Page 20 of Some Like It Wild
Pamela cleared her throat, shooting a warning glance at her wide-eyed sister.
“—toes,” Connor finished with deliberate care as Brodie rolled his eyes and Pamela nodded in approval.
The sunlight winked off of something shiny nestled in the folds of Connor’s jabot. Intrigued, Pamela reached into the ruffles and drew forth a gold locket suspended on a delicate length of chain.
She held the lovely trinket up to the light. “Did this belong to your haughty Englishman as well?”
Connor removed the locket from her hand, his touch gentle but intractable. “No.”
That one softly spoken word felt almost like a rebuke. He dropped the locket inside his shirt where it would be safe from prying eyes, including hers.
Pamela lowered her lashes, feeling unaccountably embarrassed. The locket must not be ill-gotten gain but some sentimental keepsake from a woman he had once loved and perhaps still did. Why else would he wear it next to his heart?
“So when do we leave for London?” Brodie asked.
“We?” Connor, Pamela and Sophie all said in unison.
“Aye,” Brodie replied, blinking innocently at them. “Ye can’t expect a fine gentleman like our Connor here to travel without his devoted valet, can ye?”
Pamela opened her mouth to protest, but Connor caught her by the arm and tugged her onto the landing, where they could converse in private.
“It wouldn’t hurt for me to have an ally in the house,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Someone I could trust.”
“So why takehim?” Pamela whispered between clenched teeth.
“Brodie has a good heart.” Connor frowned at his friend, who was at that very moment showing Sophie how he could make his serpent tattoo dance by flexing his upper arm. “A wee brain, but a very good heart. I can trust him to have my back in a fight.”
Eyeing Brodie’s barrel chest and massive forearms, Pamela sighed. “If you insist, we can bring him along. But he’ll never fit into the lavender waistcoat and I have no intention of letting him marry my sister.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Connor assured her, his expression grave. “He’ll have plenty of chances to kidnap a bride while he’s in London.”
Her mouth fell open. “But we can’t allow him to…” She trailed off, beginning to recognize the twinkle of mischief in Connor’s eyes. A reluctant grin curved her own lips. “Why, you shameless—”
A deafening explosion rocked the tower, sending her careening into his arms.
“What was that?” she gasped, clutching at the soft folds of his plaid.
Connor gazed down at her, his face so grim it sent a chill of foreboding down her spine. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe the redcoats have come to rescue you.”
Chapter 8
Get the women to the vault!” Connor snapped, shoving both Pamela and Sophie into Brodie’s burly arms.
He turned and went flying down the spiral stairs, cursing himself as every kind of fool. He should have known better than to bring the women to this den of smugglers and thieves. The local authorities had been looking for an excuse to raid the ruins for months, and he’d finally given them a reason to bring the wrath of the redcoats and their cannons down on them.
A second blast rocked the tower, rattling the rusty iron bars in the windows. Connor missed a step and slammed into the wall. Biting off an oath, he dug his fingers into his throbbing shoulder. He had to stop them before one of those warning shots went astray, taking off the top of the tower before Brodie could get the women to safety.
He stumbled into the courtyard, not surprised to find it deserted. At the first sign of trouble, the outlaws who shared this haunt would have scattered like rats, disappearing into the secret catacombs beneath the castle to wait for high tide and a chance to launch their boats. By nightfall the ruin would once again belong only to night swallows and ghosts.
If not for the two women trapped in the tower, Connor might have vanished with them. Simply melted into the mist and sailed away to a place where the law would never find him.
“Hold your fire!” someone shouted as he went striding beneath the ruins of the castle gatehouse and onto the broad grassy bluff that bordered the bridge.
Just on the other side of the bridge a battalion of redcoats was swarming over the meadow. A sooty plume of smoke drifted heavenward from the mouth of a massive cannon, profaning the misty blue of the morning sky. The soldier who had been preparing to relight the cannon’s fuse looked to his commander for confirmation before dousing his torch in a bucket of water.
Even from this distance, Connor recognized the man’s short-cropped steel gray hair and squat, bowlegged stance. He felt a sneer curl his lips. Colonel Alexander Munroe was the worst sort of traitor. One born a Scot but who had sold his soul to the English for the power and privileges of military rank. He was nothing but a puppet of the local gentility. He and his regiment spent their days driving poor tenant farmers off the lands their families had worked for generations and their nights being welcomed as conquering heroes into the homes of those they served.
Munroe barked out a command. The soldiers raised their muskets to their shoulders, training them on Connor.
