Page 26 of A Rogue to Watch Over Me
MacLain regarded her as though the sight of her had triggered an ache in his neck. “Why are ye here?”
“I wanted to hear the truth... straight from your mouth.”
“Ye’ve wasted yer time, Elspeth. There’s no grand secret to reveal.”
“Any other evening, you would’ve had a grand time separating a bloke from his coin over a few rounds of cards. But last night, you rushed off to the rescue.” She lifted a pale brow. “Logan MacLain, am I to believe you’ve become a protector of widows in peril?”
He shot her a dagger-filled stare. “Go home.”
Elspeth’s icy gaze swept over Amelia. Tiny lines crinkled deep around her eyes. “I must say, your gallant charade makes more sense now.” Her mouth tipped up into a rueful smile. “Somehow, I’d thought alibrarianwould be older. And far more plain.”
Librarian.The contempt in the woman’s cool voice pricked at Amelia like a thorn beneath her heel. Pulling in a steadying breath, Amelia bit back the utterly unladylike response that sprang to her lips. She squared her shoulders. If Elspeth—whatever her undoubtedly improper relationship to MacLain might be—thought to intimidate her, she was sorely mistaken.
“At the moment, you have me at a disadvantage, Miss...”
“My name is Elspeth Gilroy.” She toyed with a jade brooch at her throat. “Mrs. Elspeth Gilroy. You may have heard of my dearly departed husband. He had a rather unimaginative penchant for naming businesses after himself.”
Mrs. Gilroy.One of MacLain’s dalliances, no doubt. Did she fear Amelia harbored a notion to take her place?How utterly absurd.
Amelia forced a placid expression. “Since you are so very curious about the events of last night, I will tell you that Mr. MacLain was quite courageous. Chivalrous, in fact.”
“Chivalrous? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that word used to describe you.” Elspeth’s gaze drifted over MacLain’s long, lean form. “Well, that was then. Now, shall we see to a bit of... recreation?”
A muscle in MacLain’s jaw flexed. He slowly shook his head. “Those days are in the past.”
“Is that so?” A look of clear challenge simmered in Elspeth’s gray eyes. “I could change your mind.”
“Go home to yer fine mansion.” MacLain’s low voice rumbled hard as flint.
Elspeth gave a little huff. “Very well. I had not expected you to be so tedious.” As she walked to the door, she turned back to Amelia. “If you believe you can change him, I would suggest you think again. Some men cannot be reformed.”
“Reformed?” Amelia scoffed. “I do not know what drivel you’ve heard, but it’s utter rubbish.”
Elspeth shrugged. “For your sake, I hope it is.”
With that, she stormed out into the street. The slam of the door reverberated against the stone wall, as if punctuating the woman’s exit.
“Mrs. Gilroy does have a flair for the dramatic, doesn’t she?” Amelia turned to MacLain. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
MacLain slowly shook his head. “Not if ye threatened me with a dozen years of torment sleeping in that lumpy chair of yers.”
“Lumpy chair?” She shot him a frown. “I will have you know that piece has been in my family for generations.”
He cocked a brow. “That instrument of misery is a family heirloom?”
“My great-grandmother brought it from Wales,” Amelia replied crisply.
“Blasted shame she didn’t give it to the bloody Tower. They might’ve used it for torturing the condemned.”
“Now there’s a story worth hearing, if only after a whisky or two.” I’ll look forward to hearing the tale,” the barkeep spoke up. “For now, tell me, Mrs. Stewart, are ye well? Mrs. Langford mentioned the ordeal ye endured last night.”
Welcoming the change of subject, Amelia met the barkeep’s kind eyes. “The situation was alarming, to say the least. But I suffered no lasting harm.”
“Thank God Logan was there to watch over ye,” Murray said.
“The lass had no cause for worry. She possesses a guard dog, fiercest little beast I have ever encountered,” MacLain added with a grin. “Murray, if ye need me, we’ll be in my office.”
He escorted Amelia up a spiral staircase and led her to a room near the end of the corridor. Closing the door behind them, he motioned her to a Chesterfield chair that faced a large writing desk. Struggling to distract herself from a fresh wave of apprehension, she perched upon the edge of the elegant leather wing chair and focused on the intricate carvings on the legs of the desk. If only her nerves would settle down. She needed to see the letters for herself. Had Paul actually composed the messages? She could not rest until she knew the truth, no matter how painful.
