Chapter Eight
A nd now, the rogue has opened that den of sin.
As Amelia strode through the massive oak doors of the Rogue’s Lair, her friend’s scorn-filled assessment of McLain’s tavern played in her thoughts. Somehow, this den of sin was not at all what Bea had described.
Amelia had expected... well, she wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected. But she certainly had not anticipated the sight of gleaming hardwood floors, the crackle of cozy flames dancing in a massive stone fireplace, and the welcoming smile that lit the eyes of a plump, silver-haired woman who busily polished the high wooden tables. The pub was rather quaint. Perhaps even charming.
Morning light streamed through large windows with intricate designs in stained glass. Of course, the atmosphere in the Rogue’s Lair would likely prove quite different after dark as the usual patrons poured into the place, seeking a cold draught and a friendly ear to which they might confide their troubles.
The barkeep, a gray-haired man MacLain addressed as Murray, acknowledged their presence with a nod and went about his preparations for the day’s customers. As MacLain offered Amelia a quick introduction to the barmaid cleaning the tables, an elegantly dressed woman garbed in peacock blue from head to toe strolled through the door.
Flashing a scowl, she headed straight for MacLain. Her thick dark hair had been swept back from her lovely face with lavish silver and mother-of-pearl combs. The scattering of silver threaded through her hair hinted that she was a bit older than the man she regarded with a sullen pout.
“So it’s true, then.” She sauntered up to the counter. “I heard you played the hero last night. How very surprising.”
MacLain regarded her as though the sight of her had triggered an ache in his neck. “Why are ye here?”
“I wanted to hear the truth... straight from your mouth.”
“Ye’ve wasted yer time, Elspeth. There’s no grand secret to reveal.”
“Any other evening, you would’ve had a grand time separating a bloke from his coin over a few rounds of cards. But last night, you rushed off to the rescue.” She lifted a pale brow. “Logan MacLain, am I to believe you’ve become a protector of widows in peril?”
He shot her a dagger-filled stare. “Go home.”
Elspeth’s icy gaze swept over Amelia. Tiny lines crinkled deep around her eyes. “I must say, your gallant charade makes more sense now.” Her mouth tipped up into a rueful smile. “Somehow, I’d thought a librarian would be older. And far more plain.”
Librarian. The contempt in the woman’s cool voice pricked at Amelia like a thorn beneath her heel. Pulling in a steadying breath, Amelia bit back the utterly unladylike response that sprang to her lips. She squared her shoulders. If Elspeth—whatever her undoubtedly improper relationship to MacLain might be—thought to intimidate her, she was sorely mistaken.
“At the moment, you have me at a disadvantage, Miss...”
“My name is Elspeth Gilroy.” She toyed with a jade brooch at her throat. “Mrs. Elspeth Gilroy. You may have heard of my dearly departed husband. He had a rather unimaginative penchant for naming businesses after himself.”
Mrs. Gilroy. One of MacLain’s dalliances, no doubt. Did she fear Amelia harbored a notion to take her place? How utterly absurd.
Amelia forced a placid expression. “Since you are so very curious about the events of last night, I will tell you that Mr. MacLain was quite courageous. Chivalrous, in fact.”
“Chivalrous? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that word used to describe you.” Elspeth’s gaze drifted over MacLain’s long, lean form. “Well, that was then. Now, shall we see to a bit of... recreation?”
A muscle in MacLain’s jaw flexed. He slowly shook his head. “Those days are in the past.”
“Is that so?” A look of clear challenge simmered in Elspeth’s gray eyes. “I could change your mind.”
“Go home to yer fine mansion.” MacLain’s low voice rumbled hard as flint.
Elspeth gave a little huff. “Very well. I had not expected you to be so tedious.” As she walked to the door, she turned back to Amelia. “If you believe you can change him, I would suggest you think again. Some men cannot be reformed.”
“Reformed?” Amelia scoffed. “I do not know what drivel you’ve heard, but it’s utter rubbish.”
Elspeth shrugged. “For your sake, I hope it is.”
With that, she stormed out into the street. The slam of the door reverberated against the stone wall, as if punctuating the woman’s exit.
“Mrs. Gilroy does have a flair for the dramatic, doesn’t she?” Amelia turned to MacLain. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
MacLain slowly shook his head. “Not if ye threatened me with a dozen years of torment sleeping in that lumpy chair of yers.”
