Ann Lethbridge - Falling for the Highland Rogue

Apparently not. He swallowed a sigh. ‘I’ve an appointment at the Reiver in Old Town just off The Lawn Market. There’s gambling to be had there.’ And women. A particular dark-eyed beauty. A high flyer to whom he’d responded on a visceral level. And was still responding to, damn it all. He shifted in his chair.

Sanford lifted his quizzing glass and observing the men seated around the baize tables playing whist and faro. ‘As long as it’s for more than a few pennies a point.’

‘I’m no a gambler myself.’ Logan got more than enough excitement pitting wits against excisemen, ‘but from what I saw, the play looked deep enough. And if you are looking for low, you canna do better than the wynds of Old Town Edinburgh.’

Jamie arched one fair brow, his lips curving in a cynical smile. ‘It sounds like my kind of place.’

They left the club, Logan leading the way through the tenements and closes of the streets crowding at the foot of the castle. The evening was warm, which meant the usually dense air of Auld Reekie was breathable, though, of course, fires were always needed for kitchens so the air was never completely fresh. He dove into Ridell’s Court where Archie’s tavern hunkered at the end, the light from its windows gleaming off the muck in the runnels. He ushered his guest inside.

Sanford lifted his quizzing glass at the occupants of the taproom, some engaged in dominoes or a rubber of whist with tankards of ale in their hands. ‘Hardly a hive of vice,’ he said mildly.

‘This way,’ Logan said and took the stairs down to the cellars, into the noise and the smoke.

As he left the bottom step, his gaze went straight to the table beside the hearth. Not there. He should be glad. But he was not. He was disappointed.

He shook his head at himself. At the strange longing to see her again. He was not in the petticoat line, he had enough excitement in his life, and nor could he afford such a high flyer, even if he wanted her.

But want her he did. In the worst way. Not something he needed to be thinking about now or at any other time. Wanting was one thing, having was quite another.

With a judicious shove here and an elbow in a rib there, he secured them a place at the bar.

Archie grinned at him. ‘Back already, is it then? Do you have word for me?’ His gaze slid to Sanford, who was idly looking around him.

Logan shook his head in warning. ‘Just visitin’. An ale for me and a whisky for my friend.’ He gave Archie a hard stare. ‘The good stuff, mind.’

Archie served up the drinks. After a quick look at Sanford, he leaned over the counter to speak in a low voice. ‘There’s a man asking after you. A gent from London.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Aye. He’s against the back wall behind the pillar. Ye noticed his woman yesterday.’ Archie leered.

Logan’s heart stilled in his chest. He forced himself not to look. ‘Did I now?’

‘You did.’

Casually, he glanced past Sanford and over the heads of the men standing at the bar. He saw them now. The table squeezed into a corner far from the hearth. And there she was. In a gown the colour of blood, her lips painted to match. The colour made her skin look like snow. Against his will, his body tightened. He forced himself to look past her, to the man at her side, the big brawny fellow with a cheroot clenched in his teeth and a pile of gold coins at his elbow. The man she’d helped to his feet the previous evening. And behind them a ruffian with a face flattened by more than a few fists.

‘Who is he?’

‘O’Banyon,’ Archie said. ‘And that’s his doxy.’

Logan bristled at the word even as he acknowledged the truth of it. He nudged Sanford in the ribs. ‘If you are looking for high stakes, I would say that’s your man.’

Sanford’s seemingly bleary blue eyes sharpened for a moment, taking in the Irishman and the play. He shook his head. ‘Not me. I’m no green boy, my friend. I have no desire to fatten the pockets of a Captain Sharp.’

‘You know him?’ Logan asked as Archie moved away to serve another customer.

‘Runs Le Chien Rouge in town. Where the play is deep and the women deeper. A place where a man can indulge in every kind of vice imaginable.’ His smile was self-mocking.

‘And the woman?’ Hell, why had he asked?

Sanford raised his quizzing glass and took his time perusing the lass. Logan kept his gaze focused on Sanford, aware he was holding his breath, but unable to do anything about it. ‘Quite the piece, ain’t she. And as hard as nails, I’d wager.’ He dropped the glass and looked at Logan. He raised a brow.

Logan shrugged.

‘Ah,’ Sanford said, amusement pulling at his mouth. ‘I see a couple of gentlemen over there who will give me a chair at their table.’ He nodded to the middle of the room where a dandy was waving. ‘You are welcome to tag along.’

Logan shook his head, astonished at the thunder of his heart in his ears that blocked out the noise around him and the sudden unexpected dryness in his throat. He hadn’t felt like this since the first night he’d taken to the trade. ‘I’ll take my chances, yonder.’

‘You are a fool if you do,’ Sanford said with an indifferent lift of one shoulder.

Aye. Perhaps he was. But his idiocy had nothing to do with the depth of the play and everything to do with the lady in red. But then what could he do?

O’Banyon was the man Ian had sent him to Edinburgh to meet.

Chapter Two

He was coming their way. The golden Adonis from the previous evening. Charity’s heart pounded against her ribs. She wanted to disappear under the table. To flee the room. If she did anything of the sort, if she even flickered an eyelash, Jack would know. He had uncanny instincts that way. And he’d like discovering something had the power to disturb her. That someone did. He would use it to his advantage.

Ignoring disaster’s approach, she picked up her wine and gazed from beneath lowered lashes at the young gentleman sitting on the other side of the table. A young Scot with bulging pockets and the face of a new-born babe. Jack’s pawn. His mark. She curved her lips in a smile. The young man went red to his ears. Vermilion. Or scarlet. Maybe puce. She touched her tongue to her top lip, collecting the ruby drop of wine she had deliberately left there. Definitely puce, poor lad. She drew in a breath, lifting her bosom.

Gasping like a landed fish, he put down a card. Jack trumped it. The boy looked confused. Disoriented as he gazed at the cards he had left. Men and their lust. So stupid. It was the end of him, of course. The rest of the hand went Jack’s way and with a shaking hand the boy wrote his vowel. So damned easy.

At her back, she could feel golden boy, standing there, watching. Waiting his turn to be fleeced. A shudder went through her bones. An urgent need to tell him to leave. She glanced at Jack, wondering if she could excuse herself while he gathered his winnings. Use the moment to warn her green-eyed panther away from danger.

Hers. Hardly. Men, handsome or not, left her cold. Even young handsome ones.

Why would she even consider taking such a risk for a fool of a man who was little more than a boy. What was it to her, if he lost his coin? It would put more money in her pocket. Money she needed. Thank goodness Jack had recognised her worth at his tables after her utter failure in the brothel. While she might look the part, while she could drive a man to losing a fortune for the sake of a smile, men didn’t like a cold woman in their beds.

Which was why she didn’t understand why the man at her back heated her blood with no more than a glance.

The boy pushed his vowel at Jack and stood up, his face ghostly, his hands shaking. ‘I’ll send the money round tomorrow morning.’