Why she had noticed him she could not imagine.

He had neither wealth nor style. The only attributes she looked for in a man. The first thought in her mind had been charming rogue. The worst kind of man for a woman like her.

Was it the sheer male beauty of him, then, that had held her attention a fraction too long? The long, lean frame, the shoulders wide but not brutally so, the narrow waist tapering to hard, firm flanks in tight buckskins that had seen better days? While his form was lovely, she’d seen others equally fine.

She closed her eyes briefly to break the spell that seemed to see all the way through her with a blinding purity.

Unsettling thought. Horrifying when she inspected her own darkly stained soul. A dark, twisted creature from a gothic novel, drawn to his light like the proverbial moth to a flame and the inevitable burning of wings.

One more such singeing and she’d float away as ashes.

AUTHOR NOTE

This is my third book about the Gilvrys of Dunross. In 1820 the visit of King George IV to Edinburgh was a momentous occasion. I have been able to give you only a small taste of the impact this event had on the city. He was the first monarch to visit Scotland since before Bonnie Prince Charlie made his unsuccessful attempt to regain the throne for the Stuarts.

King George—who was previously Prince Regent, as I am sure you know—was a great admirer of the Stuarts and enjoyed his visit and the enthusiastic welcome immensely. One local gentleman actually wrote a book detailing almost every minute of every day of the visit and I have tried to be faithful to his record. I only took deliberate artistic licence on one occasion: the description of the King’s pink tights. In truth, he wore this particular outfit to the Levee, but since only men were invited it did not fit well into my story of Logan and Charity. On the other hand it was just too deliciously funny to leave out altogether, so I reclothed him in his kilt for the Drawing Room, where he was introduced to the ladies. I hope you will forgive me.

I hope you enjoy Logan and Charity’s story. If you want to learn more about me or my books please visit me at http://www.annlethbridge.com

ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.

Ann grew up roaming Britain with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.

Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Previous novels by this author:

THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN†

WICKED RAKE, DEFIANT MISTRESS

CAPTURED FOR THE CAPTAIN’S PLEASURE

THE GOVERNESS AND THE EARL

(part of Mills & Boon New Voices … anthology)

THE GAMEKEEPER’S LADY*

MORE THAN A MISTRESS*

LADY ROSABELLA’S RUSE†

THE LAIRD’S FORBIDDEN LADY

HAUNTED BY THE EARL’S TOUCH

HER HIGHLAND PROTECTOR **

And in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:

THE RAKE’S INTIMATE ENCOUNTER

THE LAIRD AND THE WANTON WIDOW

ONE NIGHT AS A COURTESAN

UNMASKING LADY INNOCENT

DELICIOUSLY DEBAUCHED BY THE RAKE

A RAKE FOR CHRISTMAS

IN BED WITH THE HIGHLANDER

ONE NIGHT WITH THE HIGHLANDER **

And in Mills & Boon® Historical eBooks:

PRINCESS CHARLOTTE’S CHOICE

(part of Royal Weddings Through the Ages anthology)

And in M&B:

LADY OF SHAME

(part of Castonbury Park Regency mini-series)

*linked by character

†linked by character

** The Gilvrys of Dunross

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Falling for the

Highland Rogue

Ann Lethbridge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I would like to dedicate this book to my husband, who chauffeured me all around the Scottish Highlands to help make the settings for this and the other Gilvry stories come alive.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Edinburgh—August 1822

‘Ye’re late!’ the voice on the other side of the door grumbled to the sound of a grating metal bolt being withdrawn from its socket.

There’s gratitude, Logan thought, glancing back down the line of ponies filling the dank and dark alley behind him. ‘Aye, well, let us in quick, man, or your whisky’ll be filling the revenue man’s cellar come morning. Either that or McKenzie will have it off ye.’ Above him, the darkness in the narrow slit between the tenement buildings gave way to the grey of morning. At any moment they could be seen. ‘Hurry, man. McKenzie’s men are up and down the Royal Mile from Holyrood to the gates of the castle.’ He wouldn’t help the man out again in a hurry if this was his welcome.

Finally, the door swung back.

A hugely fat man, with a day’s growth of beard on his heavy jowls and a sagging belly covered in a stained white apron, peered out. ‘Good heavens. Is Gilvry so desperate for men he must needs take them from their mother’s teat?’

Logan ground his teeth. All right, so he was younger than most in the trade, but at twenty-two, he’d been at it for years and he was tired of people commenting on his youth. ‘You are Archie, right? Do you want the whisky or no?’

‘Aye, bring it in.’ The man stood back.

At a quick gesture, Logan’s men leapt into familiar action, pulling barrels from their racks on the ponies, passing them down the line with one or two of them running them down the cellar steps. The innkeeper, his eyes as shrewd as a stoat, counted each barrel as it passed. ‘Twenty?’ he said as the last of the wooden casks passed him. ‘Is that all you can spare me?’

Logan signalled to his men to depart for the stabling he’d arranged at the edge of the city. He grinned at Archie. ‘It is lucky you are to get that. We’ve been dodging McKenzie’s men half the night and the excise officers the other. Not that we had to worry about them.’

Archie grimaced. ‘McKenzie’s men no’ saw you, I hope. He’ll be round breaking staves if he gets even a hint I bought elsewhere.’

Logan chuckled. ‘He couldna’ catch a pig in a passage.’

Archie grunted, closed the cellar door in the floor and covered it with wooden boards. ‘Aye, weel, I was beginning to think you were no comin’ an’ me with a house full of cursed Sassenachs all demanding uisge beatha.’

Englishmen all wanting what the Scots called the water of life for some reason. Scottish whisky. And the Gilvrys made the best there was. Logan doubted the Sassenachs appreciated the finer points seeing as they also drank Geneva by the bucket full. Still, the imminent arrival of fat auld King Georgie was a gift from the gods, with McKenzie making it nigh impossible to sell their whisky in Edinburgh under usual circumstances. What they really needed was a buyer in London. Another reason he was here.

Noise battered at the door leading into the lower level of the tavern. Archie was also making hay from the Royal visit. Like everyone else in the city, Dunross included. ‘Aye. Well, here I am the now. And I’ll be having my due.’

Archie bolted the door to the street. ‘You’ll have a drink on the house while I get your gold, I hope.’

‘Aye. But I’ll be having ale, if you dinna mind. Tonight has been thirsty work. And you’ll not be giving me any of that swill you keep for yon visiting Sassenachs.’

The innkeeper grinned and went to the other door, pausing to look back. ‘Ye’ll excuse the company, I am thinkin’. I heared as how these London gentlemen,’ his voice held a sneer as he said that last word, ‘like to gamble away their fortunes. So I thought I would give them the chance.’

Logan arched an admiring brow. ‘You’ve opened a hell?’

‘Why the hell not?’ He chuckled at his own joke. ‘Wi’ King George bringing all and sundry from London, and all the Scots comin’ in too, there’s a good few with a wee bitty extra gold burning a hole in their pockets.’

‘Ye’re a right cunning auld bugger,’ Logan said, and followed the waddling innkeeper into one of the upper cellars filled with tables instead of barrels. The noise—men and dice and raucous laughter—filled his ears. Smoke from pipes and cigars set his eyes to water and his throat stinging. He set his elbow on the bar and took the foaming mug the innkeeper drew off for him. He raised the tankard in a salute and downed half of it in what felt like one swallow.

‘Wait here,’ Archie said and lumbered off to fetch Logan his purse.

Logan turned and leaned back, both elbows on the bar. A mass of men of all shapes and sizes and walks of life, rich and poor, filled the place. One old gentleman, with a nose like a cherry and too drunk to stand upright, leaned on his lanky friend. They stood like two books leaning inwards for support. One tap of an elbow and they’d fall to the floor. A young man wiped beads of sweat from his brow as he glowered at his cards. Another, laughing, shook the dice box as if his life depended on a good throw. The place reeked of sweat, liquor and smoke.

There were women too. Doxies, not ladies, hanging over their mark for the night. A barmaid fought off the clutching hand of the patron with a laugh and a slap as she passed by with her tray held high.

And then he saw her. On the other side of the room beside the hearth. At a table with four richly dressed fops. Everything else in the room receded. The noise. The smells. The men. It was as if she was sitting on an island surrounded by dark empty water.

An oval face, skin pale as milk, dark eyes, wide-set, long lashed, tilting slightly upwards at the corners. High arrogant cheekbones lightly rouged. Lips full and lush hinted at a pout. A proud face for all its stunning beauty, a head held high on a long neck, softly sloping shoulders and an expanse of creamy flesh where a necklace of gold and diamonds dipped into the valley between her bounteous breasts.

He swallowed hard, forced his gaze back up to her face. Their gazes met. Clashed like finely honed swords, giving off sparks as they met thrust for thrust in some deadly encounter.

A finely arched brow lifted slightly. The pout changed to a faint smile of derision and she looked down her small nose, taking in the rough home-spun of his coat and no doubt the streaks of sweat and dirt on his unshaven face.

