Falling for the Highland Rogue. Ann Lethbridge

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      A finely arched brow lifted slightly. The pout changed to a faint smile of derision and she looked down her small nose, taking in the rough home-spun of his coat and no doubt the streaks of sweat and dirt on his unshaven face.

      A slight turn of her head brought her lips close to the ear of the man beside him, her lips moved slightly and, as if weighted by the words she was breathing, her eyelids lowered a fraction, the long dark lashes casting shadows on those magnificent cheekbones.

      Logan felt the breath that carried her words in his own ear. Heard the darkness reflected in her expression as if he heard her low voice. His blood heated. To his disgust, his body hardened.

      The man beside her turned his head to her, muttered something. His companions roared with laughter. Logan narrowed his eyes. Wealthy gentlemen from their dress. The woman helped the man to his feet with her shoulder beneath his arm. He staggered, grabbing her for support, his fingers digging into her delicate flesh.

      Logan started forwards at the slight grimace that tightened those beautiful lips. She glanced up as if she sensed his movement and in those dark cold eyes he saw a warning. He hesitated.

      The man leaned down and scooped a pile of winnings from the table. He handed the woman one of the coins and put the rest in a pocket. A faint wash of colour stained high on her cheeks, but the coldness in her expression, the hardness in her eyes, gave the blush the lie as she tucked the coin inside her glove.

      Then they were turning away, the heavy-set man leaning heavily on her slender frame. Too heavily, even for a woman he could now see was almost as tall as her companion. Again he took a step towards her.

      ‘Here,’ Archie said, ‘come awa’, lad, out of sight of prying eyes.’

      He could hardly leave without his pay. Ian would tear a strip off him. And his men would have no coin to pay for a bed for the night for themselves or their animals. And besides, from her glare, help was not something the woman wanted.

      He turned and followed Archie into a dark corner beside the bar.

      ‘Can ye give a little on the price?’ Archie asked, his beady little eyes glimmering in the dark.

      ‘You’re an auld skinflint,’ Logan said mechanically, flashing a smile, his mind still on the woman, at how beautiful he had thought her eyes until he saw the hardness in their depths. And the cold calculation on her face as she pocketed, or rather gloved, that golden coin.

      Archie sighed. ‘You can’t blame a man for tryin’ seein’ as how your mind wasna’ on business the noo.’

      Logan dragged his mind back to the business at hand. ‘Aye, well, that is where you are wrong.’ Ian would flay him alive if he did not get the agreed-upon price.

      ‘I’ll need more next week, mind,’ Archie said.

      Logan’s mind was fully focused now and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Why? I thought McKenzie had only a temporary shortage. This was a favour, man. That was what you said.’

      Archie shifted his feet. ‘When McKenzie saw how well I was doing he wanted some of the profit.’

      ‘Did he now?’

      ‘Aye,’ Archie said morosely. ‘The man’s a bully. Thinks he owns Old Town.’ He grimaced. ‘I ha’ to be honest with you, Logan, lad. Ye got awa’ wi’ it the night, but McKenzie’s bent on locking the town up tighter than ever. His whisky or no one’s. It’s no just cudgels any more. He’s arming his bully boys with pistols.’

      The restlessness that hummed in Logan’s veins rose to a clanging of bells. There was nothing he liked better than a challenge and the damned excisement were so predictable he rarely broke a sweat. ‘Next week, you say? I am sure something can be arranged. Leave it to me.’ He patted Archie on the shoulder and pushed his way through the crowds and ran up the stairs to the front door.

      Outside, in the grey of a smoky dawn, there was no sign of the woman and her escort in the street winding downhill.

      And glad of it he was. While he thoroughly enjoyed the sight of a beautiful woman, that was as far as it ever went for him. No female would lead him around by his nose or that other part of his anatomy that was painfully hopeful.

      Then why the hell had he been so eager to catch another glimpse?

      * * *

      The sovereign burned in Charity’s palm. A hot chestnut drawn from the embers and tossed to the unwary. A cruel flash of scalding pain inside her glove. Impossible, of course. She let her body rock to the motion of the carriage, let the grind of the wheels over rough cobbles drown out the sounds of the city around her and the drunken snores of her companion. Soon they would be back at their hotel and he would awaken, but until then she was alone with her thoughts.

      With tentative fingers, she touched the hard round shape beneath the York tan leather of her glove. A sovereign. More than her usual take. Jack could be generous when the cards went his way. The coin was the same heat as her hand, of course, and nestled like a bird in the curve of her palm. A treasure to be guarded. Along with her thoughts.

      No, the heat was not about the coin.

      She’d noticed him the moment he had walked in from somewhere in the back. A swagger to his long stride. A cocky set to his handsome head. A quirk of humour to his mouth. A blond Adonis. A green-eyed panther, so sure of his world. There wasn’t a woman in the tavern not looking at him. Some openly. Some from beneath their lashes. Like her.

      Not that he’d seemed to notice them as he glanced around the room, a spark of devilment in eyes the clear green of spring grass.

      Then the fool had actually dared to catch her gaze. To stare at her boldly. With admiration. And speculation. He was lucky Jack hadn’t noticed and called him out. No. She shook her head at the thought. Jack wouldn’t call out a man so clearly below him. He’d set Growler and his bully boys on to teach him a lesson.

      She sighed. Idiot indeed, if he could not see she was taken.

      Why she had noticed him, she could not imagine. He had neither wealth nor style, the only attributes she looked for in a man. The first thought into her mind had been charming rogue. The worst kind of man for a woman like her. And so young. Far younger than she, if not in years, then in experience.

      Was it the sheer male beauty of him, then, that had held her attention a fraction too long? The long lean frame, the shoulders wide but not brutally so, the narrow waist tapering to hard firm flanks in tight buckskins that had seen better days. While his form was lovely, she’d seen others equally fine.

      She closed her eyes briefly to break the spell of a gaze that seemed to see all the way through her with a blinding purity.

      Unsettling thought. Horrifying, when she inspected her own darkly stained soul. A dark twisted creature from a Gothic novel, drawn to his light like the proverbial moth to a flame and the inevitable burning of wings.

      One more such singeing and she’d float away as ashes.

      Purity? Even as she mulled over the word, she dismissed it out of hand. No male of the species deserved the adjective. No matter how handsome. For all their talk of honour, beneath their coats of superfine and bright white linen, their hearts were black as night.

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