Chapter Thirteen
Max leaned back in his chair and rubbed his full stomach. The cook at The Black Rose was quite remarkable. He’d never tasted a juicier bird. The hollowed-out carcass on the table attested to the fact that everyone agreed.
He and his friends sat around the long, rough table in the kitchen of the club, drinking watered down wine and feasting on what hadn’t made it to the table for one of their strangest members. There were times when Max thought that Manderley truly believed he was a Greek god.
Max glanced at Colleen, seated to his right. After seeing one of Manderley’s scenes, Max had to admit the idea of Colleen hand-feeding him grapes and other succulent tidbits with one hand whilst stroking his cock with the other, wasn’t a bad one. Maybe Manderley was onto something.
The club was quiet, now closed, and workers and customers alike had gone home.
“What now?” Summerset tossed a wing, picked clean, down on his plate and wiped his fingers on a towel. He jerked a thumb at Pinkerton. “We’ve placed this man in every window of every club, coffee house, and tavern, and no one has taken a shot at him. Zed obviously doesn’t think he’s worth the time to try to kill”—Summerset ignored the American’s objection—“and we’re left feeding and housing the annoying sot. I think we need a new plan.”
Everyone but Pinkerton and Colleen muttered an agreement. It felt as though they were giving Zed more time to retrench while they passively dropped a line in the water. Max had always preferred a more active hunt. If he saw a fish he wanted, he would dart his arm in the pond and grab for it. It was time they stopped letting Zed dictate their actions.
“Any ideas?” Max asked and looked around. Montague tapped the flat end of his knife’s blade against his mouth, looking thoughtful. Rothchild stared at the ceiling. And Summerset looked more interested in cleaning the grease from his fingers.
Only Dunkeld spoke. “I think we’ve been dangling the wrong bait. Zed has shown an interest in one person, and it’s time we used her to flush out our prey.”
Everyone swiveled their heads toward Colleen. She had a bit of bread raised to her lips, and her eyes darted to the surrounding faces.
“No.” Max threw his own towel on the table. “We will not parade her about waiting for someone to put a bullet in her head. Absolutely not.”
“But that was fine for me?” Pinkerton asked, outraged.
He was ignored.
“Maximillian, we wouldn’t let that happen,” Montague said gently. The duke rested his elbows on the table. “We’d have to stay close to her, of course.”
“Too close.” Summerset kicked a jewel-encrusted boot up onto the corner of the table, and Dunkeld knocked it down. Summerset grunted. “If we did this, Sutton couldn’t come along. He’d be in her petticoats the entire time, and Zed would never try to strike.”
Heat flushed through Max’s body. He clenched his fists. “Go to hell. You’re not using my woman as bait. And if you try to do so without me there, I swear I’ll—”
Rothchild pushed him back into his seat and patted Max’s shoulder. “Everyone, calm down. No one wants to take down Zed more than me, but we won’t put Mrs. Bonner in danger if Max is against it.”
“Interesting that no one’s asked my opinion,” Colleen said, a brittle smile curving her lips.
“It’s. Not. Happening.’ Max’s glare encompassed everyone, including Colleen. She was just the sort of woman who’d put herself in danger to help others. Noble. Determined. Daft. Max needed to make his decision abundantly clear to everyone involved. “We find another way.”
Dunkeld shrugged one shoulder. “I understand,” he said in a quiet voice. “But sometimes danger can’t be escaped. She’s already a target.”
“Well, we’re not going to make her a more appealing one. And that’s final.” Colleen opened her mouth, but Max cut her a look. “Final,” he repeated.
Rising to her feet, Colleen took her plate to the sink. “Since it appears I need permission for my own actions”—she dipped into a low, insolent curtsy—“may I adjourn to the cellars for another bottle of wine, my lord? I promise to hold tight to the rail going down the steps and tread carefully. No injury to my person shall occur.”
His friends raised their eyebrows and looked to see how Max would respond. A smile ghosted across Montague’s lips, and Max frowned. He knew how the duke’s mind worked, knew how he would handle such impertinence from a lover. Max didn’t want Montague’s mind anywhere near Colleen’s bottom. Standing, he tossed his plate at the duke, who caught it to his chest, startled.
“You go ahead,” Max told Colleen. “We’ll clean up here in the while.”
“Bring two bottles,” Dunkeld hollered at her retreating back. “We need to drink twice as much of that swill to feel anything.”
She waved her fingers over her shoulder and disappeared down the narrow hall.
Summerset wrinkled his nose. “We’re going to clean up?”
“Put your plate in the sink.” Max planted his fists on his hips. “It won’t kill you to help out.”
All the men cleared their places at the table.
“What are you going to do with me?” Pinkerton asked. “My wife and son will starve if I go to prison.”
“That isn’t our problem,” Dunkeld said. But Max and his friends eyed each other uneasily. Twisting a towel between two meaty hands, Dunkeld grumbled, the sound trapped deep in his throat. “But you’ve tried to help us. And the prisons here are full enough with our own criminals. We don’t need Americans taking up all the spots. I can give you some blunt to start over.”