A slight turn of her head brought her lips close to the ear of the man beside him, her lips moved slightly and, as if weighted by the words she was breathing, her eyelids lowered a fraction, the long dark lashes casting shadows on those magnificent cheekbones.

Logan felt the breath that carried her words in his own ear. Heard the darkness reflected in her expression as if he heard her low voice. His blood heated. To his disgust, his body hardened.

The man beside her turned his head to her, muttered something. His companions roared with laughter. Logan narrowed his eyes. Wealthy gentlemen from their dress. The woman helped the man to his feet with her shoulder beneath his arm. He staggered, grabbing her for support, his fingers digging into her delicate flesh.

Logan started forwards at the slight grimace that tightened those beautiful lips. She glanced up as if she sensed his movement and in those dark cold eyes he saw a warning. He hesitated.

The man leaned down and scooped a pile of winnings from the table. He handed the woman one of the coins and put the rest in a pocket. A faint wash of colour stained high on her cheeks, but the coldness in her expression, the hardness in her eyes, gave the blush the lie as she tucked the coin inside her glove.

Then they were turning away, the heavy-set man leaning heavily on her slender frame. Too heavily, even for a woman he could now see was almost as tall as her companion. Again he took a step towards her.

‘Here,’ Archie said, ‘come awa’, lad, out of sight of prying eyes.’

He could hardly leave without his pay. Ian would tear a strip off him. And his men would have no coin to pay for a bed for the night for themselves or their animals. And besides, from her glare, help was not something the woman wanted.

He turned and followed Archie into a dark corner beside the bar.

‘Can ye give a little on the price?’ Archie asked, his beady little eyes glimmering in the dark.

‘You’re an auld skinflint,’ Logan said mechanically, flashing a smile, his mind still on the woman, at how beautiful he had thought her eyes until he saw the hardness in their depths. And the cold calculation on her face as she pocketed, or rather gloved, that golden coin.

Archie sighed. ‘You can’t blame a man for tryin’ seein’ as how your mind wasna’ on business the noo.’

Logan dragged his mind back to the business at hand. ‘Aye, well, that is where you are wrong.’ Ian would flay him alive if he did not get the agreed-upon price.

‘I’ll need more next week, mind,’ Archie said.

Logan’s mind was fully focused now and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Why? I thought McKenzie had only a temporary shortage. This was a favour, man. That was what you said.’

Archie shifted his feet. ‘When McKenzie saw how well I was doing he wanted some of the profit.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Aye,’ Archie said morosely. ‘The man’s a bully. Thinks he owns Old Town.’ He grimaced. ‘I ha’ to be honest with you, Logan, lad. Ye got awa’ wi’ it the night, but McKenzie’s bent on locking the town up tighter than ever. His whisky or no one’s. It’s no just cudgels any more. He’s arming his bully boys with pistols.’

The restlessness that hummed in Logan’s veins rose to a clanging of bells. There was nothing he liked better than a challenge and the damned excisement were so predictable he rarely broke a sweat. ‘Next week, you say? I am sure something can be arranged. Leave it to me.’ He patted Archie on the shoulder and pushed his way through the crowds and ran up the stairs to the front door.

Outside, in the grey of a smoky dawn, there was no sign of the woman and her escort in the street winding downhill.

And glad of it he was. While he thoroughly enjoyed the sight of a beautiful woman, that was as far as it ever went for him. No female would lead him around by his nose or that other part of his anatomy that was painfully hopeful.

Then why the hell had he been so eager to catch another glimpse?

* * *

The sovereign burned in Charity’s palm. A hot chestnut drawn from the embers and tossed to the unwary. A cruel flash of scalding pain inside her glove. Impossible, of course. She let her body rock to the motion of the carriage, let the grind of the wheels over rough cobbles drown out the sounds of the city around her and the drunken snores of her companion. Soon they would be back at their hotel and he would awaken, but until then she was alone with her thoughts.

With tentative fingers, she touched the hard round shape beneath the York tan leather of her glove. A sovereign. More than her usual take. Jack could be generous when the cards went his way. The coin was the same heat as her hand, of course, and nestled like a bird in the curve of her palm. A treasure to be guarded. Along with her thoughts.

No, the heat was not about the coin.

She’d noticed him the moment he had walked in from somewhere in the back. A swagger to his long stride. A cocky set to his handsome head. A quirk of humour to his mouth. A blond Adonis. A green-eyed panther, so sure of his world. There wasn’t a woman in the tavern not looking at him. Some openly. Some from beneath their lashes. Like her.

Not that he’d seemed to notice them as he glanced around the room, a spark of devilment in eyes the clear green of spring grass.

Then the fool had actually dared to catch her gaze. To stare at her boldly. With admiration. And speculation. He was lucky Jack hadn’t noticed and called him out. No. She shook her head at the thought. Jack wouldn’t call out a man so clearly below him. He’d set Growler and his bully boys on to teach him a lesson.

She sighed. Idiot indeed, if he could not see she was taken.

Why she had noticed him, she could not imagine. He had neither wealth nor style, the only attributes she looked for in a man. The first thought into her mind had been charming rogue. The worst kind of man for a woman like her. And so young. Far younger than she, if not in years, then in experience.

Was it the sheer male beauty of him, then, that had held her attention a fraction too long? The long lean frame, the shoulders wide but not brutally so, the narrow waist tapering to hard firm flanks in tight buckskins that had seen better days. While his form was lovely, she’d seen others equally fine.

She closed her eyes briefly to break the spell of a gaze that seemed to see all the way through her with a blinding purity.

Unsettling thought. Horrifying, when she inspected her own darkly stained soul. A dark twisted creature from a Gothic novel, drawn to his light like the proverbial moth to a flame and the inevitable burning of wings.

One more such singeing and she’d float away as ashes.

Purity? Even as she mulled over the word, she dismissed it out of hand. No male of the species deserved the adjective. No matter how handsome. For all their talk of honour, beneath their coats of superfine and bright white linen, their hearts were black as night.

The coach halted at the front door of their hotel and she shook Jack awake. His eyes were shadowed, but his lips curved cruelly as he focused. She cursed her cowardice. If she’d not made him leave so early, he would not be nearly so wide awake.

‘Let us have champagne, shall we?’ she murmured in sultry tones. ‘To celebrate your winnings.’

His gaze dropped to her breasts. ‘Aye. Champagne first.’ He grabbed her and hauled her towards him so she landed hard on his chest, his hand pressing her fingers against his arousal. Winded, she stared up into his square face with its cruel thin lips, hawkish nose and cold blue eyes. ‘And then you can play me a tune with that pretty mouth of yours.’

A shudder rippled down her spine. It was a jest, but like all Jack’s jibes it carried the edge of a threat. Something he couldn’t help. A habit. Swallowing the bile of revulsion, she retreated behind her wall of ice, presenting a false smile that masked her inner turmoil. A drunk Jack was a dangerous man. And if she couldn’t avoid him...she’d do what she had to do. This was business. And the path to freedom to live life the way she wanted.

Only a fool let a pair of pretty green eyes and a jaunty open face melt a hole in hard-won defences. To remind herself where she stood, she gazed up at the man who held her future in his hands and smiled. ‘Not before I offer you a toast.’

She freed herself from his grip with a light laugh and descended the steps to the path.

Arm in arm they walked inside, his grip possessive as if he sensed her fear. It would not be wise for Jack to sense fear. It always brought out the worst and winning had stirred his appetites, something she usually managed to avoid. Their relationship was all about business. Nothing else. But it did not mean she could relax her guard. A couple more drinks beside the fire and he would fall asleep. If she was lucky.

She closed her eyes and once again saw those clear green eyes gazing at her with awe. It was as if he somehow saw her how she had been, not how she was.

Damn him.

* * *

The next evening, to his surprise, Logan found himself in very different surroundings and company.

‘Well, brat,’ Sanford said, squinting at him through eyes already fogged with the effects of wine at dinner followed by several bumpers of whisky. Such a dandy, this Sanford. Blue-eyed, pale, delicately built, his fair hair carefully ordered, his linen white and crisp. Logan wouldn’t be surprised if the young lordling spent as many hours at his toilette as did most women.

‘If this is the best entertainment Auld Reekie has to offer,’ Sandford continued, ‘I can see I am in for a great deal of dullness over the next week or two.’

Sanford was an acquaintance of Lady Selina, his brother’s wife. The Sassenach lord was part of a contingent of gentlemen preparing for the King’s upcoming visit to Scotland. He had invited Logan to dine at The New Club in Princes Street, Scotland’s finest gentleman’s club. From here there was an excellent view of the castle. For some reason, Logan had been intrigued by the idea of seeing the inside of the place. So much so, he’d borrowed an evening coat from his brother Niall.

Sanford was right. It was as stuffy inside as it was imposing outside.

He shrugged. ‘Edinburgh has it all. High or low. Drinking. Gambling. Women.’ Perhaps he could leave the lordling at the nearest brothel.

