Chapter Nine
G iving in to the nervous tension brewing within her, Amelia paced before the large stone fireplace in MacLain’s office. When she’d been a girl in braids, Amelia had endured more than one scolding from a lemon-tart governess who’d had tried with little success to direct Amelia to channel her energy—nervous, or otherwise—into more subtle, more ladylike actions. But as Logan MacLain laid out his strategies for ensuring her safety, the even footsteps over his plush carpet seemed precisely the thing to ensure her fragile sense of composure. That is, until he spoke the words that stopped her in her tracks.
“It goes without saying that ye will need to take up residence in my home.” He spoke the words as if he’d stated an unarguable fact.
My, the man was arrogant. Well accustomed to getting his way, she supposed. A more prim and proper woman than herself might have feigned indignant shock. After all, it wasn’t every day that a known rogue proposed a respectable widow take up residence with him.
Fortunately for both of them, she hadn’t given a fig about being prim, let alone proper, for quite some time.
“What you are suggesting is utterly scandalous,” she said matter-of-factly. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he agreed. “We both know I don’t give a damn about scandal. What I am proposing is the most practical option for keeping you safe.”
“Goodness, the gossips will have a high time with such an arrangement, won’t they?”
“Ye’re not afraid of tongues wagging, Amelia.” His eyes flashed with challenge. “Ye’ve more backbone than that.”
“You do have a point. Given the circumstances, perhaps there is no better alternative.”
“So ye agree... ye will stay with me?” He frowned. “Just like that.”
Was it her imagination, or did he seem a bit let down by her ready agreement?
“I suppose it is the wisest decision. I do hope I have not deprived you of an opportunity to exercise those powers of persuasion you take such pride in.”
“Ye could say that you have.” A half-smile tilted his mouth. “I was looking forward to the challenge.”
She went to the table beside the wing chair and poured a cup of oolong tea from a pot Mrs. Langford had placed there. “I consider myself a logical woman. I’ve far more pressing concerns than a blot on my so-called good name.”
“That’s not it. Not all of it, at least.” He slowly shook his head. “Yer decision to stay with me is not a simple matter of logic.”
“You think not?”
“It is a matter of trust.” His husky, gravel-edged voice seemed a caress. “I will not let ye down. I will justify that trust.”
Trust. The word echoed in her thoughts. Good heavens, he was right. Deep within, she did trust this man who had been a stranger twenty-four hours earlier. Logan MacLain was bold. He was brash. And she suspected he’d earned his reputation as a rogue.
But her every instinct vouched for him as a man of courage. Perhaps, even, of honor. He would abide by his promise to her brother. And he would help her find justice for Paul.
“There is one thing.” Sudden doubt twisted in the pit of her stomach. “I will not leave Heathy behind.”
“That goes without saying. Though I may regret it when the wee beast sinks his little teeth into my leg.” He flashed a grin. “We certainly would not leave behind such a fierce guard dog.”
Drat the man, Amelia thought as his smile reached his eyes. Logan MacLain had no right to be so blasted appealing.
No. She corrected herself. Appealing didn’t even come close to the full truth.
A sudden clatter of wheels against the pavement beyond the tavern drew her attention back to the window. Peeling the curtain back again, she spotted his carriage rattling down the street with Mrs. Langford at the reins.
“Where in blazes is she off to now?” he muttered over her shoulder, amusement flavoring his tone. “Murray must have wanted some peace and sent her on an errand.”
Hearing the smile in his voice, she turned to him. “How did Mrs. Langford come to be your driver?”
“Now that is a question I’ve asked myself more than once. Most nights, I’d prefer to be at the reins of my phaeton. Truth be told, Mrs. Langford is the only reason I keep that blasted box of a coach.”
“So, am I to understand that you maintain a carriage you do not need, so that a woman—a woman old enough to be your mother, no less—may drive it through the town as she pleases?”
“Aye, that about sums it up.”
“Is she kin to you?”
His expression shifted, as though a fond memory had drifted into his thoughts. “She is now.”
“I sense a tale behind your words.”
The curve of his mouth eased, not quite a smile. “While I was a lad, Mrs. Langford’s husband drove for my father. He was a conventional man, as was my da. Neither allowed a woman to take the reins.”
“But you are not nearly so conventional.”