Pinkerton widened his eyes, looking hopeful.
A shadow moved, and Max peered out the window to the small yard behind the club. Something glinted in the moonlight.
“Down!” Max kicked out at Pinkerton’s thigh, knocking the man sideways just as the window above the sink exploded in a hundred shards of glass. The men dove to the ground. Pinkerton clutched his arm to his side and groaned. A starburst of torn fabric erupted from the shoulder of his coat, a darkening stain spreading from the hole.
Rothchild flipped the large table, bowls and bird remains flying. Max dragged Pinkerton behind the barrier, joining Rothchild and Summerset. Montague holed up in a nook beside the pantry and Dunkeld pressed his back flat against the cupboard underneath the sink. All men save Pinkerton had pulled out their pistols. They hadn’t trusted the American with a weapon.
The pane of glass in the door that led outside shattered, and they all ducked. They were easy pickings in the well-lit kitchen, yet Max could see nothing outside in the pitch of night. Narrowing his eyes, he took aim at the oil lamp on the wall and shot it out. The spilled oil ignited on the floor, and a slow blaze crept across the wood planks towards Summerset.
His friend whipped off his coat and smothered the flame. “Careful what you’re doing! I think I’d rather be shot than burn to death.”
Max let his eyes adjust to the dark, ignoring Summerset. That small amount of oil would have burned itself out before putting anyone in danger. The moonlight limned the edges of the windows, casting a faint glow.
Dunkeld edged up from his squat and peered through the bottom of the window. “I see two men.” The pane next to his head took a shot and splintered in two. He ducked back down. “At least three men.”
Perfect. While they’d been eating like gluttons, Zed had chosen that moment to spring an attack. Max could have kicked himself for letting his guard down, even for a moment. He glanced to the hallway entrance and prayed Colleen didn’t step through it, into the line of fire.
A tall figure melted from the shadows behind Summerset.
“John!” Max shouted. He swung his gun towards the attacker, his movements seeming too sluggish.
Summerset rolled, his hand slicing out. The form screamed, hopping on one foot before toppling over. Summerset was waiting, knife in hand, and slit his throat with the same ruthless efficiency as he had the man’s Achilles tendon.
Max released a deep breath. That had been too close. The attackers had infiltrated the club. His hand froze. There was an entrance to the cellars from the yard. It was kept locked from the inside, but Max didn’t want to give the bastards any time to break it open. Not with Colleen down there.
Summerset wiped the blade of his small dagger on his sleeve and shifted back behind the table. “One down.”
“Fucking hell,” Pinkerton whispered.
“What?” Summerset shrugged. “I didn’t want to waste a bullet.”
Montague pointed at Dunkeld and made a swirling motion with his hand. The Scotsman nodded. “Give us some cover,” Montague said, and without waiting to see if they complied, he and Dunkeld slithered to the doors and disappeared outside.
Max, Summerset, and Rothchild each took a turn leveling a shot out the broken windows, hoping it was enough of a distraction.
“You have a two-shot?” Rothchild asked Summerset.
John held up a pearl-handled pocket pistol. “Three barrels. I have two shots remaining.”
“I have to reload,” Rothchild said. “Watch my back.”
Rolling to his feet, Max crouched behind the table. “I’m going to check the rest of the building. Watch—”
A scream tore through the night air. Coming from the basement.
Max popped to his feet and ran like the devil himself was on his heels. He pounded through the doorway to the hall, jerking his head as a chip of wood frame exploded from a bullet strike, scratching his cheek. The door to the cellar was five feet away and stood open. Max plunged inside and took the stairs three at a time, stumbling at the bottom and hitting his knee to the stone floor.
A candlestick rested on a large barrel, the small flame of its taper bouncing in the draft. He heard a grunt, a low curse, before Colleen’s sturdy frame hurtled around a row of casks.
He took in every detail in a second. The small tear in the shoulder of her shirt. The way she clutched her skirt high in front as she ran. The look of panic in her eyes that melted to relief when she caught sight of him.
The fucking bastard who was three steps behind her, knife clutched in his hand.
Max took two running steps forwards, pushed Colleen behind him, and planted his fist in the attacker’s face. His nose broke with a satisfying crunch.
The man staggered back, his legs as wobbly as a newborn fawn’s. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed in a heap.
Grabbing the back of Max’s coat, Colleen tugged him towards the staircase. “Let’s get out of here.”
“No. There’s more upstairs.” Max picked up the candle and strode to the base of the short flight of steps that led to the yard. The cellar door was closed and the bolt remained in place. The arsewipe must have come down the club’s stairs. “You’re safer here. I’ll take the man upstairs, and you barricade the door until I tell you it’s all right for you to come out. Understood?”
Tiptoeing to the crumpled body, Colleen tentatively stretched out a hand and snatched the knife that lay inches from his trouser. “How do you suggest I barricade myself inside? Carry wine barrels up the stairs on my back to lodge against the door?”