“Lumpy chair?” She shot him a frown. “I will have you know that piece has been in my family for generations.”
He cocked a brow. “That instrument of misery is a family heirloom?”
“My great-grandmother brought it from Wales,” Amelia replied crisply.
“Blasted shame she didn’t give it to the bloody Tower. They might’ve used it for torturing the condemned.”
“Now there’s a story worth hearing, if only after a whisky or two.” I’ll look forward to hearing the tale,” the barkeep spoke up. “For now, tell me, Mrs. Stewart, are ye well? Mrs. Langford mentioned the ordeal ye endured last night.”
Welcoming the change of subject, Amelia met the barkeep’s kind eyes. “The situation was alarming, to say the least. But I suffered no lasting harm.”
“Thank God Logan was there to watch over ye,” Murray said.
“The lass had no cause for worry. She possesses a guard dog, fiercest little beast I have ever encountered,” MacLain added with a grin. “Murray, if ye need me, we’ll be in my office.”
He escorted Amelia up a spiral staircase and led her to a room near the end of the corridor. Closing the door behind them, he motioned her to a Chesterfield chair that faced a large writing desk. Struggling to distract herself from a fresh wave of apprehension, she perched upon the edge of the elegant leather wing chair and focused on the intricate carvings on the legs of the desk. If only her nerves would settle down. She needed to see the letters for herself. Had Paul actually composed the messages? She could not rest until she knew the truth, no matter how painful.
She drummed her fingertips against the cushion of the chair. “You’re confident both of the letters came from Paul?”
“Both letters arrived by private courier.” MacLain crossed over the blue and ivory wool carpet to the wall behind the desk. Jostling one of the wooden panels behind the desk, he slid it open, revealing a stout iron safe. “I recognized his script. I am counting on ye to confirm my assessment.”
With smooth, sure movements, he manipulated the dial, and the lock released. He opened the weighted door to reveal a small book stored within.
When he handed her the leather-bound volume, Amelia’s breath caught. Her hands trembled as shock washed over her. Everything about the book, from its maroon leather binding to the lettering on its spine, was all too familiar.
“The book has significance to ye,” MacLain said, observing her reaction.
“Yes.” Dragging in a low breath, she opened the cover and gulped against a sudden lump in her throat. With the tip of her pointer finger, she traced the inscription penned in indigo ink on the title page.
To my dear Pixie . . .
Years ago, when she was still a girl in braids, her brother had dubbed her a pixie, flitting about and driving her governess to distraction. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear Paul’s voice, claiming in a childish taunt that somehow, she’d lost her fairy wings. Given her penchant for mischief, her mother and father had found the pet name rather fitting, while her beloved grandfather took a liking to the name. In his heart, Amelia was his little pixie, an imp no one could ever tame.
A rush of memories cascaded over her without warning. She blinked hard against a swell of emotion. Not even the most skilled forger would have known to use the affectionate nickname.
“Good heavens,” she whispered, turning to MacLain. “My brother gave me this book of poems many Christmases ago. How did you come to possess it?”
The set of his jaw hardened. “The first letter had been placed within the pages of this book.”
Oh, dear. Of all the books in her private library, why would anyone choose this collection of poetry to send to Logan MacLain?
Seeming to sense her pain, he gently touched her shoulder. “Had ye loaned it to anyone?”
“Never.” Bitter tears brimmed in her eyes, but she blinked hard, determined to hold them back. “I thought I had misplaced it. I’ve been heartsick.”
“Whoever took it wanted to be sure to connect ye with yer brother.”
“Indeed,” she agreed. “May I see the letter?”
He removed a folded leaf of stationery from the safe. “This is Paul’s handwriting, is it not?”
Fresh grief swelled within her. This imprecisely penned letter might well have been the last Paul had ever written. The very idea roiled her insides and tormented her with quiet misery. Her gaze swept over the page. Her pulse raced as she read and reread the ominous warnings scrawled in Paul’s characteristically brash script.
Her heart thudded, feeling as if it might actually crash against her ribs. “My brother wrote this message. I have no doubt.”
With a nod, MacLain placed another note in her hand. “This came with yer brother’s watch.” Was that an undercurrent of pain in his voice?
