Falling for the Highland Rogue. Ann Lethbridge

gaze flicked to Gilvry where he was speaking to a blond man, who glanced in their direction and nodded. So, the young panther had the sense to let someone know where he was going, but he was still a fool, wandering into an old lion’s lair. It wasn’t her concern. She cared for nothing and no one. As long as Jack paid what he promised.

      And he would, as long as she did exactly what he wanted. If not, he wouldn’t hesitate to take it out of her hide, even if it meant he had to find another cat’s paw.

      She arched a brow at him.

      ‘Growler,’ he muttered, like a curse.

      The pugilist handed her a couple of coins. Her percentage of the take. Her lust money. She slipped them inside her glove. It had been a good night. Two guineas in two hours. Not bad for one evening. If only the night ended here. Her heart gave a strange little jolt. Her job was done. Jack would not need her presence to conclude his business. Would he?

      Outside, he helped her into the carriage. Growler took his seat on the box and the coach rocked into motion. She was looking forward to a warm bath. A chance to get the stink of smoke from her skin. Her maid always hung her clothes at the window to air them to no avail. Even the lavender she sprinkled between their folds when she put them away never quite rid them of the stale odour of beer and smoke, or the taint of her soul.

      Sitting on the seat opposite, Jack was watching her face. From beneath her lowered lashes, she could see the intensity of his stare in the street lanterns’ regular flash into the depths of the compartment. She held herself still, relaxed. Waiting.

      ‘What did ye think of him?’ Jack asked, his rough voice cutting through the dark.

      Careful now. The question was not an idle one. ‘The mark? I doubt we will be able to lure him in again. Not when his head clears in the morning. My guess is, his trustees have him pretty well under control.’

      A hand moved impatiently. ‘Not him. Gilvry.’

      As she’d supposed. Jack was no fool, in or out of his cups. To hesitate too long would give too much away. ‘A boy sent to do a man’s job,’ she said musingly, speaking the truth, somewhat. ‘He seems more adventurer than negotiator. Ian Gilvry should have come himself.’ Perhaps Jack would send him home to his brother and insist on dealing with the man himself. A pleasing thought. Or it should be.

      Silence prevailed as Jack mulled over her words. ‘He’s got ballocks of steel,’ he said finally, ‘behind that baby face.’

      The note of admiration did not entirely surprise her. Few men had the courage to face Jack down and this one had done it with a bold smile.

      ‘I was that way myself as a lad.’ He shook his head and sighed regretfully. ‘Still, an’ all, business is business. I’d be wise to take him down a peg or two, I’m thinking.’

      Hurt him? Her insides cringed. ‘Likely,’ she murmured, keeping her voice indifferent and her hands still in her lap. Business was business.

      ‘He wants you.’

      Anger flared. And fear? She dammed it up with a smile. ‘What’s it to be then, Jack? I’m to lure him into some dark alley so Growler and his boys can make him sorry he was ever born? Teach him a lesson in humility?’ More taint for her black soul.

      Jack laughed. ‘Lordy, what a cold bitch you really are, Charity.’

      She shrugged, but the laugh and the words grated. It was all right for him to be merciless, but it made her a bitch. She was cold, though. Inside. Mark had seen to that. And she had no plans to change because of a face designed to break hearts. She didn’t have a heart. Not any more. She let her eyes drift closed. ‘Tell me what you would have me do, Jack.’

      ‘I’m thinking you should spend some time with him,’ Jack said.

      Her eyes flew open. ‘What sort of time?’ She sat up. ‘You know I don’t like—’

      ‘You will do as you’re told.’ A flash of light caught crooked white teeth bared in a grin, but it was the clenched fist that caught her attention.

      ‘You will spend whatever kind of time is needed to keep him out of my way for a day or so while I see what McKenzie has on offer.’

      ‘You don’t think Gilvry can deliver?’

      ‘When they send a boy to do a man’s job?’

      Damn Jack. Sometimes he listened too well. Spend time with young Gilvry? Torture. But her heart raced in a way it hadn’t for a very long time. An odd sort of anticipation. Her insides trembling as if she was a filly at the starting gate. Her breathing far too shallow for comfort.

      ‘I’m sure I can find a way to keep him busy.’

      Jack grunted and his fist relaxed.

      Distract Gilvry. It was what she did best. So why did she have a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach? What? Did she pity the wretch who had eyed her with heat like so many others? He was no different to any of them. None of them deserved consideration. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

      Pleasure. He was a pleasure to look at, certainly.

      She stared out of the window and for the first time in a very long time she wrestled with regret for what had brought her to this life. The youthful folly that had made her think she could rely on a man’s honour.

      * * *

      With Tammy Gare standing at his shoulder, Logan knocked on the door to O’Banyon’s chambers. The bruiser, Growler they called him, stared when he saw Tammy, but he said nothing, just ushered them into the foyer like a butler, taking his hat and his gloves and opening the door to the parlour.

      ‘Gilvry.’ O’Banyon came forwards at once to meet him, hand outstretched, his smile warm and his pale blue eyes dancing. ‘I see you brought reinforcements.’

      Logan shook a hand that was warm and dry and just firm enough to be a warning. ‘Edinburgh’s streets can be just as dangerous as those in London, I imagine.’

      ‘To be sure.’ He shifted, giving Logan more of a view of the room and the woman seated on the sofa by the hearth behind a tea tray set with three cups and a pot already steaming.

      The deep red of her gown was shocking against the pale fabric of the cushions. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He had not expected her presence or he would have steeled himself.

      ‘You must be forgiving me my manners,’ O’Banyon was saying. ‘I did not introduce you earlier. Charity, this is Mr Gilvry with whom I have some business. Gilvry, Mrs Charity West.’

      Married, then. Disappointment gripped him.

      Heather-purple eyes gazed at him coolly. They were not as dark in colour as he’d thought at the Reiver, but they held dark knowledge. A small smile played at the corners of her lush red lips. Blood on snow. The thought made him vaguely light-headed as he bowed over her outstretched gloved hand. Not the York tan she had worn in the alehouse, but lacy gloves through which he could feel the warmth of her skin. Searing warmth. As he bowed he was afforded a close view of the rise of her bountiful bosom and the shadow of the valley between. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Mrs West.’

      Her lips tilted upwards as if he had said something humorous. ‘Oh, no, Mr Gilvry. The pleasure is all mine.’ He voice was low and husky and hinted at all things carnal.

      The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. And he felt a throb of lust in his groin. It wasn’t the first time a woman had played the siren to his face, but it was the first time in years that his control had been this elusive.

      What could not be cured, could be ignored. Something he’d taught himself well in the years since he’d run afoul of Maggie.

      Pleasure was not why he was here.

      He turned back to O’Banyon, who was watching him with a hard expression. Damn it all, he hoped the man didn’t notice...or think...he had any more interest in the woman than that of