“Ye do see things clearly, don’t ye?” His mouth tipped up at the corners. “Now, Mrs. Langford has her chance.”
Very unexpected, Mr. MacLain.
The hint of sentimentality in his words intrigued her, even as the crisp notes of his shaving soap—bergamot, perhaps—awakened her senses. Her pulse picked up its cadence, and she battled an utterly improper desire to graze her fingertips along the hard edge of his jaw, to explore the texture of his skin with her touch.
Her gaze danced lower, trailing over his long, lean body. He was temptation come to life in a slightly rumpled linen shirt and ebony trousers that hugged long, muscular legs. And with a pinch of sin and a dash of wickedness thrown in for good measure.
She had faith in his ability to protect her from the scoundrel who’d made her a target. He would protect her from that menace.
Pity she was not nearly as confident of her own capacity to resist the rogue’s charm in Logan MacLain’s smile.
And now, she would be sleeping under his roof.
Perhaps I have gone a wee bit mad after all.
She’d do well to remember that he had likely tempted many a willing woman with that gravel-edged brogue of his and the flash of desire in his midnight-dark eyes.
Women like Elspeth. The wealthy widow had eyed MacLain with a hunger that exceeded her scorn for Amelia. Well, Mrs. Gilroy had nothing to worry about on her account. MacLain was a rake of the first order.
Amelia knew better than to fall into the bed of a man like him.
Didn’t she?
Giving her head a little shake as if that might clear it, she fixed her attention on the gem-colored panes in the transom over the door. She had to focus on something—anything, really—other than the man who stood temptingly near.
With effort, she regained some control over her renegade thoughts. “Your office... the establishment, actually... is rather different than I’d imagined,”
“Not what you expected, eh?”
“Not at all.” Her gaze lit upon the intricately carved sideboard behind his desk. A silver platter, crystal glasses, and what appeared to be a decanter of fine whisky added an elegant touch. “I had expected a den of inequity to appear more... sinful.”
“Ye make a valid point, lass.” Humor flavored his words. “Are ye’re thinking I should commission some nudes? Portraits of beautiful women just as the good Lord made them might draw even more patrons. The gents would flock to this place.”
The glimmer in his eyes told her he wasn’t serious.
Not entirely, at least.
“I am suggesting nothing of the sort.”
“Paintings of bonny lasses behind the bar would be a more pleasant sight than Murray weaving about after he’s sampled a pint too many.”
“I prefer it just as it is,” she said truthfully.
“Ye’re quite sure of that, are ye? I don’t want the townspeople to be saying my place is not a fine setting for a bit of debauchery.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. His devilish grin left no doubt he’d spotted her blush. Well, she was not about to let him think he had left her at a loss for words.
“From what I’ve heard, this tavern is regarded as a haven for wickedness.”
He eyed her for the span of a heartbeat, perhaps two, his expression bold as they came. “A haven for wickedness. I do like the sound of it.”
The challenge in his half-smile kindled a touch of spirit in her. The feeling was refreshing, more so than she wanted to admit.
“Perhaps you might rename this establishment,” she suggested cheekily. “Den of Wickedness has a unique flavor.”
“I’ll give the matter some thought. But at the moment, I have a question for ye.”
“And what might that be?”
“The patrons who frequent yer library are a genteel sort. So why in blazes would respectable ladies discuss drunken debauchery?” He cleared his throat, as if for effect. “Am I to believe ye possess books on that particular subject in yer collection?”
Oh, dear. She certainly had not expected that .
“It isn’t as if we gather around the desk, talking about...” She glanced up, making a show of studying the stained-glass window above his desk.
His eyes darkened with a blend of amusement and an emotion she could not quite describe. “I believe the word ye’re looking for is sin .”
She hiked her chin. “I assure you, we do not discuss such matters.”
“Such matters, eh, Amelia Stewart?” A sly smile played on his full mouth. “Have ye considered that a lady might benefit from a bit of sin now and then?” Posed in that husky burr of his, his question seemed a delicious challenge.
Perhaps if you are the one with whom I’ve chosen to sin.
MacLain had drawn her in, his words a prelude to seduction.
Nonsense. She’d allowed her fanciful thoughts to run wild. Given the subtle quirk of his mouth, he’d been teasing her. Well, if he thought to get the better of her, Amelia was not about to give him the satisfaction. It was only fitting that she respond in kind.