At first glance, she saw her brother’s bold strokes, the long, angular lines so typical of his script. Quickly scanning the brief missive, she paused, then read it again more slowly, careful to take in every nuance of Paul’s warning.
Fear mingled with the sadness deep in her heart. “I am confident Paul wrote this as well.”
“These messages make it clear that ye’re in danger.”
“I don’t…I simply do not understand.” Pressing her fingertips to her temples, she searched for words. “I am not positive I even want to.”
Shivers traced an icy path along her spine. Hands trembling, she stared down at her brother’s brash scrawl. Once again, she took in the words that seemed a desperate confession.
I have kept too many secrets. Like a fool, I believed I could shield Amelia. But I can no longer protect her. If you are reading this, I have met my fate. My dear sister does not deserve to suffer the consequences of my deeds. She is innocent. But the jackals want what is theirs. They will show no mercy. I cannot defend Amelia, but I have faith you will protect her. MacLain, I know that you will do whatever it takes to keep her safe. I am putting my full trust in you.
Bowing her head, she lost the battle against the tears pricking the backs of her eyes.
“Oh, Paul.” She swiped away a rebellious drop, then another. “Dear God, what have you done?”
*
At the sight of a lone teardrop trickling down Amelia’s cheek, an instinct Logan had thought long buried returned to life. For years, he had walled off his own heart, but now, as he reached for Amelia, he wanted only to comfort her. Gently touching her arm, he reassured her. He was there to ease her fears. There to help her uncover the secrets behind her brother’s death. There to protect her.
“Paul wrote of jackals,” she said in a near whisper. “Of more than one.”
“The man who attacked ye was not the only one to have ye in his sights.” He placed his hand over hers, an undemanding caress. “Yer brother knew this was coming, Amelia. I know the man he was. Paul would’ve protected ye himself if there’d been any way, but he knew they would get to him first. So he sent for me.”
Rising to her feet, Amelia laced her hands together, as if to still them. Restlessly, she went to the window, drawing back one panel of the drapes, bringing sunlight into the room. Turning to him, she met his eyes, then veiled her gaze with deep brown lashes. “Even as a girl, I held no fear of the dark. But now, it seems I must be wary of what lurks behind every shadow.”
“If ye’ll trust me, I will keep ye safe.” He drew her closer. The subtle aroma of lavender on her skin filled his senses. “Ye have my word.”
“Your word as a gentleman?” The faintest of smiles touched her lips.
“As a gentleman. As a rogue. Does it really matter?”
Her stormy eyes met his gaze. “There’s something you need to know... if you’ve set your mind to helping me, that is.”
“Ye know I have, lass.”
“I won’t be content hiding like a frightened child behind four walls. I will not rest until I find the scoundrel who killed Paul.”
“Ye think I will try to stop ye?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “I would prefer that you assist me.”
“I meant what I said.” He lightly brushed away a tear on her cheek. “I will be at yer side.”
She shook her head. “This is not your fight.”
He tipped her chin up with his finger and gazed into beautiful eyes that glistened with unshed tears. “The blazes it isn’t. I won’t let ye face this alone.”
Her teeth grazed her lower lip. “Tell me—how did you know where to find me?”
“I’d known of Paul’s connection to yer library, but I had no cause to seek ye out. Not until now.”
Turning back to the window, she peered out at the street below. “You have mentioned a debt you owe to my brother. I’m asking you to tell me what happened.”
Like a blow he had not seen coming, ugly memories flashed through his thoughts.
Moonlight glinting off a dagger’s blade.
Blood—his blood, soaking his linen shirt.
The flash of a gunshot.
God only knew how he’d struggled to lock the images deep within the recesses of his mind. The memories would be a part of him until he took his last breath.
He’d been a young man on that fog-shrouded night at a tavern by the sea. Too blasted arrogant. A bloody fool, getting himself in over his head. Determined to make his own fortune, he’d convinced himself he could handle the risks.
Damned shame the cost had been so steep.
He and Paul Anderson had forged a strong friendship. In truth, they’d been brothers in spirit. With his keen intellect and fierce ambition, Paul was a man who strove to live by his wits. He’d wanted no part of violence. But what happened that dreary night had cleaved their bond in two. Now, his sister deserved to hear the truth from his lips. That much, he could give her.
“Yer brother was forced to take a life.” Odd, how even now, speaking the words felt like a blade to the gut. “He killed a man to save my neck.”
