiet prayer for his safe return, she crossed the room and began tidying another shelf. Somehow, nothing about this night made sense. While she remained locked behind a sturdy door, Logan MacLain was out there, putting himself at risk. She’d watched through the window as he began to pursue the gun-wielding coward who’d hidden in the shadows. A dull ache pulsed deep within her. At that very moment, he could be lying wounded in some dank alley.
And all because he was determined to protect her.
Why had Logan MacLain—of all the men in London—set his mind to playing the part of her champion? What was the debt he owed her brother?
Curled on his little pillow near her desk, Heathy watched her every move. Despite his curiosity, he showed no inclination to join her. To the contrary, the pup happily nibbled a bone, content to observe her as she undertook one chore after another.
The clock on the wall chimed.
Midnight.
Surely this new day could not possibly be as disturbing as the last. In mere hours, her life had transformed from one of pleasant, rather predictable routine to what seemed a bad dream.
Suddenly, Heathy’s head snapped up. The bone in his mouth fell to the rug. Letting out a little growl, he padded off to the door.
Amelia’s pulse raced. What had he heard?
No need to be afraid.
A shiver crept along her spine. Drawing in a calming breath, she retrieved the pistol she kept in her desk. With any luck, she would not be forced to pull the trigger.
A heavy rap sounded upon the door. “Let me in.”
MacLain’s voice. Thank heavens!
Relief rushed through her. But still, she needed to be sure. She needed to know wild hope had not deceived her senses. “Tell me again, Mr. MacLain.”
“Open this bloody thing.” His tone was low and raw. Unmistakably him .
She released the bolt and threw open the door.
He hiked a sable brow as he met her gaze. “Would I be speaking the truth if I said ye’re glad to see me?”
“Indeed, I am.” There was no need to be coy. This night, they had been through far too much to play games.
He closed the door behind him and locked it.
Glancing over him from head to toe, she forced a casual tone. “It would appear you are still in one piece.”
A half-smile tugged at his mouth. “Did ye fret over me, lass?”
It wouldn’t do to confess how she’d worried. Lord knew the man was arrogant as it was. “Not for one moment,” she fibbed, not quite convincingly.
Eyes narrowing with obvious doubt, he cocked his head. “I don’t believe ye. But ye know that, don’t ye?”
“Perhaps I did worry, Mr. MacLain,” she admitted. “If only a wee bit.”
“I figured that might be the case.” He plowed long fingers through his hair. “I’d appreciate it if ye’d stop calling me Mr. MacLain . Logan will do just fine.”
“It would not be proper... to use your given name.”
He’d rested his elbow against a bookshelf and leaned his head against his hand. His features betrayed his weariness, but the glimmer in his dark eyes was not dulled.
“What on God’s green earth would make ye think what’s proper matters to me?”
“It matters to me .” Even if the bastions of society viewed her as somehow less because of what she’d been through, that had only shored up her determination to hold to her own standards.
“Aye.” He studied her for a long moment, as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t entirely piece together. “I will respect yer wishes.”
“Thank you.”
He glanced at the weapon she still held. “Ye know how to shoot, do ye?”
She set the gun on her desk. “My father taught me when I was a girl. We’d have target practice at our house in the country.”
MacLain rubbed his neck as if to ease an ache. “Keep the pistol within easy reach. Don’t let down yer guard. The gunman escaped.” His voice was low, his words matter-of-fact. But she sensed his frustration. His restrained anger.
“I suppose there was nothing to be done about it. The element of surprise worked to his advantage.”
“I spotted a carriage at the end of the alley. I believe it was there, waiting for him.” A muscle clenched in his jaw. “By hellfire, I let him get away.”
As MacLain spoke, Heathy strolled up to him. Seeming to forget about snarling and growling, he wagged his tail enthusiastically while sniffing MacLain’s trouser leg.
“A fine guard dog, indeed,” MacLain said. “The wee beast might well thrash an intruder to death with his blasted tail.”
“Heathy is quite the traitor, isn’t he? And to think, you’re not even the one who feeds him.”
“I will have ye know dogs are fine judges of character.”
“Well, this one’s judgment leaves something to be desired.”
“Bloody shame the ball of fur cannot talk. Ye could train him to address me as Mister as well. I’m sure he’d want to be a proper little beast.”
“I suppose my attempt at propriety is rather a lost cause,” she admitted. “The very fact that you’re here, well past midnight, is entirely improper.”
“So it is.” His eyes darkened as they met hers. “But as long as there’s a jackal out there looking to put fear in yer heart, ye’re stuck with me. I will not be leaving ye tonight.”