‘Definitely low,’ Sanford said with a sardonic twist to his mouth. He brushed at the sleeve of his immaculate black coat. ‘A little drinking and gambling wouldn’t go amiss, if the stakes are right.’

As far as Logan could see, Sanford had too much of the former and was ripe for the plucking at the latter. But he wasn’t the man’s keeper. He’d run into Sanford by chance and been swept into the young dandy’s orbit like a stray asteroid. He rather wished he’d been rude and ignored the man when he’d heard himself hailed on the Royal Mile earlier in the day. He’d intended to unload the Sassenach right after dinner.

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.’

Jack smiled coldly, a quick baring of crooked teeth. ‘You will find me at the White Horse Inn. Gold only. No paper.’

The boy swallowed and stumbled away with one last longing glance at her face. She cut him dead. He no longer existed. The next mark was waiting his turn. Him. The handsome rogue. Tonight he would lose his swagger and, like all the others, she’d consign him to the flames of unrequited lust.

It was as inevitable as day following night. It had to be.

Jack handed off the winnings to Growler standing behind him and raised his gaze, looking up at the man standing behind her right shoulder out of her line of vision, though she could see him in her mind’s eye, see the arrogant set of his head, the confident expression on his handsome face.

Damn you! Can’t you see what we are? Go away.

Jack gestured to the empty chair. ‘Faro?’ he asked around his cigar.

The other two men at the table looked up expectantly, saying nothing. They each had some winnings. Money they would return to Jack at the end of the night. His boyos, Jack called them in the private sanctum of his office at the back of Le Chien Rouge. It was the only place he ever acknowledged he knew them. They took their orders from Growler.

Lean and lithe, her panther sat down. He glanced at her face, his eyes blazing heat for a brief betraying moment, a heat that burned in her belly. She swallowed an indrawn gasp and picked up her glass, sipping slowly, retaining her mask of indifference.

Jack didn’t notice anything amiss. He was used to the hot looks young men cast her way. It was what he paid for. He assessed the young man with a knowing eye. He wore clothes quite different from last night. A dark coat of superfine slightly worn at the cuffs, the linen good, but not expensive. A man of few means, but a great deal of pride. And a fool.

She set her glass down with more force than she intended. Jack glanced her way, a quick sideways glance and a faint trace of a frown. A shiver slid down her back. It did not do to make Jack angry. To ruin his play. She touched a finger to her smiling lips. ‘Oops.’

‘A shilling a point to begin,’ Jack said, with his friendliest grin. He looked around the table. ‘All right with you, gentlemen?’

They murmured their assent on cue and Jack raised his brow in the direction of the young man. ‘Jack O’Banyon at your service.’ He nodded at the other two men in turn. ‘Mr Smith and Mr Brown.’

Not their real names of course. Only Growler knew those.

‘Gilvry,’ the young man said, his Scottish burr a startling velvet caress in her ear. ‘You were asking after me.’

Clearly surprised, Jack leaned back in his chair. ‘You’ll be excusing me, Mr Gilvry. I was expecting someone older.’ He glanced from him to her and his eyes gleamed with cunning, deciding how to use that first hot look to advantage. She tapped a fingernail on the wooden table. ‘My glass is empty, Growler.’ She spoke in the husky murmur men loved to hear in bed.

Not that they ever heard it in her bed. She preferred to sleep alone.

While the bruiser went in search of a waiter, Gilvry’s gaze focused on Jack. There was a wealth of understanding in that look. ‘My brother asked that I meet with you.’ His voice didn’t carry beyond the confines of their group.

‘Why don’t we play while we talk?’ Jack puffed smoke in Gilvry’s direction. ‘We’ll attract less attention.’

Gilvry’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Do that again, man, and I’ll stuff that wee cheroot down your throat.’ Then he grinned, an open devil-may-care smile that was both charming and dangerous.

Charity shivered as if she, too, had been caught in his predatory gaze. But it wasn’t quite that. It was the razor edge to his voice, the sense of a blade with a silky sheath. Her breathing shallowed, her chest rising and falling, the edge of her satin gown pressing against her skin like a touch. She wanted to scream. Anything to break this tension.

Brown’s hand went beneath the table, to the pistol she knew he had tucked in his waistband.

Jack threw back his head and laughed. He mashed the hot end of the cigar between his stubby fingers, his gaze fixed on Gilvry’s smiling expression. A battle of strength fought in silence.

Jack’s other two men relaxed, watchful, but at ease.

A breath left her body. Relief. Glad Gilvry wasn’t about to die. She caught herself. She did not care. Not at all.

Growler plonked the fresh glass in front of her and took the empty one away.

‘I’ve no interest in cards,’ Gilvry said softly. ‘Or drink. If it is business you want to discuss, we’ll do it in private. Or we’ll no’ do it at all.’

Not once did he look at her. Not once, since that first look the moment he sat down, yet her skin shivered with the knowledge of his strength of will. His blind courage. Fool man. She lifted her glass and drained it in one draught. A dangerous thing to do, to let the wine cloud her judgement around Jack, but the tension was too great, too impossible to let her resist the warm slide down her gullet, steadying her nerves, calming the frantic beat of her heart.

‘We’ll be going back to my rooms at the White Horse then, is it, Gilvry?’

‘Aye, that will do.’

‘Ride with us?’

Say no, she willed, the thought of being confined in a small space with him a suddenly terrifying prospect.

‘No,’ he said, once more flashing the smile with its edge of wickedness.

She almost sagged back in her chair with relief. Almost.

‘Give me a little credit, O’Banyon,’ Gilvry said. ‘I’m no’ advertising our business to all and various. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.’ He cocked a brow at the men at the table. ‘Am I needing to bring my own gang of ruffians?’

Jack barked a short laugh. ‘You’ll find no one with me but Growler, here.’

He nodded. ‘Half an hour, then.’ He rose gracefully to his feet, so tall and almost as broad as Jack, but not nearly so heavy set. There was an elegance, a manly grace, about him as he prowled away.

Deliberately, she kept her gaze on Jack, waiting for her cue.

He looked at his men. ‘I’ll not be needing you any more tonight,’ he said curtly. ‘Growler will bring you my orders in the morning.’

He rose to his feet with a sour look at Charity. ‘It seems you are losing your touch.’

The lad had caught him left-footed. He didn’t like it. She smiled slowly. ‘It seems to me, Jack, you are rising from this table with a pretty good profit.’

His 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 any male faced with a stunningly beautiful woman who had her assets on display. As instructed, Tammy now stood on one side of the parlour door and O’Banyon’s man on the other.

‘Will you be taking tea?’ O’Banyon asked. ‘Or can I pour you a dram of whisky?’

‘Perhaps you would like to try a drop of what Dunross has to offer.’ He snapped his fingers. Tammy stepped forward smartly as they had practised and handed Logan a bottle of the whisky put down in his father’s time. O’Banyon looked surprised and pleased.

Tammy returned to his place. Growler eyed him, measuring and weighing. Tammy returned the favour.

Noticing the direction of Logan’s gaze, O’Banyon chuckled. ‘Shall we dispense with their services?’

It was what he had hoped when he had given Tammy his instructions. ‘Certainly.’

‘Take Mr Gilvry’s man down to the servants’ hall,’ O’Banyon instructed. ‘Offer him some refreshments.’

Whatever he was offered, Tammy would stand by his word and only take tea. He would not let O’Banyon’s man out of his sight until he and Logan were reunited. Logan took the chair opposite Mrs West. Charity. Now there was a name for a woman who looked like sin personified.

‘I will take tea,’ he said, surprising himself.

‘With a dash of whisky in it?’ O’Banyon asked, pouring himself a glass at the table near the window and holding out the bottle to Logan.

‘No, thank you. It is your gift from my brother.’

‘Charity, my dear?’

‘No, thank you, Jack,’ she murmured in a voice that made Logan think of skin sliding against skin.

Glass in hand, O’Banyon wandered back to sit at the other end of the sofa, facing Logan, while Mrs West poured tea in the style of a well-born lady. Come to think of it, her voice was also that of a lady, not the rough accents of the street or the drawl of the country. She spoke much like his brother’s wife, Lady Selina. But accents could be learned.

She smiled at him and once more his body tightened. ‘Your tea, Mr Gilvry.’ She held out a cup and saucer and he rose to take it from her hand. Somehow their fingers touched, though he was sure he had been careful enough not to do anything so clumsy. The heat of that brief touch made his hand tremble and he had to catch the cup with his other hand to prevent a spill.

Not that she seemed to notice. She was pouring another cup for herself and he could see only the crown of artfully arranged curls the colour of toffee as she bent to the task.

O’Banyon was busy gazing at the whisky in his glass.

Logan sat down and, getting command of himself, took a sip from his cup. Tea. He’d far rather have ale any day of the week.

The Irishman took a slow sip, swirled the liquid around his mouth and then swallowed. His eyelids lowered as he slowly nodded approval. ‘Fine. Very fine. And expensive, I am thinking.’

