Eyepatch said, ‘Wait. What’ve you got in that bag of yours?’
Rosalie swallowed. ‘It’s empty. I’ve just been delivering something, and now I really must go.’
‘Empty, eh? Let’s just have a little look-see.’
Eyepatch was drawing closer. Rosalie looked round desperately for help that clearly wasn’t going to arrive. She’d remembered that her bag wasn’t quite empty, after all. Grasping it tightly, she turned to run. But her long cloak hampered her and suddenly Crispin Street was alive with scowling ruffians, appearing from every doorway, every alley, from the walls themselves, it seemed. Could things get any worse?
They could, and they did. She dropped her bag and saw it fall open. Oh, fiddlesticks. Yet more men gathered, and Rosalie whirled round, her heart pounding painfully. The lethal piece of paper that had fluttered from her bag was drifting towards the gutter; one of the men snatched at it and gave it to Eyepatch.
Rosalie, feeling a little faint, saw Eyepatch scowling at it. Not The Scribbler, but a few notes she’d been jotting down in the cab—ideas for her next article. Something not intended for public scrutiny anywhere, let alone here. What a tumble, as Ro Rowland would say.
‘Please give that to me,’ she said rather weakly. She was fervently hoping the ruffian wouldn’t be able to read.
‘No, hold on,’ said Eyepatch, ‘this looks interesting.’ And slowly he began to decipher her scrawled notes, while his companions gathered round.
‘Your fellow about town wants today to draw your attention to the scandalous practice of rackrenting. Rackrenting?’ He lifted his head to glare at her. ‘Who wrote this?’
‘Just somebody—well, it’s me! I—I amuse myself, during carriage rides, by writing things down, silly things—’ She tried to grab the sheet back, to no avail.
He hung on to it grimly. Started again. ‘Scandalous practice of rackrenting. What is truly—truly—’ Eyepatch broke off. ‘Can’t read the rest of this flummery.’
Thank God for that.
But there was no reprieve. For someone else—a big, redheaded man—was announcing, in a broad Scottish accent, ‘Awa’ with ye, Garrett, I can read the rest. It says, “What is truly shameful is that many of those who are thus exploited are former soldiers, forced to live in squalor at a place called Two Crows Castle …”’
The dog barked. They were all pressing around her again. Eyepatch looked at her with his one eye. ‘Exploited? By God, we ain’t exploited here at Two Crows Castle. We don’t like people who write filthy lies about our Captain, do you hear? As he’ll tell you himself—’cos he’s on his way right now!’
Her heart, she was sure, had stopped beating. The Captain?
Don’t be a fool, Rosalie. There must be dozens of ex-army Captains in town. Nevertheless she pulled down her veil as far as it would go, until she felt like a blinkered horse with a fly-gauze over its face.
Just in time.
For at that very moment, the crowd was parting to let someone through. A man who was saying, ‘What in the devil’s name is going on, Garrett? And—what’s that damned dog still doing here?’
At the sound of that husky male voice, her heart sank to the soles of her little laced boots. No. No. It can’t be …
Eyepatch had for some reason shoved the dog out of sight. ‘This woman, Captain,’ he was saying importantly, ‘she’s come ‘ere bold as brass, with a pack of filth about this place, and about you!’
The bruise on his cheek had darkened since last night. Otherwise he looked just the same, in that loose grey overcoat that hung carelessly open over his tight buckskin breeches and dusty riding boots. And, hands on his lean hips, he was just watching her, with those hard eyes in which, today, there was no hint of the humour or kindness that he had allowed her to glimpse last night. He took the sheet Eyepatch thrust at him, absorbing her brief but lethal jottings swiftly; then he said levelly to Rosalie, ‘Well, madam? Are you or are you not responsible for this pack of lies?’
She prayed fervently for the ground to open up and swallow her. He must be the rackrenter. The owner of Two Crows Castle. The man whom she’d allowed, to her eternal shame, to kiss her last night. All she could hope was that, in her spinsterly garb, he would continue not to recognise her. And it was too late, now, for denial; she just had to brazen this out.
‘Lies?’ She lifted her veiled face to boldly meet his dark gaze. ‘Perhaps you just cannot stomach the truth!’
Eyepatch gave a nasty leer. ‘Oh, you’re a brave ‘un, to challenge the honour of Alec Stewart, the best swordsman in town!’
Oh, my God. This time she really did feel the blood freeze in her veins. ‘Did you say—Alec Stewart?’
The Captain surveyed her, still clearly puzzled by her veiled visage. ‘That’s me all right,’ he said narrowly.
And horror—nausea—shook her.
For the name Linette had breathed as she lay dying was—Alec Stewart.
Chapter Seven
Alec had been up and about early, for he’d had appointments to keep. But he’d arrived back at Two Crows Castle to find the place in utter uproar, because of some sanctimonious lady do-gooder. Alec read those scribbled notes Garrett had handed him with dawning disbelief. ‘The scandalous practice of rackrenting … rapacious landlords … Two Crows Castle …’
Hell and damnation!
Well, the charity lady who’d penned this heap of lies had made one mighty bad mistake. She hadn’t run fast enough. Alec’s men were holding her tight; as he tried to scan her face, which was all but hidden by a truly hideous bonnet and veil, Alec began to feel sheer shock coursing through his veins.
‘Take off that bonnet,’ he grated at her.
‘No! I won’t!’ The slender captive was struggling again in Garrett and Ackroyd’s strong grip.
Alec walked up to her and pulled the repulsive thing off himself. Swathes of long, silver-blonde hair fell around her face. His men gasped. One or two of them whistled softly and clicked their tongues in lewd sounds of appreciation. ‘God’s blood, Captain, she’s a ripe little piece!’ ‘Take off her cloak, then we can all ‘ave a good look …’
‘Shut up,’ Alec told his men. And he grimly readjusted to this new reality.
Yesterday this do-gooder had been parading her delectable wares on stage at the Temple of Beauty. Last night the taste of her softly parted pink lips had disturbed his dreams. All through the hours of darkness he’d been haunted by images of her long fair hair cascading around her breasts, her naked limbs entwined with his between silken sheets … Yet this morning, she was dressed like a church mouse—a very defiant church mouse—and was in possession of some hideously insulting notes about himself and his men. Who the hell was she? What
