13. Chapter 13 #2
Sterling arched a brow. “Let us return to the part where you urged her not to return, Jack. What, precisely, did you say?”
“I told her that her ladyship was more’n likely fine and would be back in a day or two when the weather improved.”
“Did you?” Sterling etched amazement in the two syllables.
Jack turned instantly wary, as if he realized he’d walked into a trap.
“You see, if I was a betting man, I’d lay odds that you knew those two men who accosted Lady Woodville.”
“I never laid—”
“Else why be so sure Lady Woodville would not see a nefarious end? After all, you yourself ran.”
“Discretion is the better part of valor.”
“I don’t think so, Jack. I think, knowing how much money she was carrying on her person—the inordinate amount you’d agreed upon to take her across and back, same day—You either bragged about your lucrative fleecing and thereby brought the danger on Lady Woodville by accident, or, and this is where I’m leaning, you worked out an arrangement with one or both men, and had no real intention of taking her across. ”
“I tell you I did.” He slammed his fist on the counter.
Sterling leaned very close and, despite speaking through clenched teeth, enunciated each word.
“And I’m telling you, it wasn’t safe for the lady to cross in the weather that existed two nights ago, guide or no.
You’re lucky she didn’t break her neck. I’m also telling you that your days operating as a guide over the flats are over.
If I see or hear of you on the island, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.
“And last but not least, I have a message for your cohorts. I don’t take kindly to thieves terrorizing visitors to the island, much less to hearing one of them held a pistol on someone under my protection.
I consider their action as if having been done to myself and will deal with them on those grounds. Do I make myself clear?”
The bar had gone eerily silent.
Jack stared at Sterling, eyes wide. He managed the merest of nods.
Sterling stalked from the dank bar.
Outside he strode for the shadowed alley, where he paced in the grit, hands shaking, breath rasping in his lungs, and allowed the late afternoon chill to cool his overheated blood.
He wanted to believe what he’d said in the bar.
That the men’s audacity in threatening anyone in his purview had ignited his ire.
Wanted to believe the rage that had welled up in him had nothing whatsoever to do with the fate that could have befallen Annabelle, if not for her sheer grit, determination, and luck.
The damned woman could have been shot. She could have died, or been maimed.
Had either outcome so much as occurred to her?
He doubted it.
Just as she never questioned her own ability to navigate that stretch of sand on an unfamiliar horse.
Bloody hell.
It wasn’t the threat to the islanders which had aroused his fury to the point of violence, but imagining the danger she’d faced—that she’d bloody put herself in.
He leaned against the brick wall, closed his eyes, and knew himself for a fool.
In his mind’s eye, he saw another man, another time. It was a day he did not like to recall…
Dillon Ramsey, future Earl of Greywood, his mentor as much as his friend, had just learned of an insult his intended, Lady Constance Merriweather, had received when Sterling joined him in the coffee house where their group often met to philosophize, aggrandize and bemoan the preceding generation in the way of young men who thought they knew better.
It seemed Constance, while a guest at a weekend house party, had been asked to dance the waltz—twice, by the same man, a noted rake. She had agreed, of course—out of politeness, Dillon maintained—laying one hundred percent of the blame squarely at the feet of Mr. Lawrence Biddington.
Had Sterling attempted to downplay the situation, as he ought? No, he had not. Had he pointed out that Lady Constance might have had a shred of responsibility for what happened? Again, no.
Dillon’s anger had been palpable, heady, and to Sterling, wholly righteous.
When Dillon decided to challenge Biddington to a duel, he’d given no thought to cautioning his friend to let cooler heads prevail.
“I shall challenge him. Call him out,” Dillon had announced.
“And show him the folly of his ways,” Sterling had seconded.
Fools. Imbeciles. And here he was, behaving in the same boorish manner. Bowing up. Throwing his weight around in the name of honor—and for the likes of Annabelle Montrose, no less.
He drew a deep, steadying breath and straightened from the wall.
He had thrown down no gauntlet. Crossed no irrevocable line. He’d gotten carried away by the moment, with the need to make his point. To send a clear message.
The best thing now would be to forget the business. Annabelle’s recent ordeal was her own, largely of her own making, and had nothing whatsoever to do with him.
With that, he strode out to the street and headed for the telegraph office. The tide would not wait for them.
Inside the telegraph office, he found Annabelle, seated on one of the rough wooden chairs, arms folded in her lap, skirts jostling in time with one tapping toe.
For some reason, the sight of her, bristling with impatience, buoyed his spirits.
Spotting him, she rose and glided toward him.
His insides clenched. By God, the way she moved…Did she even realize that she fairly reeked of feminine sensuality? He liked to think she orchestrated the effect in order to manipulate men through their carnal urges.
Unfortunately, the more time he spent with her, the less he could convince himself that was true.
The less he could claim to understand her at all.
She was a mass of contradictions—on one hand, totally innocent, and on the other, the ultimate temptress.
And he’d agreed to bring her home with him until her chaperone arrived. Talk about being a fool.
He stared down at her. “You sent your telegram?”
She nodded. “The clerk has your bill prepared.”
He snorted and approached the counter to pay.
Afterward, he took her elbow and led her from the office.
This close to her, he smelled the sea water on her gown. It masked to some extent that alluring scent that wreaked such havoc on his senses, thank God.
Glancing down at her, a realization struck. “Your chaperone left—and with her, all of your things.”
“Yes, as I previously stated.” She spoke the words as if explaining to a child.
“You not only have no money, you have no clothing—other than that travel gown you’ve worn for the last several days.” He gazed pointedly at the water stains marring the skirt’s hemline.
She lifted her chin with defiance, even as a becoming shade of pink crawled up her neck. “What of it?”
He sighed and led her toward the stables where he’d left his horse.
“I suppose that simplifies matters. We hadn’t much time to gather your things from the inn, being that the tide will shift again in an hour or so, and with two of us riding, we couldn’t have managed your entire trousseau—which you undoubtedly brought, despite your plan to collect me and be off in less than forty-eight hours. ”
“I beg your pardon?” Never breaking stride, she studied him, as if astounded.
He turned his head to look at her. “Which part did you not comprehend?”
The corners of her eyes tightened with annoyance. “What do you mean, bringing up the tide? A-and sharing a horse?”
“Oh, that.” He resumed looking forward. “We shall return via the flats.”
She was silent a long moment. Finally, she asked in a voice that was barely audible, “Why?”
“I’m…not sure what you mean.” The stables came into view.
“Why aren’t we returning by boat?”
He shrugged, though he could see in his periphery she was no longer looking at him. “No sense putting you through the discomfort when there’s an alternate route we can take—so long as we make low tide.”
When she made no comment, snarky or otherwise, he shot her a quick glance.
She gazed straight ahead, her expression a combination of bemusement, and wonder, for lack of a better word.
So he hadn’t wanted to see that stark terror on her face again when it could be so easily avoided. He would have made the concession for anyone. Still. No sense confusing matters. They were not friends, and she was not an invited guest.
“I hope your chaperone makes haste in arriving, madam. Do not think I’ll be furnishing you with a new wardrobe while you wait.”
Her cheeks flamed scarlet. Even the tips of her ears bloomed pink.
Instead of a sense of triumph at the direct hit, however, he felt like an ass. “Perhaps Babette can rework a few of the gowns that are there,” he half muttered as they reached the mews. “Kindly wait here while I retrieve Zeus.”