‘Naturally. It is the best we have. Old. But we have grades to suit all tastes and purses.’ He waited for O’Banyon to rise to the bait. There was a reason Ian had sent Logan to woo this man from London. Over and over again they had proved that one look at his face and men trusted him to speak the truth. And he did. But trust was hard-won in this necessarily illegal business of theirs. The English Parliament continued to keep a boot on the neck of Scotland.

‘I could see serving this to some of my special customers,’ O’Banyon said, his gaze direct, chilly, fixed on Logan’s face. ‘But I’d need to taste the other stuff, too. The Chien serves gentlemen who might not want to be paying for the very best, but it has to be decent.’

Despite the hard gaze of the man he was facing, he could feel the woman’s eyes upon him, too. She was looking him over, as if waiting for him to fail to impress. Why he had that impression or why he was even aware of her, when this deal with O’Banyon was so important to the clan, he could not fathom.

He took another sip of his tea, let the pause grow just enough to make O’Banyon’s shoulders fractionally stiffen. He loved the twists and turns of this game. The risks, whether it was in the taverns where the deals were done, or on the heather-clad hills where gaugers lurked behind every bush.

He put down his cup. ‘You were drinking it tonight. Archie served you this year’s distilling.’

O’Banyon’s eyes widened. ‘Did he now?’

Got you. ‘I delivered it yesterday.’

The Irish man’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I heard it was only McKenzie whisky in Edinburgh.’

‘It appears you heard wrong.’ Logan shrugged. He glanced at Mrs West. There was a look on her face he could not quite interpret, her lips were parted and he could have sworn a smile lurked in her misty gaze, but she had already turned that gaze on O’Banyon as if waiting for his reply.

‘And what makes you think you can do business with me?’ O’Banyon asked.

‘The Laird looked into the Chien Rouge through his contacts before he answered your enquiry.’

Her gaze dropped down to her teacup as if to hide her thoughts, but then she looked back up at Logan. ‘Your brother is a clever man, Mr Gilvry.’ Her voice held a trace of amusement, but whether at his expense, or his brother’s, or even O’Banyon’s, he had no way of knowing, because her expression was quickly one of indifference. The woman kept her secrets well in hand.

But he was not one to avoid a challenge.

‘He would not remain in business long if he was not, Mrs West.’

O’Banyon grinned. ‘It seems we may be able to do business, Gilvry.’

Logan did not like the word ‘may’. With Edinburgh mostly shut off to them by McKenzie’s ruffians, they needed to get an outlet in London as soon as possible. But smuggling held risks not to be taken lightly. ‘What more is required?’

‘Naturally, I will want to see your terms.’

‘I can bring the documents around in the morning.’

‘I will also need to consult my partner in London.’

Not what he wanted to hear. He had not planned to linger. Other customers were waiting. ‘I understood you had carte blanche, Mr O’Banyon. Perhaps it is your partner to whom I should be speaking.’

O’Banyon ignored the jab. ‘A letter giving my positive opinion is all that is required. And of course the transfer of funds. A payment sent on account for the first shipment. Unless you wish to dispense with such formality.’

This was the problem doing business outside of Scotland. He acknowledged the other man’s hit with a slight nod. ‘Certainly not.’ Knowing his propensity to work on nothing but a handshake, Ian had warned him to agree to nothing without money up front. Such trust was all well and good between Scotsmen, Ian had said, but Sassenachs, other than his wife of course, were not to be trusted.

‘And besides,’ O’Banyon said, ‘Mrs West is anxious to catch a glimpse of Edinburgh’s welcome of the King.’

‘His ship arrives the day after tomorrow, I understand,’ she said, becoming animated. ‘The first visit of a reigning monarch to Scotland since Charles the Second. There are several grand spectacles planned. Cavalry, Highland regiments in their kilts, the newspapers are saying...’

For the first time, her eyes were sparkling. No longer did they remind him of heather at dusk, instead they were as bright as amethysts in sunlight, her lips curved in a smile so lovely it stole his breath.

‘Mr McKenzie has offered us a place at his window overlooking the Golden Mile from where we can watch a procession later in the week,’ she said, looking pleased.

O’Banyon shot her a silencing look. She dropped her gaze and caught her lip with white teeth. ‘It was kind of Mr McKenzie to offer, but I expect it will be nothing of consequence.’

The heat of anger at that small gesture of submission flared in Logan’s chest. His fists wanted to smash O’Banyon in the face, which made no sense at all. ‘McKenzie, is it?’ he said, not bothering to hide his disgust. ‘If you are so deep in bed with him, then I doubt we can do business.’

O’Banyon looked at the glass in his hand. ‘McKenzie has nothing to match what I have tasted from Dunross.’

But that didn’t mean he would buy it if the price wasna right. Ian had warned him to tread carefully. To turn the man up sweet. He reined in his anger and forced himself to think.

‘If Mrs West is so keen to see the King, I can drive you both out to Leith the day after tomorrow to see his official welcome.’ At least he hoped he could. Surely Sanford could get him a pass.

The smile he had thought lovely before became utterly enchanting. And yet, it seemed a little too practised. She turned from him to O’Banyon. ‘Can we, Jack?’

Jack grimaced. ‘All you’ll see is a fat old man waving, but if it pleases you to go, then we will do so.’ He got to his feet and offered his hand to Logan. ‘I will look forward to seeing you in the morning with the documents, then, Gilvry. Let us hope we can conclude our business satisfactorily in a few days.’

‘I am sure we can.’

He took Mrs West’s hand in his and was once more aware of the feel of her warmth and the fine bones of that elegant hand in his palm and the shadows deep in her eyes. Shadows he wanted to pierce. ‘I will come for you and Mr O’Banyon at nine in the morning on Tuesday, Mrs West, if that will suit you?’

‘Jack and I will be ready,’ she said, giving him a sultry smile that sent heat careening straight to his groin.

An effect she’d intended. The knowledge showed in her eyes as plain as day. He found it irksome to say the least. She was not the kind of woman he imagined ever finding attractive, though he doubted there were many men in whom she did not engender lustful thoughts. He had thought himself more in control. Forearmed, as it were, with the knowledge of the damage a woman could do to a man not on his guard.

‘The day after tomorrow, then,’ he said, and did not fail to catch her glance at O’Banyon. A glance seeking his approval. But for what?

The back of his neck tightened.

The well-being of his family hung on the success of this deal with O’Banyon. One wrong move and it could all go to hell.

Without doubt O’Banyon’s woman was temptation incarnate. A move in her direction and he would see his negotiations fall to ruin. Still, he wasna likely to make such a stupid mistake with a woman of her ilk. He had years of practise controlling the urges that got most men into trouble.

Chapter Three

Mr Gilvry had been just as easy to manipulate as any other man. He had done just as she wanted and Jack had been pleased. She still didn’t understand her own sense of disappointment. Since when had she cared what sort of man she put her hooks into? Usually she felt nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done. Satisfaction that she had made a little more money to add to her hoard, which was growing, but nowhere near as much as she needed.

The leer on Fergus McKenzie’s red-bearded face brought her wandering thoughts back to the present with a lurch. She let a small smile play across her mouth and separated the grapes on her plate with the scissors. Thank goodness they had finally reached the dessert course.

Dinner in their private parlour with a lout like McKenzie had been as pleasant as watching a pig at the trough. Thoughts well hidden, she delicately popped the plump red globe into her mouth and cast him a come-hither glance from beneath her lashes. The crude Scot licked already too-moist lips surrounded by all that untrimmed wiry red hair.

A small secret shudder ran down her spine at what she knew he was thinking. It shocked her, that sudden flash of fear. If Jack ordered her to his bed, she would do it. If she didn’t, she would face his wrath. A swift incapacitating punch which would keep her from the table for a week or more and no money coming in. Or a return to the brothel as a reminder of what her life would be without his support. She preferred the former. As Jack knew only too well.

‘Shall we get down to business?’ Jack said, drawing the man’s attention back to him with the signal she should go.

She breathed a silent sigh of relief. ‘If you gentlemen will excuse me,’ she said, smiling at McKenzie, ‘I will leave you to your port and your discussions.’

Jack rose with her. Clearly startled by the courtesy, the lowland Scot followed suit.

‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr McKenzie,’ she said with a graceful inclination of her head he didn’t notice, so busy was he eyeing her barely covered breasts. Men. They were just so predictable.

Most of them.

Knock his eyes out, Jack had requested. So she’d chosen a gown even more revealing that the one she had worn the previous evening. A celestial blue that skimmed her nipples.

McKenzie inhaled a rasping breath as he stared at what he hoped was on offer. ‘Goo’ night, then, Mrs—er—Mrs...’

‘West,’ Jack supplied. ‘I’ll see you later, darlin’,’ Jack said with a leer of his own. Staking his prior claim, though he was not beyond serving her up to any man for the sake of business.

