Chapter Twenty
S itting alone in a well-appointed bedchamber in Logan’s townhouse, Amelia absently tapped her pen against the mahogany writing desk. Glancing down at the bland entry she’d jotted in her leather-bound journal, she drew a line through one neatly penned word. Eventful. The adjective was far too tame to describe the experiences of the previous hours. With precise strokes, she wove in a far more fitting word. Tumultuous. Yes, that was a fair depiction of a day that had started with a heart-sinking view of her ransacked library, only to be capped with the thrill of Logan’s kiss. Smiling to herself, she penned another phrase.
So-wicked-it-should-be-forbidden.
Perhaps even that was an understatement. Someday, long into the future, she would wish to recall each touch of his lips to hers, every delicious moment in his arms. Logan MacLain had drawn passion from her that she feared no longer existed. He’d shown her tenderness and passion, even if he had kept his hunger rather tightly leashed. She would always cherish the memory of his caress.
Pity he was to occupy an all-too-brief chapter in her life.
Closing the cover, she tucked her diary into a traveling case and mentally prepared for the evening ahead. Hours earlier, as they’d gathered up books the intruder in her library had cast about like so much refuse, she had suggested her presence at the tavern might prove useful. The man who’d attacked her had patronized the Rogue’s Lair. Perhaps he’d had an accomplice, someone connected with her brother. Someone she might well recognize.
To her surprise, Logan had agreed. Of course, he’d insisted on staying close. And she’d decided to conceal her derringer in her reticule. Just in case.
Giving the matter some thought, she selected a modest ensemble from her flat for the evening, a prim, blue gown that would not stand out in Logan’s tavern. She could not risk drawing attention to herself while she studied the comings and goings of the tavern’s patrons.
Arranging her hair in an equally modest style, she secured her upswept tresses with a silver hairpin that had once belonged to her mother. With its two sharp, sturdy prongs, the ornament could serve as a makeshift weapon in a pinch. At the thought, a ripple of apprehension coursed through her. She braced herself with a calming breath. After all, she’d likely have no need to employ the pin in self-defense. Nor the derringer in her bag, for that matter.
After freeing a few curls to frame her face, she pinned a cameo brooch to the lace-trimmed neck of her dress. Satisfied with her rather unremarkable appearance, she shored up her resolve, and went downstairs to the parlor.
Logan waited by a polished marble-top table, the set of his shoulder muscles taut beneath his silver-gray shirt and well-tailored ebony jacket. Her breath caught. Could he deduce the wicked direction of her thoughts every time she looked at him?
He turned to the sideboard, poured a drink from a crystal decanter. As she watched him, she did silent battle with the butterflies dancing wildly in her stomach.
“Brandy?” he offered.
“Yes, thank you.” Perhaps the hearty liquor would take the edge off her nerves. She drew in a breath, deep as her corset would allow, as he crossed the room.
His gaze traveled the length of her, masculine appreciation gleaming in his eyes. “I knew ye could not do it.”
“Could not do it?” She took the finely cut glass from his hand. “I don’t follow your meaning.”
Amusement played at his full mouth. “Ye told me ye’d dress in a manner that would make ye fade into the shadows. I knew it would prove an impossible task.”
“I selected this gown with modesty in mind,” she countered. “The collar reaches all the way to my throat and the sleeves scarcely reveal my wrists. Not so very scandalous.”
“Do you really believe that matters? Ye could drape yerself in burlap and it would make no difference.”
She enjoyed a sip of her drink. “Actually, that might attract some attention. Don’t you think?”
He shook his head. “No, I do not. You see, Amelia, no amount of fabric can conceal that lovely face of yers. Or yer curves.” He flashed a grin. “Good God, what a temptation for a weak-willed man like me.”
She met his endearing grin with a hint of a smile. “Mr. MacLain, I see no evidence of weakness. Especially not where your will is concerned.”
His eyes darkened and the amusement faded from his gaze. Slowly, he shook his head. “Ah, Amelia... ye’ve more confidence in me than I do in myself.”
*
Within minutes after he’d escorted Amelia into the Rogue’s Lair, Logan cursed himself for a fool. Why in blazes had he agreed to bring her into a lion’s den? She’d made a valiant effort to dress in such a drab manner that she’d draw no attention, but her prim, unadorned gown and tightly pinned hair could not dull her natural beauty.
Her dress would’ve well suited a governess. Lace at the collar nearly touched her chin, while Amelia’s full skirts did not display so much as a hint of her ankles. But neither the fine midnight-blue fabric nor the seemingly endless layers of petticoats could disguise her tempting curves. She’d pulled her ginger-gold hair back from her face, a simple coil of the tresses off her neck, revealing only a glimpse of her nape. Her prim appearance might have appeared bland on another woman. But Amelia’s natural radiance was undimmed. Like a vibrant flower standing out amid a patch of weeds, her face drew the gaze of men.
