If I Only Had a Duke(36)

If the Hellhound's real he's a dangerous criminal . . . he'll hang.

There's no champion who can cure society's ills and defend the powerless. He's only a myth.

And then . . . You caught me. I have a secret reason for going to Ireland.

All that denial and evasion.

Kissing her in the carriage when she'd mentioned the Hellhound.

He could have a bigger secret. He could be . . .

Dalton's laughter rumbled into the fading evening light, interrupting her churning thoughts.

"Curious way to turn a profit." He tugged off his gloves and handed them to Con. "Accosting paying customers in back alleys must not be very good for repeat business."

"Don't make another move." Albertson widened his stance and raised his fists. "Or I'll darken your daylights."

Following a sudden impulse, Thea darted out from behind Dalton. "You've the wrong man, Albertson. Mr. Jones flops more than he fights."

Dalton caught her skirts. "Thea. Get back!"

"Is that so?" Albertson chuckled, giving Thea an appreciative once-over. "Trent said nothing about you. Pretty thing, aren't you?" He reached for Thea's arm. "Spoils of war, as they say."

It happened like fire licking across a field of dry haystacks.   





 

Dalton exploded forward in a blur of fists and a flash of bared teeth.

Every motion spare and perfectly calculated.

One powerful blow to the face and Albertson crumpled onto the dirty cobblestones like a rag doll.

The other two men rushed at Dalton but he evaded them easily, cracking their heads together.

Masterful. Precise.

And so swift Thea only had time to take one step backward before it was all over.

Men groaning on the ground, paralyzed by pain, stunned into submission.

Con hadn't even lifted a fist, just stood sentinel, with an expression of lethal intensity on his time-worn face.

Dalton rose to his full height, filling her view, his shadow looming across cobblestones slick with fresh blood.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, his fists still raised.

He lifted his head and stared at her.

Only a memory of blue in an obsidian sea.

Oh, Dalton, Thea thought. It's you. The myth. The champion for the powerless.

It's you they hunt.

She nearly flung herself into his arms, to tell him that he didn't need to push her away anymore because she knew his secret.

He broke the moment, stepping over the men and retrieving his hat.

Con handed him his gloves.

"Best be on our way then," Con said gruffly.

Molly stared at Dalton wide-eyed and curious. "Cor," she breathed. "That was magnificent."

"Back to the carriage now." Con took Molly's arm and led her around the still-unconscious men.

Dalton gestured for Thea to follow and began walking, his shoulder tilted at an awkward angle, as if it pained him.

So much pain he carried. In his bones . . . muscles. And his heart.

Thea snuck the crumpled sheet of paper Albertson had dropped into her reticule and hurried after Dalton.

They climbed into the waiting carriage, squeezing in tightly, Dalton's knees pressed against hers.

The door slammed and the carriage stuttered into motion.

"Never a dull moment," Con said, shaking his head.

Molly glanced at Con eagerly, and then at Dalton. "Teach me to fight like that! I may be small, but I'm fierce."

Con laughed. "Now isn't that the truth?"

Thea caught Dalton's eye. "We're coming to Cork with you."

He nodded. "I already informed the coachman to take us to the docks. Those men saw your faces."

Thea's breath caught. He wanted to keep her with him.

The clinking of coins sounded as Molly patted her pocket. "Enough to replace Mam's savings, and then some. That's one sailor who'll think twice before betraying a girl's trust."

"The Dread Dark Baron strikes again," Thea said.

"I'm only glad you didn't bring the pistol," Con said.

Molly grinned. "Didn't need the pistol to make 'im quake in his boots." She sobered. "Did you pretend to be my uncle to scare Jack, or is it the Lord's truth?"

Con hesitated. Thea saw fear flit across his face. Then he nodded. "'Fraid you've got me for an uncle, Molly my love."

"Were you going to tell me?" Her lower lip trembled.

"Hadn't made up my mind yet," Con said truthfully. "You see, I knew your mam a long, long time ago. You look just like her." He tugged Molly's braid. "Except for the trousers, of course."

"Ha." Molly frowned. "If you're my uncle you'll probably make me put on a gown now and cane me if I don't wear it."

Con's whiskers bristled with emotion as he quickly shook his head. "Never, love. I'll never hit you. I'm nothing like Seamus."