He’d served her up to Logan Gilvry. In a manner of speaking.

The difference, the small difference, was that Mr Gilvry was a gentleman. The squat man now lusting for her favours was as far away from a gentleman as the pig he resembled. She gave him her warmest, most seductive smile and batted her lashes. ‘I hope we meet again soon.’

She swept out.

‘Now,’ Jack said as she closed the door. ‘Tell me about this trouble you are having with the Gilvry brothers and what you intend to do about it.’

‘Logan is the worst. He’s a thorn in my side.’

‘Is he, now?’ Jack replied musingly.

She would have lingered to hear more, but the maid, a little mousy thing assigned to her by the hotel, trundled in from the bedroom next door. ‘Is there anything I can be getting you, Mrs West?’

She wouldn’t put it past Jack to have the girl in his pay. Watching her. ‘Brandy, please, Muira.’ She needed something to take the edge off the revulsion she’d been feeling all night.

Logan Gilvry’s innocent smile with a touch of wickedness floated across her mind. A smile she would be resisting tomorrow. Or not. She inhaled a quick breath. She’d have no difficulty keeping him at a distance, lovely as he was. Giving in to passion had served her ill in the past. A mistake she had never made again. Compared to some of the men she had dealt with, handling this young Scot should be a simple matter.

Muira handed her the brandy and she took a sip, let the warmth slide down her throat. It did nothing for the coldness inside her. A good thing, too. It was a coldness she had cultivated and now carefully nurtured. ‘That will be all, thank you.’

The girl bobbed a curtsy and left.

She took another sip. And if she refused to drive out with Jack and Gilvry on the morrow? If she sent her regrets? She leaned her head back against the chair cushions, plush and soft against her head. Jack paid her because she was useful. The world was a cold hard place for women alone without family support. Unless she had money.

She drained her glass. As usual, she would do what must be done. And to hell with green-eyed panthers.

* * *

An hour or so later, Jack entered without knocking, rubbing his hands together, his eyes glinting with pleasure.

‘What did you think?’ he asked, crossing to the console to pour a drink.

A chance to nudge things in the direction she preferred? Perhaps. She put her book aside. ‘A man who gets the job done.’

‘Aye.’ Jack brought his drink and stood with one foot on the hearth. ‘But I wouldn’t trust him with a farthing.’

True. ‘You don’t have to trust a man, if you understand him.’

He cast her a sharp glance. ‘Throwing your weight in his direction, are ye?’

She shrugged non-committally. ‘He’s a known quantity. He can deliver. He holds Edinburgh in his palm.’

Jack narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Almost. We drank Gilvry’s whisky at the alehouse, don’t forget.’

Daring. Jack was always drawn by anyone who beat the odds. His one weakness. The reason he had taken her on. She let her opposition fill the silence.

‘For all that McKenzie brags, the Gilvrys have him worried.’ He drained his glass in one swift swallow. ‘I don’t understand what makes them such a threat to a man like McKenzie.’

Intelligence. ‘Ask Gilvry. He’ll probably tell you.’

‘Aye.’ He kicked at the grate. ‘But does he have the courage to take what he wants, no matter the cost?’

Her, did he mean? She raised a brow. ‘He’s a boy. Really, Jack. You want me to waste my talents. For what? Assurance that he’s as reckless as you?’

He was across the room in a trice, pulling her up from her seat. A quick ruthless twist and her arm was pressed high between her shoulder blades. Her eyes blurred from the pain.

‘Are you questioning me?’ His voice low and menacing in her ear.

‘No,’ she gasped. ‘I am just trying to understand what you want me to get from him.’

He released her with a push that made her stumble. She rubbed at her reddened wrist. Likely she’d have a bruise there tomorrow. ‘I’ll do whatever you want, Jack. No questions asked.’

‘I thought you might, colleen.’ He sipped at his drink.

* * *

‘So what will you tell them?’ Sanford asked.

Logan eyed the languid figure on the other side of the carriage. The young lord had kindly offered him the loan of his carriage, once he’d been dropped off at Holyroodhouse where he had been called on some official business. ‘I’ll tell them the truth. That King is no’ landing today because of the rain and offer to take them tomorrow.’ He looked out of the window at the torrential rain, at the bunting and soggy flags draped across the buildings to welcome King George. ‘Unless they have some other idea. Perhaps they’ll want to go stare through the mist at his ship out in the harbour.’

‘You could take them shopping.’

He turned back to look at Sanford’s mocking face. ‘Why would I do that?’

The smile broadened. ‘Since you asked me for the loan of my carriage today, I’ve been thinking. If you really want to impress this O’Banyon fellow and his lady friend, there are several events you could take them to besides the public processions. There’s a levee. A drawing room, and a couple of balls. None of which will depend on the weather.’

Logan glowered at the smirking fop. ‘None of which I’ve been invited to.’

‘Ah, but you see, I happen to be friends with Sir Walter Scott, the man in charge.’

‘Oh, aye. And you think we wouldna’ stick out like sore thumbs at the King’s Drawing Room? You are daft in the head.’

‘As long as you wear your kilt, my dear boy, you will fit right in. But as for the lady, well, she would need something a little more...well, something different from what she was wearing at the Reiver the other night.’

He frowned. ‘I liked what she wore.’

‘So did every other man in the place. She needs a proper court dress. With ostrich plumes. And a ball gown for the Peers’ Ball. That is, if you really do want to take her and her friend.’

‘I would like to see O’Banyon wearing a kilt.’

‘The Irish wear kilts, I’m told.’

They did, but somehow he couldn’t quite picture one on this particular Irishman.

‘Have you ever had the pleasure of clothing a woman?’ Sanford asked idly, but there was a sharpness in the look he shot Logan’s way.

The man was making it sound as if it was the sort of thing a man of his age should have done hundreds of times. ‘Any woman worth her salt knows what to wear.’

Sanford grinned.

The young lord was having altogether too much fun with this new idea of his. And yet if O’Banyon liked the idea of mingling with the cream of Edinburgh’s society, it might help him decide in Dunross’s favour. ‘I’ll ask if they have any interest.’

‘Let me know by tonight.’

Would they want to be introduced to the King at a drawing room and go to a ball? It was hard to imagine, but Mrs West had been pretty keen to see him from a distance, so it stood to reason this would be even better. ‘All right.’

The carriage pulled to a halt. Sanford reached for the door handle. ‘You can drop the carriage back at my lodgings. I’ll get a ride back.’ He waited for one of the grooms to arrive with an umbrella before descending into the street. Afraid he might melt in a wee bit o’ rain. Or perhaps ruin his carefully ordered fair locks.

As the coach moved off, Logan peered out of the window to watch Sanford head into the Palace. He couldn’t imagine why he liked the languid dandy. But he did.

It was only a few moments before the carriage was stopping in Abbey Hill. He hopped out and gestured for the coachman to wait. The man nodded and a torrent of water rushed off his hat and landed in his lap.

Hell, it was raining harder than ever.

He found O’Banyon and Mrs West waiting in the lobby.

She offered him that practised sultry smile, when all of yesterday he had remembered the one that had lit her face when he had talked about taking her to see the King. He’d labelled it her real smile, though he had no way of knowing for sure.

O’Banyon shook his hand. ‘Gilvry. Not exactly the best of days to view a parade, is it? I am glad you arrived on time. I have an appointment with a banker in a few minutes and cannot join you as planned.’

Logan masked his surprise. ‘It doesna’ matter. The King’s disembarkation has been postposed until the weather improves.’

Mrs West rose to her feet and once more he was surprised at her height and elegance. Today she was wearing a dark greenish-blue spencer over a yellow gown. A flower-decorated straw bonnet covered all but a few curls artfully arranged about her angular face. A perfect frame for a work of art. Her smile was calmly accepting. ‘Thank you for coming to tell us.’

Her manners were faultless. Dressed as she was, it would be easy to mistake her for a gently-bred lady. It would have fooled him. And anyone else.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But perhaps I can offer something better. The King is to hold a Drawing Room at Holyroodhouse Tuesday next and a ball at the Assembly Rooms on Friday. You are invited to both.’

Her rosy lips parted in a gasp of surprise. Then her expression turned icy. ‘You are joking, naturally.’

He looked at O’Banyon.

‘Is this a jest, Gilvry?’ the Irishman asked.

He didn’t look at Mrs West. ‘No, indeed it is not, sir. I am invited to represent my family and you would go as my guests.’ It was stretching the truth a bit, but Ian was a Laird and no doubt he would have been invited, had he been in Edinburgh. Though it was more likely that Niall, as the next eldest brother, would have been sent as his representative.

O’Banyon raised his brows at Mrs West.

She shook her head. ‘No. It wouldn’t be right.’

The Irishman frowned. ‘What is not right about it? Gilvry here has invited you.’

‘Us, Jack,’ she said with almost a note of desperation. ‘You invited both of us, did you not, Mr Gilvry?’

‘You are correct, Mrs West. Both of you.’