Logan allowed his gaze to linger over the curve of her cheek, over her plump mouth. Standing protectively close, he detected the subtle aroma of lavender on her skin. Desire surged through him. Bugger it, if his body had its way, he would escort her back to his townhouse, lead her to his bed, and adore her from head to toe with his kisses.
Truth be told, if he had the sense of a billy goat, he’d be anywhere rather than here, assisting her in her plan to conduct reconnaissance in his pub, of all places.
She’d selected a table at the far corner which offered a view of the patrons entering the tavern. But if she’d thought she would attract no notice in the shadows, she had been mistaken. He saw the light in the eyes of the men who noticed her tucked away in that typically lonely corner of the pub. Their appreciative gazes lingered on the newcomer, drawn as his own was to the loveliness she simply could not disguise.
Tension ran through his body, jarring as a current of electricity. Weaving his way through the crush of men and women congregated at round tables throughout the pub, he spotted a gangly man in a dark bowler hat at the bar. Amidst the regular patrons, the man stood out. Something about his manner seemed off. Finishing his drink, he stood and turned toward Amelia. Her eyes widened as the man cut a direct path to her table.
Keeping his eye on the stranger, Logan trailed him, taking a position near the barkeep where he was nearly within arm’s reach. The man said something in tones so low Logan couldn’t quite make out his words, but Amelia appeared to have the situation well in hand. Her reply quickly sent the bloke on his way.
As the stranger marched out the front door, Logan turned back to the bar. He leaned an elbow against the polished wood. Near the stone fireplace, the piano player started into a lively tune. A jovial fellow who claimed to have once performed for the Queen, George Ferrell bobbed with the music as his fingers moved deftly over the keys. Logan felt a wave of tension ease from his body. With any luck, this evening would prove more dull than a night of listening to Murray reminisce about his youthful exploits fleecing highbrow lords over a round of darts.
At a nearby table, a man deep enough in his cups to not care whether or not he could carry a tune came to his feet, a stein bobbing in his hand. Notes that reminded Logan of a saw’s scratch against metal erupted from his throat. Logan braced himself as the erstwhile singer threw his energy into the tone-deaf serenade.
Good God. Perhaps the piano player’s wages were not money well spent after all.
Suddenly, a guttural curse cut through the noise of the crowd. An ox of a man stood within an arm’s length of Amelia, bellowing epithets as he stared down at a fresh brandy-hued stain on his shirt.
Bloody hell.
Logan made short work of the distance between them. “What in Hades do ye think ye’re doing?”
His face red with anger, the stranger glared at him with bleary eyes. “The little shrew—”
She rose, planting her hands on her hips. “Perhaps in the future, you will know better than to address a lady in such a manner.”
“You will pay—” the man ground out the threat.
Logan clamped his hand over the man’s arm and gave the limb a rough twist. “It’s time for ye to be on yer way.”
The oaf scowled. “She’s a trollop. Nothing more.”
“Watch yer mouth,” Logan warned.
Understanding crept over the man’s features. “She... she’s with you?”
“She is,” Logan said, keeping his tone hard as flint.
He tugged against Logan’s hold. “I did not know.”
“It doesn’t matter who’s accompanied her. She is a lady. I’d advise ye to remember that when ye speak to any woman.”
“I’m... I am sorry,” he choked out. “I meant no disrespect.”
Logan loosened his grip, allowing the oaf to shrug free.
“I’ll just be on my way now,” the man said before beating a hasty retreat to the door.
“Do not let me see yer face here again,” Logan called after him.
Amelia touched her fingers to his hand. The warmth of her touch spread through him, easing the bone-deep tension of every muscle.
“Most impressive.” Her smile blended temptation with innocence. Did she have any idea of the effect she had on men?
Or on him, for that matter?
He cocked a brow. “This is what ye call staying out of sight?”
“The brute left me no choice. Why, I would not dare to repeat his rude proposition.”
“Proposition, eh?”
“I’ve no idea what the man was thinking. Surely if I were a woman who looked to earn her coin from a man, I would have selected a more provocative ensemble.”
“I told ye, Amelia—no matter what ye’re wearing, ye’ll still catch a man’s eye.”
She hiked her chin. “Is that so?”
“Believe me, it is.”
“So, you would find me appealing in a gunny sack?”
“If ye donned a gown made from old feedbags, my eyes would seek ye out.”
She pursed her lips. “An interesting concept. I will have to remember to present the idea to my seamstress.”
“I’d wager ye’d be the first,” he said, unable to resist her smile. “Do not ever fool yerself into thinking a man won’t notice ye.”
“I doubt another sot will trouble me now,” she said, confidence flashing in her blue eyes. “Especially if I have another glass of brandy at my disposal.”
“I would not be so sure.”
She cocked her chin. “I intend to test my theory.”
“Should I alert the poor fools to beware?”
Her eyes flashed again. “An excellent idea.”
“Oh, and Amelia, I’ll send over more brandy, just in case ye might be needing it.”