Page 61 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
If only she could take refuge from her instincts.
It felt so very wrong to see to her own safety while Gavin had not yet received so much as fair warning of the danger that might lie ahead.
A craggy-faced gent stood by the carriage, conversing with the boardinghouse’s proprietress. Mrs. O’Brien flashed a rare smile. So, Colton had sent Bertram, the man who’d served as his driver, advocate, and friend for the better part of two decades. Seventy if he was a day, Bertram retained a lusty appreciation for the fairer sex, and Mrs. O’Brien basked in his attention.
This could work to her advantage. The seeds of a plan took root in her thoughts. She knew Stanwyck’s haunts, knew the club that seemed his second home.
Convincing Bertram to go along with her scheme would not prove a challenge. After all, a well-timed smile and a dash of flattery worked wonders on the gent. If trouble ensued, Bertram knew his way around a long gun, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Gavin Stanwyck was not an eccentric, nor was he driven by greed. He’d led her on a merry chase, all while pursuing evidence he could use against Trask. He’d put himself at risk to protect her. Devil take it, she would not limp off into hiding like frightened prey. She would find Gavin and alert him to the menace. Perhaps, she might even discover what he knew.
And using that information, she would salvage her mission.
…
Was it Gavin’s imagination, or was the atmosphere at the Hound and Fox club smokier and darker than usual? Or was that merely a reflection of his mood? He’d had a hell of a day, and the evening was not much improved.
He’d thrown an atrocious round of darts, losing soundly to his boorish opponent. Richardson had always been a surly loser and an even more insufferable victor. God above, the buffoon crowed like a rooster at daybreak as he pocketed his winnings.
What had he expected, taking on an opponent on a night like this? Even as he’d fixed the target in his sights, Sophie’s condemnation echoed in his thoughts, a relentless torment. He’d done a blasted fine job of fomenting her contempt. Standing there amongst the headstones, she’d viewed him as if he were the very thing she should fear. No wonder, that. He’d set out to make a fool of her, to trick her into revealing the truth of her act. Now, his instincts insisted she needed protection. Damnable shame she wanted no part of him.
He should go after her. The notion struck him as illogical. Bloody ridiculous, really.I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.She’d cast his words under her feet and trod on them with her dainty heels. Did she truly believe he’d go so low as to expect her to lift her skirts in exchange for what he might do to protect her? The censure in her gaze had cut into him, sharp as a dagger’s edge.
She wanted no part of him, of any defense offered. Not that he could blame her. He’d set about convincing her he was a rogue. He’d meant to put her ill at ease, to rattle her composure until she slipped up and exposed herself as a fraud. Or so he’d told himself. In truth, he’d wanted to construct an invisible barrier between them, to convince her to keep her distance. God knew he’d tried. But he’d been drawn to her, a pull as undeniable as opposing poles of a magnet.
If he had a shred of sense left in his thick skull, he’d leave her to her own devices and push on with his quest. Despite her delicate beauty and her petite stature, Sophie was not fragile. Far from it. She was a survivor. She’d no doubt landed on her feet many times.
Damn it, he had to go after her. He had to convince her to take shelter with him, under his roof, where he could provide protection against whatever threat pursued her. He could not lie down at night knowing she was out there, easy prey for the bastard who’d sent those blighters after her.
“Say, aren’t you that chap who digs about in those tombs?”
Gavin pivoted, coming face-to-face with a stoat-faced bloke who looked as though he’d spent an inordinate amount of time tying his cravat. He vaguely recognized the man, the younger son of some esteemed lord or other. Rumor had it he’d recently returned from an extended stay in America, a journey rather conveniently timed after tongues began to wag about the bounder’s unsavory involvement with a housemaid.
“I do fit that description, though, I’m rather confident there are others.”
“John Randall.” The man extended his hand. “I read about you in the papers.”
“Gavin Stanwyck.” He gave the man’s hand a brisk shake. “I take it you have an interest in Egyptian culture.”
Randall shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. I’m more of a sporting man, the thrill of the hunt and all that drivel.”
“Is that so?” Gavin reached for his tumbler of Scotch and took a drink.
Marching up to the dartboard, Randall plucked two barbs from the target. “Interest you in a wager?”
“What do you have in mind?” Gavin set down his glass and took a dart from the man’s hand.
“I hear you’re good…very good.”
Gavin shrugged. “On some nights. Fortunately for you, this is not one of them.”
“One dart, one throw…closest to the bull’s-eye takes a sovereign.”
“Good enough,” Gavin said. “This may be your lucky night.”
“Or your unlucky one.” Randall hurled the little missile, hitting the mark a hair left of dead center.
Bugger it, he should’ve known the bloke would be in fine form. Gavin took aim. The dart pierced the target. Another bull’s-eye.