‘Pshaw,’ O’Banyon said. He made a sweeping gesture with one arm. ‘If you think I want to lick the boots of the fat flawn who calls himself King of Ireland, you can think again. You Scots can bow and scrape before him if you like.’

Some heads turned in their direction.

‘Jack,’ she said. ‘Hush.’

He grinned. ‘You go. And tell me all about it after.’

She stiffened slightly. ‘Jack, you know I can’t.’

‘I know nothing of the sort.’

Well, here was the part he’d really been dreading. ‘Mrs West will need the appropriate attire, of course, if she is to be introduced to the King. And a ball gown.’

‘So this invitation of yours is going to cost me a pretty penny, is it, Gilvry?’

Colour touched those high elegant cheekbones. Chill filled her gaze. ‘Jack. I do not wish to put you to such an expense.’

It was a rare bird of paradise who cared how much she cost her keeper. ‘Please, allow me to take care of it,’ Logan said. And wished he’d bitten off his tongue when she looked startled and none too pleased. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

O’Banyon jabbed him in the ribs. ‘I’m sure you’ll find the colleen here suitably grateful.’

The words made him feel like a lecher. And was it a flash of anger in her eyes he saw, or a flash of some other emotion? Since she was now smiling calmly, he could only guess that she was pleased with the idea. ‘It seems the matter is settled,’ she said briskly. ‘Do you happen to know of a seamstress who can meet my needs at such short notice, Mr Gilvry?’

‘As it happens, I do.’ There was the mantua maker his sister-in-law used. He’d occasionally picked things up there for Selina when she hadn’t been able to come to town.

‘Naturally, you do,’ she said with a look that he did not comprehend. ‘Shall we go now?’

He looked at O’Banyon. ‘If you have no objection.’

The other man grinned widely. ‘None at all. Just don’t let her completely empty your pockets.’ He chucked her under the chin. ‘Eh, puss?’

She arched a quizzical brow.

Logan wanted to swallow the dryness in his mouth. He hadn’t felt this nervous since the gaugers had almost trapped the clan in Balnaen Cove with a shipload of brandy. God help him if after all this expense the Irishman did not come through with a large order.

He’d be up to his ears in debt to Ian. But the compensation of squiring Mrs West around might just be worth it. Enough. He was her escort and nothing else. He wasn’t a fool. He had no illusions about the sort of traps a woman could lay for an unwary man.

* * *

While rain streamed down the outside of the windows and drummed on the roof, drowning out the noise from the streets, Charity observed her escort discreetly. He was far too handsome for a male of the species. Chiselled perfection, that face of his. A temptation for most women, But more attractive to her was his pleasant smile, his gentlemanly demeanour and his aura of innocent pleasure in the day.

Innocent? He was no better than Jack. A smuggler. A man wanted by the law. Yet so confident in his ability to charm, he sat opposite her in the carriage, his long legs stretched out before him as if he had not a care in the world.

She, who had thought she was dead to all emotion, fairly seethed with irritation.

Did he have no idea the danger she presented? The knot of guilt in her stomach pulled tighter. Guilt. She had no reason in the world to feel guilty. He knew she was Jack’s creature. His tool. If he did not, then he was a fool and he deserved all he got. She clenched her hands in her lap and cast him a look from beneath her lashes that hinted at erotic desires.

It gave her some satisfaction to see his gaze drop to her mouth, to see the movement of his strong throat as he swallowed, to know she had not lost her touch. Even as it galled her to know he was no different to the rest of them.

Though why that should be, she did not understand. And not understanding increased her anger.

It would cost him dear to parade her about like a prize. To a ball, no less. And worse yet, a Drawing Room. Something five years ago she would have taken as her due. Would have revelled in. Now she could only think of it with dread. But that wasn’t the reason for the knot in her stomach. It was the knowledge of the price he would expect her to pay for his generosity. He would expect to take her into his bed.

Her stomach gave an odd little flutter of excitement.

Horrified, she pressed a hand to her waist.

‘Are you nae well?’ he asked in that soft burr of his that she felt rather than heard. It was as intimate as a caress across her breasts. She felt them tighten and grow heavy against her will.

She prevented her fingers from curling into claws and raking across his pretty face, or from sinking into his shoulders to test the strength of him, to feel muscle and bone. Either response would not help her cause of remaining detached.

But he would pay for causing that little jolt of lust.

She smiled calmly. ‘Perfectly fine, Mr Gilvry. Your Edinburgh roads are less well made than London’s.’

He grinned, his eyes lighting with a flash of humour. ‘Please accept my apology. We Scots are a rough lot, so we do not mind a bit of bouncing around.’

A double entendre? Likely. She pretended not to understand. ‘And is it like this in Dunross also?’ She frowned. ‘Where exactly is Dunross? I do not believe I have heard of it.’

His smile broadened. ‘Oh, aye. Not too many people have heard of it, even in Scotland.’

‘I assume it is not a large place, then?’

‘Not large at all.’

He was hardly being forthcoming. Did he suspect her of an ulterior motive in her questions? If he didn’t, he should.

‘And you have brothers, I understand. Do they also live in Dunross?’

‘My older brother, only. And his wife. My other brother Niall lives here in Edinburgh.’

Not someone she would be meeting, no doubt, but she could not help sharpening her claws on his conscience.

‘Oh, how nice for you. Are you staying with them?’ Her expectant look said she hoped he would take her for a visit.

His mouth tightened a fraction and his gaze slid away from hers. ‘I have lodgings elsewhere.’

The man had quick wits, clearly. ‘So you live and work in Dunross. It must be hard, living so far from civilised society. From town. From all this activity.’

He shook his head with a rueful smile. ‘I am thinking I get activity enough in my line of work.’

‘Smuggler.’

‘Aye. Not that I’d be admitting it to just anyone, you understand.’

‘Naturally.’

He leaned back against the squabs with an expression of curiosity. ‘What about your family, Mrs West?’

‘I have no family.’ None that would admit to a relationship, anyway.

‘Then no Mr West, waiting for you in London.’

Checking out the pitfalls. He was a smart lad. A husband might be one way to keep him at a distance. But, no, Jack would not countenance such a move on her part. ‘Sadly, no.’ She gave him a mocking smile and saw faint colour stain his cheekbones. ‘I am quite alone, now.’ Except for Jack and his damned schemes.

‘I am sorry for your loss.

He looked sorry. And her heart gave a stupid little hop.

‘You find living in London to your taste?’ he asked.

She hated London and its dirt and corruption. ‘There is no finer city in the world.’

He glanced out of the window with a grimace. ‘I might have argued, but this weather does not help my cause. Hopefully you will see Edinburgh on a better day.’

‘It is certainly full of people.’

‘Aye. All the folk have come to see the King. It is not usually quite sae full as this. O’Banyon was lucky to find rooms so close to the heart of it all.’

The carriage slowed, then halted. He leaned forwards to peer out at the street. ‘We are here.’ He opened the door.

Rain splattered his hair and face and shoulders. He reached up, grabbed an umbrella from the footman perched on the box, opened it and let down the steps. He held the umbrella up, ready for her to alight. Held it so it covered her completely and left him in the rain. She did not hurry. Let him catch a cold from a damp coat, or soaking wet feet. Not that he seemed to care about the rain as it trickled down his face and disappeared into his collar.

She took his hand and stepped lightly on to the pavement. ‘Thank you.’

He nodded. ‘Come back for us in an hour,’ he called up to the coachman and she trod daintily across the flagstone and under the portico of the shop. Petty. Very petty. It was almost as if she had to remind herself to despise him. How could that be? She wasn’t one to play favourites. She despised them all equally.

He opened the door and she stepped into the dry of a well-appointed dressmaker’s shop.

The seamstress came forwards with a smile of greeting when she saw him. Her smile turned to a slight crease in her brow as she realised Charity was not someone she recognised.

‘Good day, Mr Gilvry,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting you, was I? I don’t think I have any items for Lady Selina.’

Lady Selina, was it? Not just a common smuggler, then. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he, if he could command an invite to a ball attended by the King. Oh, he really deserved to be punished for that piece of folly. Even if it did fall in with Jack’s plans.

‘What a lovely shop you have, Mrs...’ She arched a brow.

‘Donaldson,’ Gilvry supplied. ‘This is Mrs West. She needs gowns for the King’s Drawing Room and the Peers’ Ball.’ He flashed the woman a charming smile. ‘I told her that you are the best mantua-maker in Edinburgh.’

The seamstress preened at his flattery, then caught herself with a frown. ‘I am no’ sure I can do anything so grand at such short notice, Mr Gilvry. I don’t mean to be disobliging, you understand.’

Charity trilled a little laugh. ‘Oh, come now, ma’am, any dressmaker of note in London would not disoblige a customer of Mr Gilvry’s standing.’ She unbuttoned her spencer. ‘I swear I am damp to the bone after braving the rain. A cup of tea would not come amiss.’