“I am inclined to agree.” She met his gaze and took another sip from the delicate teacup. “Pity a worthy match for such an endeavor is indeed a rare find.”
At that moment, his expression brought to mind a spy gathering intelligence on his quarry. She’d intended her statement to be shocking. Evidently, he’d detected the underlying truth.
“A worthy match, eh?” he pressed. “Tell me, Amelia, what is it that ye seek in a lover?”
A lover.
She set the cup down on his desk with a little clink against the saucer. Her mouth had gone dry, but she composed a response. “A certain boldness would be desirable. As well as a bit of daring.”
His sable brows hiked. “Only a bit, eh?”
“Certainly not to the point of recklessness.”
“I figured as much, given ye’re a sensible lass. So, a woman desires a man who’s bold and daring—but not too daring.” He gave a somber nod, countered by the glint of humor in his eyes. “I should commit this to memory. Ye never know when I might find myself pursuing a clever lass like yerself.”
“A touch of wickedness also holds an appeal.” She summoned a tone of authority. “But only in the proper measure, of course.”
“Aye, in the proper measure.” Again, those dark eyes flashed. “Of course.”
Absently, he scrubbed his hand over the dark stubble of beard on his jaw, stirring a fresh rush of heat to flood Amelia’s cheeks.
Would his touch be tender?
Would he command a response from her with the slight roughness of his skin against hers?
She was playing a dangerous game, wasn’t she?
Logan MacLain was a man skilled in all manner of delicious wickedness. A true rogue.
She glanced down to her toes, making a valiant effort to banish the wanton notions. Didn’t she know better than to engage in a flirtation, much less with this man? Heaven only knew nothing good would come of it.
She could not let down her guard.
Hadn’t she already learned a bitter lesson about men who could coax a woman out of her corset with little more than persuasive words and a flash of desire in their eyes? Before they had wed, her husband had eased away her doubts with his seductive promises. If only she’d realized she was not the only woman Edward wanted. Innocently—perhaps foolishly—she’d believed spoken vows could change him.
She’d been so very wrong.
The truth of it still seemed a dagger to the chest. But the years had brought a bitter wisdom. Trusting a man to pleasure her body was one thing.
But entrusting a man with her heart was quite another matter.
A light rap upon the door provided a welcome distraction from her thoughts. She didn’t know who’d come up to MacLain’s office, but she offered silent gratitude for the interruption.
He moved to the door. After verifying the identity of the visitor with a gruff question, he cracked open the door and plucked an envelope from the unseen man’s outstretched hand.
“Mr. Caldwell instructed me to say it’s for yer eyes only,” the messenger said in a youthful voice.
“Good enough,” MacLain replied.
“Any message ye’d like me to relay?”
MacLain shook his head. “Ye can be on yer way now.”
With that, he closed the door, tore open the seal of the envelope, and glanced over the missive. He bit off an epithet between his teeth.
His expression grim, he turned to her. “Did yer brother have any interest in the occult?”
A shiver traced over Amelia’s nape. Images from a deck of unusual cards flashed through her thoughts. “I was aware of a passing curiosity. There was a woman... Paul met her quite some time ago. She told fortunes.”
“Ye recall her name?”
In her mind’s eye, Amelia pictured a striking beauty with a cascade of auburn hair. “Helen Tanner, if memory serves. He was rather taken with her, but after Papa discovered she fancied herself to be a fortune teller, he forbade Paul from seeing her.”
“But he didn’t listen.”
“No, I don’t believe he did,” she said. “At the time, Paul did not confide in me. I was little more than a girl fresh from the schoolroom, but even then, I could see he was drawn to her. After a time, she ended their relationship and sailed to America. I never heard her name again, not until a year or so ago.”
“What happened then?”
“Paul mentioned casually, perhaps too casually, that she had arrived in London.”
“And ye’ve no idea why she returned to London?”
“At the time, I thought she wished to rekindle her relationship with Paul. But now, I’m not so certain something else did not motivate her return.”
MacLain gave a solemn nod. “We need to find her. She may be in danger.”
“I believe she left England after my brother’s death.”
“There’s reason to believe she’s back.” MacLain placed the missive on the table. “I took the liberty of asking my business partner to make some inquiries. The man who attacked ye last night had been asking around about a woman—a fortune teller. She calls herself Madame Helena.”