Chapter Six
Ewan flicked a page of his account book but wasn’t really paying attention. He forgot what he’d just read and flipped it back. Damn it. Where was his legendary sharp mind today? He just couldn’t focus.
He refused to acknowledge why.
He’d done the right thing, demanding that Morna move Violet to the cellar. He should have put her there the first day. She was a prisoner. A servant. She should be locked up at night in an uncomfortable cell, not hogging the covers in his bed and keeping him awake with an aching cock.
It had been pure hell having her next to him at night, warm and fragrant—and not being able to touch her.
That was the real reason he’d banished her, wasn’t it?
It was one thing to lie there wanting her when she loathed him wholeheartedly. But the look in her eyes when she realized who he really was—who he’d been—changed everything. Her hate had softened, turned to something else entirely. Something that frightened him to death.
He had always assumed she’d been the one to betray him to her vicious father. It was her fault he’d been punished so brutally that day. Her fault he and his mother had been cast out of service in disgrace.
He’d always assumed she hadn’t given a fig what had become of him.
But now—given her reaction when she realized his identity—he questioned all that.
No one would tell me where you’d gone, she’d said, and in a ravaged tone as though she’d wept for hours, for days when he’d left.
Maybe she had said something about that kiss to her father. But maybe it hadn’t been a deliberate attempt to get rid of him. Maybe she hadn’t realized what the consequences might be for a servant boy who’d taken liberties with the master’s daughter.
So the question remained, if her betrayal hadn’t been intentional, did it matter any less? The results didn’t change. Would never change.
But still, her expression haunted him.
Ewan raked his fingers through his hair and growled under his breath.
He’d hated Violet Wyeth for most of his life.
He’d spent many long, hungry nights in a cold garret, plotting revenge.
Whenever he’d had to commit some foul act, something that stole a chunk of his soul, he’d thought of her.
Assigned to her the burden of his guilt.
That she might have been innocent of this perfidy was too much to contemplate. Such a truth would rock the foundations of his entire world. He did not want to contemplate it.
So he did what any sane man would do.
He avoided her. Holed himself up in his office with orders he should not be disturbed.
The last thing he wanted was to finish the conversation she’d started in his chamber. No, the last thing he wanted was to answer the burning question she’d asked. Where did you go?
He couldn’t bear the retelling.
And frankly, he didn’t want her to know the true depth of his fall from grace. It was better that she not know. That she never know.
A scratch came at the door. “Come,” he barked.
Pippin entered with a tray. “Your dinner.”
Ewan’s gaze snapped up. He’d never heard Pip speak to him in such a sharp tone.
He’d found the boy in the dark, rat-infested alleys of Perth, cutting purses from inebriated lords outside the local gaming hells.
He’d attempted to cut Ewan’s purse. But he’d done it so skillfully and Ewan had been so impressed with his subsequent tearful tale of a dying mother and sick baby sister—all of which had been a lie—he couldn’t help but take the boy in.
He’d never regretted it. Not for a second. Pip had become his most devoted minion.
Until now.
Now he fixed Ewan with a dark glare, eyes narrowed.
Ewan sat back in his chair and surveyed the boy. “What is it?’ he asked.
Pip grunted and dropped the tray on the table. Broth sloshed onto the thick wood. “Soup.” He turned to leave.
“Wait.”
The boy stopped. He was a frail thing with a delicately boned face framed by a shaggy mop of hair.
He’d been with Ewan for nearly a year. Nearly a year with food every day and it seemed as though he hadn’t grown an inch.
He certainly hadn’t filled out the way a lad approaching manhood should.
Ewan knew what it was to starve. He knew some kinds of deprivation could never be made up for.
Many street urchins were tiny their whole lives.
But of all his men—all fellows he’d salvaged from impending doom of some kind—this one held a special place in his heart. Pip reminded him of himself in so many ways.
The boy crossed his arms over his thin chest and glared. “What?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’.”
“Why are you so surly?”
Pip was never surly. At least, not to him. But the boy didn’t answer. Naught but a disgusted snort. He turned on his heel and left, slamming the heavy door behind him.
Ewan wasn’t sure why he followed.
He really should stay in his tiny office. Where he could avoid the sight of...her. But this little mutiny from Pip pricked his interest. He made his way into the hall where the men were having dinner. Pip and Jessie were serving. Of Violet, there was no sign.