Mr Gilvry helped her out of her coat. His eyes widened when he took in the gown beneath it. A sheer lemon-muslin creation that had a bodice more suited to the drawing room of a bordello than an afternoon of shopping. She smiled up at him. ‘Do you like it?’

One look at the dress had the seamstress as stiff as a board. ‘Mr Gilvry. I really do not appreciate you bringing your—’

For the first time since she had met him, his jaw hardened as if carved from granite and Charity felt a flash not of the pleasure she had expected from making him pay for his lustful thoughts, but of anxiety for the seamstress.

‘My what?’ he asked in what to Charity sounded like a very dangerous tone.

Apparently it had the same sound to Mrs Donaldson. ‘Your friend,’ the seamstress gasped. ‘This is a respectable establishment. Please, Mr Gilvry. I have my reputation to consider.’

‘And how many other ladies are you dressing for the King’s Drawing Room?’ he asked. This was the man who challenged revenue men and criminals like Jack. She should have guessed that the youthfully innocent demeanour was a front.

She should have known better than to throw down such a challenge. And yet his anger thrilled her in the oddest of ways. It touched a place in her chest that seemed to warm with a feeling of tenderness. Because he was acting as if she was a lady. It had been years since anyone even hinted she had a shred of honour worth defending.

She hardened her heart against such nonsense. Such weakness. He was a man. He wanted what he wanted and would do anything to get it.

Still, she felt sorry for the seamstress’s quandary. She put a hand on his sleeve. ‘Really, Mr Gilvry. We can go elsewhere. It does not matter.’

‘It will matter to Lady Selina,’ he said grimly.

Mrs Donaldson sank inwards on herself. ‘Well, if the young lady is a friend of Lady Selina’s,’ she said, weakly grasping at a very fragile straw, ‘I am sure I will do everything in my power to...please.’ Desperation shone in her gaze. ‘I have a private room in the back...’ she swallowed ‘...where you can view...fabrics. Fashion plates. Take tea. I will have whisky brought on a tray...’

The green eyes were chips of ice as he sent an enquiry Charity’s way.

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, not wanting him to cause the woman embarrassment. ‘Thank you.’

The woman whirled around. ‘This way please, madam, Mr Gilvry.’

He put his hand on the small of her back and urged her to follow. The pressure of his hand seared through her gown and came to rest low in her belly. Heaven help her, what was she going to do about him?

Nothing. She could not afford to be weak. To care how low she brought him would be a mistake that would cost her dearly. Sentiment had ruined her life once. She could not let it happen again. Even so she would let him dress her respectably. She had no reason to want to shame him before his peers and his King.

She owed him that much for his defence of her today.

That much and no more.

Chapter Four

The pleasure of clothing a woman. Sanford’s words drifted through Logan’s mind as he sat tucked away in a back room of Mrs Donaldson’s establishment. He gazed openly at the beautiful woman standing without shame in naught but shift and stays on a pedestal. Surrounded by mirrors on three sides, there wasn’t an inch of her he could not see. Sanford had been right with his use of the word pleasure. It was the sort of pleasure reserved for a husband. Or a man with a mistress. Which was likely what the seamstress thought and the reason for her hiding them away at the back of her shop.

In times not so distant, according to his mother, it hadn’t been at all unusual for a married woman to entertain her particular male court in her boudoir. Allowing them to choose her garments for the day while they gossiped and flirted. All perfectly respectable in the presence of a maid.

This didn’t feel in the least bit respectable, despite the presence of the seamstress’s assistant busy taking her measurements with pieces of string.

Stretching out his legs to one side of the low table in front of him, he admired her lovely form. The curve of her bountiful milky-white breasts above the lace edge of her transparent chemise, pushed higher by her close-fitting stays, beckoned his touch. The deep valley between begged for exploration. The crescent of areola, darker smudges of rosy brown, located her nipples and hinted at decadent delights. The dip of her waist was so tiny as to be unbelievable. He could span it with his hands and the view of the triangular shadow at the apex of her long slender legs, not dark, but not blonde, left him dry-mouthed.

She was Venus come to life. And for the second time in as many days, he struggled to maintain his detachment. She was not easily ignored, despite years of practise.

He glanced up to find her gaze fixed on his face. Pride tinged with wariness.

Her expression challenged, even as her lips curved in her carnal pouting smile. Her eyelids drooped, acknowledging his thoughts, his lust, and threw down the gauntlet. I’m ready for you, those eyes said. Do your worst. You can’t touch me.

The thought shocked him. Angered him. Did she think he was an animal? That he would ravish her where she stood? Press her up against the wall and have his way with her? Lust hit him unexpectedly hard.

Ruefully, he acknowledged that he’d been aching with it on and off since the moment he saw her. But that didn’t mean he had lost control. He meant he needed to be more on his guard.

He wasn’t a fool, he knew she was Jack’s creature, that they would try anything to gain the advantage. Normally, he wouldn’t care. For some reason, it infuriated him that such an outstandingly lovely woman should be so debased.

And so he would not play the game.

He withdrew his hands from his pockets and sat straighter in the chair, trying not to break his granite-hard shaft in two as he crossed his legs at the ankles. He picked up a magazine from the table beside him. Flipped through its pages. Ignoring his body’s demands was second nature.

His eyes finally focused on the page before him. Damn it all, he was looking at corsets for the male figure and swallowed a laugh. At himself.

‘Do you need one?’ Amusement flickered in those cat-like eyes as if she had shared in the joke. A brief exchange of mutual understanding.

He laughed out loud and looked at her face. He had no need to ogle her body, her face was so very lovely. ‘Not for a while, I’m thinking.’ He nodded at the tea tray one of the assistants had brought while the seamstress had fussed around with her measurements. ‘Can I pour you a cup?’

Something else flashed in her eyes. Surprise? ‘Yes, please.’

Her voice was low and husky. It grazed his skin like a caress. Two simple words and he wanted to purr like a cat. Rub himself up against her skin. Feel the weight of those luscious breasts in his palm.

No. He was her escort. Not her lover. He pushed to his feet and poured the tea. ‘Sugar?’ he asked, the tongs hovering over the bowl.

‘Lots,’ she said.

After he dropped in three lumps, he raised a brow.

‘More,’ she said. ‘Please.’

And he almost dropped the damned things in the tea at the vision of what more might mean when said in that precise tone of voice in a different location. But he knew it to be artifice and added two more lumps and carried the cup and saucer to her outstretched hand.

She took a sip and smiled her pleasure. A sweet smile that softened her sharp edges to the point of vulnerability.

A shocking transformation. And one he wanted to explore. He nodded at the sugar bowl. ‘You’ve a sweet tooth.’

‘I do.’ Her eyes became distant. ‘My father was the same. He carried bulls’ eyes around in his pocket and would pop one in my mouth when my mother wasn’t looking.’

‘Your mother didn’t approve.’

A twinkle gleamed in her eye. ‘They made me very sticky.’

The vision made him chuckle.

‘I have found just the thing, madam,’ the seamstress said, marching in with a froth of gowns over her arm.

The smile disappeared and the mask dropped again, hard and impenetrable. Disappointment tightened his gut. The icicle had returned. More frosty than before, judging from the chill wafting in his direction as she imperiously held out her cup to him. And yet he found himself more drawn to a sticky little girl, than the siren who now appeared before him.

He returned the cup to the tray, feeling very much in the way as they pondered fabrics and styles. Wandering the room, he gazed at fashion plates artfully framed and placed on the walls like fine works of art. Drawings of women in various poses, ridiculous hats perched on starchy curls. He hoped she didn’t turn out looking like that!

The sounds behind him dwindled. Curious, he turned and caught her critical gaze as she took in her reflection. The seamstress gave a final twitch to the pale-peach skirts falling from beneath that magnificent bosom rising above a teasing edge of spangled lace.

‘Mr Gilvry?’ the seamstress asked. ‘Will it do for the ball?’

The effect was stunning. She’d gone from ladybird to lady in a few beats of his heart. She looked elegant. Graceful. And more than the sum of her parts. She looked as if she belonged to the upper echelons of society.

The slight stiffening of her body brought his gaze to her face. ‘You don’t approve,’ she said.

Approve? ‘It looks eminently suitable.’

‘Indeed,’ Mrs Macdonald said. ‘It was made for a young lady’s trousseau. Her mother was most particular.’

‘But she did not take it?’

The dressmaker’s face drooped. ‘Her betrothed died shortly before the wedding. She wanted none of the gowns.’

‘How sad,’ Charity said, sounding grim. She gave the woman a sharp look. ‘Then you have received some payment for these gowns?’

Was she trying to save his money? That he had not expected.

‘A deposit only,’ the seamstress was saying. ‘I will deduct it from the price, of course.’

She would now, Logan thought. He glanced at Mrs West, but she was focusing on the image in the mirror. ‘The hem must be lengthened,’ she pronounced.

Indeed it must. A good three inches of her lower legs were visible, exposing beautifully turned ankles. Fine boned like the rest of her. And long and slender feet.

