Page 40 of No One's Bride
Sebastian’s chest tightened. Aaron never complimented a woman. He was cold, as hard as new dice. Was he captivated by the Scottish temptress or enchanted by the damn spell?
Sebastian hoped neither was true. Else he would challenge the King of Clubs to a round in the basement’s fighting pit.
Miss MacTavish gave a mocking snort. “Clearly, ye’ve never had dealings with my father, sir, else ye’d know I dinnae find coarse language offensive.”
“Excellent. Let’s hope you’re accustomed to hearing creaking beds and pleasurable moans in the dead of night. Gentlemen sometimes rent the rooms on the first floor to enjoy not-so-quiet moments with their mistresses.”
The lady showed no outward sign she found such matters distasteful. “If ye’d ever held a clan meeting in yer home, Mr Chance, ye would know pleasurable moans bring light relief. I trust none of yer patrons ever hack the dining table with a claymore.”
A sudden flash of amusement in the man’s eye roused Sebastian’s ire. “So, you’re more an original than a bluestocking, Miss MacTavish.”
“I’m a Scot, sir. Where I’m from, there’s nothing original about hardiness. Though I thank ye, for I recognise ’tis an English compliment.”
“I hoped Miss MacTavish might have a bed in your sister’s room,” Daventry said. “I trust Delphine is home at present. I know she likes to escape the metropolis whenever possible.”
Aaron narrowed his gaze, evidently wondering if Daventry knew something he didn’t. “I’m sure she will be delighted to have female company. It will break the monotony.” Aaron turned to Sebastian. “You’re quiet, Denton. Surely you think this whole idea is absurd. As a man who’s saving marriage for his dotage, staying under the same roof as an innocent is akin to putting your neck in a noose.”
Sebastian slid his fingers under his collar. Dallying with Miss MacTavish was the closest he’d ever come to experiencing rope burn.
“The lady’s life is in danger.”
They had both stayed with Helen last night and had barely slept a wink. Every noise had them leaping out of bed. Miss MacTavish had peered around the door jamb to find him lingering on the landing, wearing nothing but a burgundy silk robe.
“As a gentleman, her welfare is my primary concern,” Sebastian continued. “We’re both strong enough to weather the storm.”
Mischief danced in Aaron’s eyes. “Tell that to MacTavish. I never gamble, but I’m inclined to make a wager on the outcome.”
He might have challenged the devil, but Miss MacTavish gave an insightful reply.
“Ye should never gamble with fate, Mr Chance. The odds are poor at best. The outcome is often unpredictable. Have ye never found yerself in a situation nae one could have predicted?”
A darkness passed over Aaron’s features, and the atmosphere thrummed with tension. “Almost every day of my life, madam.”
Daventry cleared his throat. “Well? Can they stay for a few days?”
Aaron dragged his hand through his black hair and swore beneath his breath. “If they follow the rules. Miss MacTavish cannot leave her room during opening hours. She must remain on the third floor and keep her door locked.” He shot Sebastian a wary glance. “Denton is not allowed in her chamber. If they must discuss the case, they will do so in the dining room. Is that clear?”
Miss MacTavish nodded. “What if we need to go out at night? Can I gain access to the upstairs rooms without entering the club?”
“Denton will knock on the viewing hatch while you remain hidden. Sigmund will sneak you inside, madam.” Aaron Chance faced Daventry, a determination in his gaze. “Three days. No more.”
“A week,” Daventry countered. “And I shall give you information about a certain lord’s interest in Delphine.”
Aaron shot out of the chair. “You’ll give me his name now. Is it Pendergast?”
“No.” Daventry reached into his portfolio, withdrew a folded note and handed it to Aaron. He kept a firm grip on the paper until Aaron agreed to let them stay for a week.
Protecting one’s sister was difficult enough. Protecting one’s sister when half the men in thetonwished you dead must be nigh on impossible.
Aaron tore back the folds and glared at whatever was written inside. Regardless of what people said about the King of Clubs, he would protect his kin with his life.
The man’s reaction reminded Sebastian of his own shortcomings. He should have put a pistol to Captain Wainwright’s head and demanded answers. He should have interrogated the crew and learned what had really happened to Michael.
But by the timeThe Perseushad returned to England’s shores, his father had died, and Sebastian’s responsibilities became a significant burden.
Still, anger lived inside him like a bloodthirsty wolf.
And by God, he needed his pound of flesh.
