Page 40 of Barely a Woman
“I said ‘worming’ my way in. That does not make me a worm.”
“I think it does.”
He laughed. She had missed his laugh these past days. So rich and warm, like a crackling fire. He flicked a hand at her. “Worm or not, I will infiltrate the gang.”
Concern over his plan drove Morgan to risk overstepping her bounds. “You should stay away from those men. I worry they might kill you if they learn who you are. Surely, there is another way.”
He peered at her again, deepening her discomfort. “Morgan Brady. If I knew no better, I might think you care for me.”
Her discomfort spilled its banks and flooded her sensibilities. With mounting pique, she lengthened her stride as if to leave him behind. “Of course, I care for you. As a friend. Or a former friend, at least. Regardless, I fear for you.”
He caught up with her and hummed softly. “Your concern does me great honor. I thank you for it. But I can manage rough men and have done so more times than I can count. So, do not fear for me, Miss Brady.”
Morgan nearly stumbled in the road. She had been prepared for any reply, for any excuse, for any defense. However, she had not expected him to address her as “miss” anything. The small word reached into her soul and stirred the ruins of her crumbled womanhood, breathing life into the dimming coals of all she had left for dead. It was all she could do to dredge up a response.
“But in times past, you always had your fearsome reputation as a weapon, as a defense. This time, you would be just another ruffian, another street tough, lower than the gutter and worth nothing but to use and to discard.”
“And you care about me that much, do you?”
“As a friend, as I already made clear, even if such feelings are not reciprocated. You should pay more attention to save me from witless repetition.”
He chuckled. “I heard you before. Your mention of our friendship was so pleasing that I needed to hear it again.”
“Are you now satisfied?”
“Yes,” he said. “And the friendship is reciprocated.”
“I thought you vowed never again to become friends with a woman. To let a woman draw close to you.”
He sighed and stared ahead. “That’s a complication, for sure.” Then he looked at her again, the half-moon rendering his eyes pits of unreadable shadow. “As a friend, I assure you I will take care to not get beaten or otherwise killed. And as a friend, I ask you to recuse yourself from the investigation for the sake of your welfare. I shudder to imagine what these men would do to you if they knew the truth of your sex.”
Morgan considered his reasonable request and disregarded it. The iron of her spine turned into shining steel. “As a friend, sir, I will do what I must to assist you, despite your protestations.”
He frowned at her. “What exactly do you mean to do?”
“Just wait and see, worm.”
Chapter Twelve
Steadman huddled over a mug of ale in the darkest corner of the tavern, his back squarely to the wall as he waited for a scoundrel. Rising late after the previous night’s surveillance, he had spent the day buying, cajoling, and otherwise assembling an appropriate disguise. Boots, pantaloons, shirt, coat, hat—all worn previously and often—made up his ensemble. An hour of vigorous exercise had imbued the clothing with an aroma suitable of a man who considered bathing a monthly chore. He finished the job by oiling his hair, rubbing dirt into the pores of his face and hands, and clawing earth until the cuticles of his fingernails turned a suitable shade of black. His only regret was not having let his beard grow, but two days of stubble would have to suffice.
Throughout the course of his preparations, he had somehow missed Morgan the entire day. Twice, he knocked on her door with no answer. Perhaps she’d been out. But where? And why not inform him? In the tense minutes before his attempt to infiltrate the gang, his thoughts returned to the astonishing woman. Her concern for his safety continued to warm him. Visions of her in the grove the previous day filled his imagination. Her disguise, so effective in fooling him for days, now barely concealed her womanhood. Perhaps it was his pride and unwavering confidence in first impressions that had blinded him to the truth. However, the truth now seen could not be unseen. The attraction now felt could not be dismissed.
The loud entrance of several men yanked him from distraction. Three-Finger Jack, all six and a half feet of him, swaggered into the tavern with his faithful devotees in his wake. The gang, seven in all, took up residence against the bar, coarsely demanded drinks from the wary barkeeper,and proceeded to spin stories and insults in equal measure. Steadman remained ensconced in the afterthought of the corner, sipping from his mug, which a bar maiden refilled with uncommon devotion and repeated flutters of long eyelashes. However, he barely noticed her or the comings and goings of other patrons. His shadow-eyed focus remained on Jack and his band of ham-fisted rogues, watching for an opening. He would allow them to fall deeply into their cups before approaching the gang. Then he would offer a round of drinks to purchase a measure of goodwill and follow that with a few words of ingratiating praise. He would offer a story or two to establish his credentials as a man of low intentions. These actions would allow him through the gate, of that he was certain.
After about hour, he sensed the opportune moment. With steady and deliberate movements, he gathered his empty mug, rose from his chair, and approached the huddle of men at the bar.
“Ho, there, gents.”
Seven pairs of eyes turned toward him, communicating suspicion, affront, or disregard. None said a word. A hard crew, for certain.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your tales,” he said. “For that diversion, I’d like to buy the next round of drinks for the lot of you.”
Jack uncurled from his slouch over the bar to loom over the tavern. He sneered and eyed Steadman as he might examine residue he had just picked from his stained teeth. “We need no charity from the likes of you. Step away, pretty boy, before we show you the color of your guts.”
Steadman frowned. This was not nearly the reaction he had expected. Perhaps he had misjudged their state ofinebriation. He briefly considered earning the man’s trust by planting a fist squarely in his face but discarded the notion as foolhardy given the considerable number of accomplices. Instead, he dipped his forehead and retreated to his dark corner to regroup and replan.
No sooner had he settled into his chair than his eyes flicked up to find a woman approaching the bar, her back to him. She was shapely and elegant in a dress the color of a spring field and adorned with Vandyck-pointed lace, far out of place in the presence of such base men. He watched, intrigued, as she slid between Three-Finger Jack and one of his men and flicked a finger at the barkeeper for a drink. The gang leader cast a leering eye toward her and made room.