Ewan frowned. Where was she? Annoyance flickered in his gut. First because she wasn’t here and then because he hadn’t realized how much he wanted to see her. Just see her.
Had she...?
The door to the kitchens swung open and she appeared, carrying a tray piled with food.
Pleasure and maybe some strange kind of relief warmed his veins at the sight of her dark hair, her slight form.
That annoyed him as well.
He should be impervious to her presence.
He was not.
Neither was Wolfe. He lifted his head and sniffed the air, then padded to her side and followed her.
The men fell silent as she approached. An odd tension hummed in the air.
Alasdair and Mungo, sitting across the table from Craig, frowned darkly.
Violet rounded the table, serving each man a slab of meat with a fork.
As she dropped the meat on their plates, the men mumbled their thanks with eyes averted.
Until she reached Craig.
When she came to him, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his lap. She cried out. The platter went flying. Wolfe leapt forward—but not to gobble down the spilled pork—to growl at Craig. He wasn’t the only one growling.
Mungo’s chair scraped back loudly. He stood and glowered at Craig, his fingers clenching into hammy fists. Then Drummond and Rory and Tavish stood. And Lachlan and Bean.
“Let her go.” Mungo’s deep voice bounced off the stony walls.
Craig laughed. “Fuck you.” He glanced down at Violet, who wriggled on his lap. “Keep squirming, darlin’,” he said. “Something’s rising.”
Oh. Something was rising.
Fury.
Hot, red, blinding fury.
Craig had his hands on his Violet.
Rage whipped through Ewan’s veins, pebbled his skin, prickled at his nape. It immobilized him. Which was good. If he so much as moved a muscle, he would rip Craig limb from fucking limb.
He had his hands on his Violet.
He should help her. He knew he should step in and help her.
But he couldn’t.
If he did, it would change things between them. It would give her leverage.
Besides, she was safe from harm here. There were far too many witnesses for serious mischief.
He forced himself to stay where he was. To rein in the seething desire to yank her from another man’s arms. To play the hero for her once again.
As much as he wanted to.
Craig laughed again as Violet thrashed on his lap. As she moved, something on her cheek caught Ewan’s attention. At first he thought it was a shadow but then she arched back and the light from the fire hit her fully.
His heart clenched. Then thudded wildly.
A huge, nasty bruise discolored nearly half her face. Her jaw was swollen. There were dark marks on her neck as well.
The reason for Mungo’s glare became painfully clear.
Fuck.
Ewan opened his mouth to bellow for this to cease, but before he could utter a word, Craig let out a high-pitched squeal and froze. He glanced down at his crotch with wide eyes.
Violet said something to him but it was a low hiss, so Ewan couldn’t make it out.
Craig raised his arms, holding them high in the air.
She edged off his lap, still holding something there, holding it there until the rest of her was far enough away.
She retreated quickly, spinning and hurrying around the table.
It was then Ewan saw what she held, what she had used to hold Craig at bay—the sharply pronged serving fork. His lips curled. Good for her.
Their gazes met.
Her steps slowed. Faltered. She studied his face.
She veiled her thoughts but not until he caught a glimpse of her disgust.
He hadn’t helped her, that flash of expression said. He’d stood there and watched as she was mauled by one of his men and he hadn’t helped.
And the scene had amused him.
Shame rose in a tide on the back of his neck, burning his ears.
But she didn’t notice. She had already spun on her heel and fled the hall.
He couldn’t get the vision of her bruised face out of his mind. Ewan lay in his bed and stewed. Sleep eluded him though it was deep into the night. He’d brought her here so he could punish her for her sins, not so one of his men could brutalize her.
When he’d questioned Pip and Jessie—badgered them to tell him what had happened—and the story came out, a hard ball had settled in his gut. Then swelled. It still churned there.
He couldn’t help thinking this was at least in part his fault. He hadn’t protected her. She’d been struck. Very nearly raped. And he hadn’t protected her.
Oh, he’d had words with Craig. Told him in no uncertain terms he’d have his balls on a string if he so much as touched her again.
But Craig was new to his crew. And an insolent son of a bitch.
Ewan had taken him on as a favor to a friend.
As much as Craig appreciated the chance to earn a little extra coin, Ewan didn’t trust the man to keep his paws to himself.
He resolved that first thing tomorrow he’d have a talk with Mungo and ask him to shadow his little captive.