Amelia kept her back to him, but he could see the way her shoulders tensed. “He was a gentle man.” A hush of pain clouded her voice.
Gentle. So many years before, Logan’s mum had used that very word to describe him. He had been a boy in those days, whiling away lonely hours shooting targets he’d set on flat stones and daydreaming of a time when he would be old enough to leave the simple life of the countryside and seek his fortune.
Burying the quick jolt of pain deep within himself, he shoved the fragments of memory aside. He had to focus on Amelia, on offering the lass what little comfort he could.
“Paul faced an ugly choice. He did what he had to do.”
“When . . . when did this happen?”
“Years ago, while we were at university.”
She pressed one hand to the window pane, her slender fingers splayed against the glass. “You’re telling me that all these years, Paul carried this horrible secret.”
“He wanted to protect ye from the truth.” Logan rubbed at an ache in the back of his neck. “He blamed me. And he was right. If I hadn’t been looking for shortcuts, he would not have had to pull the trigger.”
She spun on her heel. Facing him, her chin thrust up, resolute. “In my heart, I know this much—if my brother killed a man, he had no choice. You cannot shoulder the blame.”
Ye’re wrong, lass. If Amelia knew what he had done to set the wheels in motion that night, she might well think differently on the matter.
He studied her for a long moment. Her unadorned beauty drew him in. The trust in her eyes seemed a clear contrast to the cynicism he saw every time he looked in the mirror.
Amelia demanded nothing from him. Unlike Elspeth, who sought sensual delight without any thought of trust or caring or faith in him as a man. The widow harbored no desire for sentimental emotions. She had taken all the pleasure he would give. Just as he’d taken from her.
Sudden need coursed through his veins. He wanted to trace the curve of her face, as if he could commit her vibrant beauty to memory.
He wanted to shield her, to protect not only her body, but the spirit in her eyes.
And, blast it, he wanted to kiss her.
Despite his noble intentions, if one could call them that, he hungered for the feel of her rounded curves against the length of his body and the taste of her lips.
But this was not the time.
And it sure as bloody hell was not the place.
“I trust that someday you will tell me more of the story.” Her softly spoken words mercifully pulled him from his thoughts.
“Someday, Amelia, I will tell ye. But for now, I will not set aside the vow I made that night. Yer brother trusted me to watch over ye.”
“You must promise me that you will exercise caution.”
“Do not worry yerself over me. I know how to fight, and I know how to win. Ye’ve seen that with yer own eyes, have ye not, lass?”
“I must admit, you have been most impressive, Mr. MacLain.” Her voice, low and smooth as velvet, touched him like a caress. “But I intend to play a role in my own defense.”
Ah, the lass had spirit. Despite the slight quiver of her chin, her tone held courage. She would not surrender to fear.
“Fair enough,” he replied. “I do have one expectation of my own.”
“And what might that be?”
“Ye find it improper to address me by my given name. But if the tavern blokes hear ye calling me mister , they’ll wonder if my da has come back from the grave. MacLain will do. That’s what everyone calls me.”
“A reasonable request,” she agreed.
As she gave a little nod, a rogue tendril slipped from her primly pinned hair. Gently, he tucked the rebellious curl behind her ear. The small intimacy shot a bolt of awareness through him, and the most subtle of smiles touched her lips. Sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting traces of red gleaming in her silky gold tresses. Her eyes darkened with feeling, with concern over him, no less. No other woman had ever looked at him with such genuine emotion.
Had ever looked at him like that .
Bloody hell, she was beautiful.
More beautiful than a man like him could find words to describe.
The expression in Amelia’s smile and her eyes tempted him. Even the tiny little vee of a frown between her expressive brows drew him in.
From the first, he’d intended to defend her. Had been determined to protect her. But now…now he wanted to hear his name on her lips.
By hellfire, he wanted her . A powerful hunger coursed through his body. Desire. Need. And something more. Something far more fierce. Far more dangerous.
With ruthless discipline, he took control of his will. Of his heart. A woman like Amelia deserved more than a man like him could ever offer. She deserved more than passion. More than pleasure. Amelia deserved the one thing he could not give. Love was not in the cards.
Not with her.
Not with any woman.
All those years ago, he had given her brother his word. And he would honor that vow. No matter the cost.
He would protect her.
Even from himself.