Molly bit her lip. "You don't look like him, that's sure."

Thea's heart swelled with hope for these two lost souls. Molly desperately needed kindness, and Con deserved a second chance.

Everyone deserved a chance at happiness.

Thea stole a glance at Dalton from under her eyelashes.

She couldn't be this close to him and not want to wrap her arms around him. Did he feel it, too?

Their eyes met.

He felt it. She knew he did.

He reached for her hand and closed his fingers around hers.

It felt so right, touching him. Knowing he needed to touch her in return.

Her heart beat faster, thinking of tonight.

What drove a man to become a myth?

His brother's death. His mother's seclusion and fear.

His father's greed.

Everything began to slot into place, like the symbols in an allegorical painting combining to provide a deeper meaning.

The liaisons, the trysts, the widows and their rose trellises. The outrageous wagers, the duels, the scars . . . all were . . . diversions?

Dalton the consummate rake hid Dalton the force of justice.

She thought back to the evenings when she'd observed him ruling London's ballrooms. The golden rake the world revolved around, keeping the broadsheets in ink and the scandalous widows in breathless anticipation of his next exploit. She'd thought he was just like her father. Careening from woman to woman, leaving heartache in his wake.   





 

Was he that man?

Or something entirely different?

Early-evening sun painted the sky amber as the carriage made its way to the quay. Obviously if he'd fooled so many people for so long he was skilled at lying, and if he was a skilled liar . . . did he truly want her, or were his kisses only a diversion as well?

She would convince him to open up to her and reveal his secret.

He trusted her. And he didn't have to carry the burden alone.

He could be himself with her.

And she could be herself as well. Formed from courage, not fear.

Seize life by the hand and travel the path of pleasure.

Thea pressed Dalton's hand and he looked at her, his eyes glittering in the gathering dusk.

Nothing had changed. She would choose to take a skilled, attentive lover tonight.

Everything had changed.

That lover would be both rake . . . and warrior.





Chapter 19





When they'd boarded the Truth and Daylight, Con had informed the shipmaster of the extra passengers. Of course he'd also informed the man that Thea was Dalton's wife, damn his scrubby gray whiskers.

Dalton hadn't been able to muster the strength to argue. The master had smiled and said his cabin would prove adequate.

They'd eaten a quick supper of cold meats, cheese, and bread in the galley. Thea had gone with Molly to settle her into her berth.

The master's cabin was surprisingly spacious, located at the stern of the upper deck and spanning the entire width of the ship. The beautiful woodworking of the built-in cabinets, table, and benches glowed in the evening light that streamed through the windows wrapping around the seaward walls.

Dalton's shoulder was killing him. Throbbing from the force of the cracking blow he'd given Albertson. Nearly jarred his bone out of the socket, that blow.

Dalton needed to rest. Preferably on a bed.

And if that bed had Thea in it, as most tended to these days, Dalton would just have to be too tired to do anything about it.

He lowered himself to the bed. The ship's master evidently slept in comfort, and Dalton sighed as his aching muscles melted into the featherbed atop the well-made horsehair mattress.

Trent had probably spread word to every gaming hell and tavern across London to be on the lookout for a man with a cut across his jaw. But it didn't seem as though Trent had connected the Hellhound with Dalton. Albertson had called him Jones. But Albertson had seen his face. In daylight. With no soot in his hair and no kerchief to mask his features.

He'd have to be extremely careful now. Trent's men would be looking for the four of them. They couldn't be seen together again. They would have to separate, Con delivering Molly to Bronagh, and Dalton seeing Thea home to her aunt.

Then Dalton would have a day to find more details about O'Roarke before he confronted him. When forcing a confession it was best to be armed with vivid details of a man's life. Potential triggers for trapping a man to admit his sins.

He splayed across the large bed without bothering to draw the curtains, lulled by the rocking of the ship beneath his body, and allowed his eyes to close.

He heard Thea arrive. Listened as she scooped water from the washbasin and splashed it on her face.

Which meant she'd already shed her straw bonnet.

Which meant her hair was accessible and his fingers would want to twine in those curls.

He opened his eyes.

She stood in front of the circular mirror in its gilt frame, removing hairpins.

A slice of wary blue-gray eyes.