‘I’m not entirely sure about the colour,’ she said.

He caught her unguarded expression in the mirror. Not coquettishness. Not looking for a fulsome compliment. She was uncertain.

‘The gown is perfect,’ he said soothingly.

Faint colour stained her cheekbones as if she had forgotten his presence. ‘An expert in fashion, Mr Gilvry?’ she said haughtily, hiding her misgivings, no doubt.

‘I have eyes in my head, Mrs West. This one will do. A court dress now, if you please, Mrs Donaldson,’ he said firmly. A man could only stand so much of this, pleasure or not.

The seamstress gestured to a white gown draped over the chaise. ‘This one is all I have, Mr Gilvry.’

‘Then we will take it. You have the measurements you need.’ He recalled Sanford’s earlier words of advice. ‘Mrs West will need ostrich feathers for the Drawing Room. And whatever else you deem is required.’

Mrs West looked startled, then gave him the smile of a cat who had trapped a bird against a window. ‘Why, how very generous, Mr Gilvry.’ She turned to the seamstress. ‘I’ll have five pairs of stockings.’ Her almond-shaped eyes scanned the room. ‘And the painted fan I saw in the case as I came in. The one with views of the city.’ She raised a questioning brow in Logan’s direction. ‘If that is all right with you, Mr Gilvry?’

It wasn’t really a question. He bowed. What else could he do? He just hoped the bargain he made with O’Banyon would make it worth the cost.

‘Then it seems we are done.’ She stepped down from the pedestal.

‘If you would care to disrobe behind the screen, Mrs West?’ the seamstress asked.

Charity gave her the most charming of smiles and disappeared behind the screen with the assistant trailing behind her.

More sounds of undressing. He forced himself not to imagine the scene.

‘This way if you please, sir,’ Mrs Donaldson said. ‘You can give me Mrs West’s direction and so forth while Aggie helps her dress.’

* * *

Trembling with shame, Charity could barely hold still while the maid fastened the buttons down the back of her gown.

Never before had a man chosen her clothes. Not even Jack. All these years, she had managed to keep her pride, and then he came along and made her see what she had become. And what on earth was she doing talking about her father, when she hadn’t thought of him in years?

And she’d thought him angelic? The man was the devil incarnate to make her feel so...so... She didn’t know how she felt. What was more, the rogue must have dressed a string of courtesans in his time to sit there with so much aplomb while she stood before him in her shift.

Fury beat a drum at her temple. Anger that she’d not seen right through him, along with the disappointment that she had let her guard down. She didn’t care that he wasn’t the man she’d thought, just that he’d fooled her. It had to be the reason for the unpleasant sensation in her stomach.

She put her hands on her hips and received a tut from the seamstress’s little assistant. She dropped her hands back to her sides. To think she’d felt sorry he found himself pitting his wits against the likes of Jack.

‘All done, ma’am,’ the girl said.

Charity gave her a sweet smile, though her teeth was gritted so hard they hurt. ‘Thank you.’

Smoothing her gloves, she strolled into the front of the shop. Mr Gilvry had a small bundle wrapped in brown paper and string hanging by a loop from a finger.

‘My purchases?’ she asked.

‘Mrs Donaldson thought you would want to take them with you.’

The older woman gave a brisk nod. ‘I will have the gowns ready for the day after tomorrow.’

‘You will find me at the White Horse.’

Mrs Donaldson looked down her thin pointy noise. ‘Aye. Mr Gilvry told me.’

Mr Gilvry put a hand in the small of her back to usher her out. A light possessive touch. And far too intimate for a gentleman with a lady. She leaned a little too close and felt the hitch in his breath with a smile as the doorbell tinkled overhead.

‘Very successful, I’m thinking,’ he said, shielding her with the umbrella and his body from the wind and the rain.

‘Mmm,’ she murmured giving him an arch sideways glance. ‘Is there a cobbler nearby?’

She could not help the little kick of triumph at the brief flash of dismay on his face. It restored her confidence no end.

* * *

Jack poured himself another coffee.

‘Where were you last night?’ Charity asked idly, trying not to look worried.

He leered at her across the congealing remains of his breakfast. ‘Sampling the local fare.’

From the look on his face he was not talking about food. So he’d not gone to the tables without her as she had suspected. She hated missing a chance to augment her funds, but she was glad he’d fed his other appetites. It made him less unpredictable.

‘You?’ he asked mildly, but his eyes were sharp and watchful.

‘Here. He dropped me off after I emptied his purse. He’d a dinner engagement with friends.’ Not surprisingly, she wasn’t invited. Nor had she asked him to come to her later. She could hardly tell Jack she hadn’t been sure he’d accept.

Jack gave her a speculative look. ‘Losing your touch, dear heart? Perhaps you’ll have better luck with McKenzie.’

Repressing the urge to shudder, she looked down her nose at him. ‘I know what I am doing. I hope to see him today.’

‘Did he say anything of interest?’

‘Interest in what regard?’ she asked cautiously.

He pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger as he considered his reply. ‘About his business. About him. Anything of use in negotiations.’

Things he could use to beat down the price. ‘He’s not flush with coin, yet he spends freely to impress. So this deal must be important.’ She took a breath, remembering how generous he’d been, with his coin and his protection. ‘He’s a man of his word. Not to mention stiff-necked. He has a brother here in town. A lawyer. That might be cause for concern.’

He put down his cup and sat back with narrowed eyes. ‘You think they are desperate?’

Trust Jack to focus on weakness. ‘Desperate? I’m not sure, I would go that far, but he seemed keen. He dropped a lot of blunt on me yesterday without a murmur.’ Or not much of one.

Jack looked pleased and she felt the stiffness go out of her shoulders.

‘Did he talk about his business at all?’

A trickle of something cold ran down her back. ‘No. I spent most of the afternoon with my clothes off. It wasn’t conducive to that kind of conversation.’

‘Conducive, is it? I suppose you had your hands full.’ He leered. ‘Or your mouth.’

She restrained the urge to slap his smiling face. He liked to torment her with her failings as a harlot, yet make her feel like one. Bringing her down a peg or two, he called it. ‘We had tea, Jack.’

‘And you will see him later today?’

She glanced out of the window. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained overcast. ‘If it stops raining.’

Jack’s neck darkened with the blood of sudden anger. ‘Then you had better hope it does.’

‘Why so anxious? It is you who sounds desperate now.’

‘If it is any of your business, I want to be sure of where he is for an hour or two. McKenzie is introducing me to someone today. I don’t want the Gilvrys to know.’

She opened her mouth to ask who, but Growler swaggered into the room with a note in his hand.

Jack reached out to take it, but the ruffian avoided the blunt fingers and gave it to Charity.

She shot Jack a look of triumph and broke the seal with her fruit knife. She hadn’t been sure, even after he paid for all those clothes, that she hadn’t pushed him too hard, hadn’t forced his eyes open just a little too much.

He wasn’t the sort of man she usually toyed with. There was too much intelligence behind that pretty face.

She scanned the note.

‘What does he say?’ Jack asked.

She tossed the note across the table. It fell in the egg, the ink blurring. ‘He will pick us up here in one hour and take us to the docks at Leith. To see the King land.’

Jack grinned. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Remember that, Jack. I gather you don’t come with us?’

He shook his head and stood up.

‘Will we go to the tables tonight?’ The tables was where she earned more than her keep.

‘Greedy wench.’

‘Jack?’ she warned.

‘No. I have other plans. I may go out of town for a day or so.’

‘Days?’

‘I’ll leave Growler here, in case you need anything.’

‘To keep an eye on me, you mean.’ She couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from her tone.

‘You and him, too.’

Gilvry, he meant. Jack trusted no one. Sometimes she wondered if he would even let her go when it was time, knowing what she did. Indeed, she feared he would not. Hence her contingency plan. Her secret bank account in a false name. It was nowhere near enough for her to live on yet.

‘He’s no threat to me, as far as I can see.’ She certainly didn’t want Growler and his bullies hurting him. Not unless he got out of hand.

Jack pulled out his watch and glanced at it. ‘If you’ve only an hour, you best stir your stumps.’

An hour. She put a hand to her hair still in its night-time plait. ‘You are right. I will want to look my best.’ She gave him her stock-in-trade smile and he nodded slowly.

‘Aye, colleen. That you do.’

His hard-eyed smile said he’d make her pay, if Gilvry so much as strayed an inch from her side. Oddly enough, though, she was looking forward to spending more time in his company. He made her feel like a lady.

The moment Logan saw her, he wanted to graze his fingertips across the delicious flesh rising above her gown and then taste it with his tongue. First however, he wanted to cover her from anyone else’s view.

He took her hand and forced himself to keep his gaze on her face, but even then her sultry smile of greeting sent hot blood pounding in his groin. He raised a brow. ‘Where is O’Banyon?’

‘He has business elsewhere,’ she said in a low husky voice. ‘Would you prefer we did not go?’

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