That was a good point. The door from the club didn’t lock on the inside. Still, he could have done without the impudence. Not while their lives were in danger. “Fine. I’ll leave the body here and take you up with me instead. But you will stay behind me and do as I say. We don’t know how many men are up there, but I’m certain each of them is eager to kill you.” Bile rose in his throat with the words.
She raised her hands in a placating gesture, almost cutting her ear with the blade. “I’m not the spy. I’ll do as you say.”
Pulling the knife away from her face, Max sighed. “Just don’t stab me in the back, please.” Taking her free hand, he tucked it to his side and started up the steps. When they reached the top, he blew out the candle and waited for his eyes to adjust.
The door swung open, and Max pounced. He grabbed the man by the throat and throttled him against the wall.
“Max!” Summerset wheezed. He clawed at Max’s hands. “It’s me.”
The hiss of a flame meeting an oil-soaked wick sizzled in the air. Montague lit one of the wall lamps, illuminating the hallway, and replaced the glass cover. “I wanted to make sure we could all see this,” he said mildly. “It’s always amusing seeing Summerset get his daylights darkened.”
Max dropped his hand. He brushed Summerset’s shoulders. “Apologies. How many did we capture?”
Rothchild strode down the hallway. “None,” he said, his lip curling with disgust. “All either dead or escaped.”
“Blast.” Max grabbed Colleen around the waist and swung her out of the doorway, enjoying her little yelp. He bounded down the stairs. It should have been black as pitch in the cellar. But the cellar doors were flung open, letting the blue of the quarter moon illuminate the space. No body lay on the floor.
“Sodding hell!” He plodded back up the stairs. “My man got away, too.”
Dunkeld tramped into the hallway, Pinkerton a step behind with a red-soaked towel pressed to his shoulder. The Scotsman crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s like these men are smoke. Deadly, but we can’t seem to grab ahold of them.”
Colleen leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her chest heaved up and down, and her fists were buried in the folds of her skirt.
Max ground his teeth. She’d had more frights than anyone deserved. And she’d faced them all, as resilient as a soldier. He’d been looking forward to pounding information out of someone, and now there was no one to loose his aggressions upon. He eyed Summerset. No, it wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying pounding on a friend.
Only one other way that he knew of to pour out his frustrations.
He took Colleen’s hand. “I’m taking her home with me. The club is no longer safe.”
“What about me?” Pinkerton’s nasal accent sounded like the whine of a child.
“I think it’s time our friend rejoined his family.” Montague tucked his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat. “Perhaps we can send him on his way somewhere safe, like back to America.”
“Good idea,” Summerset said. A gleeful smile stretched across his face. “After all he’s done for us, Pinkerton is going to need protection back to Scotland to rejoin his family. Seeing as he’s injured. Don’t you think?” he asked Dunkeld, as innocent as a babe.
The marquess crossed his arms over his chest. “No. He can find his own way there. We owe him nothing.”
Rothchild snorted but managed to smother his laughter. “Summerset is right. And you are the obvious choice.”
“You’re going to freeze your bollocks off!” Summerset didn’t bother trying to restrain his mirth. “Scotland at this time of year. You and Pinkerton will have to snuggle together in the inns on your travels. I hope—”
Dunkeld planted his elbow in the earl’s gut, cutting off his sentence to gasp for air. “‘Effing slags, all of you.” Turning to Colleen, he bowed his head. “Pardon my language, ma’am.” He cracked his neck and took a deep breath. “Come, Pinkerton. Let’s get you to a doctor and deliver you to your wife.”
The Scotsman strode away. Pinkerton took a couple steps, then turned back. “I just wanted to thank all of you. It is really most—”
“Just go.” To Max’s mind, the American was getting more than he deserved. He turned to Montague. “Can you contact Liverpool? Ask him to have this cleaned up by the time the club opens tomorrow?”
The duke nodded. “He won’t be happy we’ve come away without any witnesses again. But a little tidying up is the least he owes us.”
The men separated. Max pulled Colleen up to her rooms and found an empty valise. “Pack what you think you’ll need for the next couple of weeks.”
Silently, she moved among her wardrobes, placing a couple of pairs of new boots in the bottom of the kit.
Max frowned. “What? No argument?”
Colleen pressed her lips together. “As has just been proven, this building is easily accessible to men who want to cut my throat and …” She balled up a gown and tossed it in the valise.
Grasping her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “And what?”
She shrugged. “The man made it quite clear he wanted something more before he killed me. I think my fear excited him.” She patted Max’s chest. “I am quite happy to go stay in your house until this is resolved.”
Folding his arms around her, he pulled her close. He buried his nose in her hair and just enjoyed being surrounded by her. Her arms, her scent, her strength.
Somewhere during that embrace, he knew. Having her in his home for the next couple of weeks wouldn’t be enough. He would need her forever.