Juliet quaked, uncertain as to whether she'd rather face the entire mob or this one terrifying man.
"We'll be back for you, we will," Mother Cavendish snarled. "And next time, Juliet Grafton-Moore, we won't be turned away."
"What the devil?" The dark barbarian slashed Juliet a glare of disbelief.
"When you come, I'll still be here," Juliet flung back, trying to still the horrendous trembling of her knees as the mob melted back into the shadows, leaving her alone with the ebony-eyed stranger.
He turned on her with the menacing grace of a panther, dark and deadly, something dangerous in his eyes. "And now, to deal with you," he snarled, slamming his sword back in its scabbard.
"I'm not afraid of you," Juliet lied, chin high. "And I don't care who you've come after. You'll never get your filthy hands on her again!"
"Is that so?" Black eyes speared through her, his fingers flashing out to manacle her arms. "The woman I've come for is you."
Chapter 2
During his years as an adventurer, Adam believed he'd seen everything. Nothing from the goings-on in a sultan's harem to an officer's bedchamber could shock him. But as he glared down into Juliet Grafton-Moore's defiant face, he knew he'd been wrong.
He felt as if the woman had just leveled him with a cannonball to the chest. That nice old man's daughter a harlot? And damned proud of it from the fierce expression on those celestially lovely features.
Hell, what had she done? Danced a jig on her poor besotted papa's grave and tripped merrily off to London to fling herself into a life of sin? No wonder the old vicar had been so bloody desperate for someone to play guardian to her!
And who had been fool enough to be coerced into taking up the damnable position? Adam The Bloody Idiot Slade. The minute the old man had demanded his word of honor, Adam should have dumped him in the mud and ridden like hell in the opposite direction!
A whole blasted year he'd fought off waves of guilt emanating from a conscience he didn't even believe he had, the vicar's haunting, pleading eyes begging him to take care of his fragile little darling.
Fragile darling? Hellfire! Juliet Grafton-Moore was misery on two legs!
"You're a vicar's daughter! How the devil can you be one of the ladies in this place?"
"I'm not." She lifted her chin, those celestial-blue eyes shimmering with passion. "I'm the one who owns it."
Adam reeled. "You can't—I mean, own this place! I can't believe it. What are you saying? That you gathered up your inheritance and trundled yourself off to London to buy this establishment?"
"That's exactly what I did, not that it's any of your business. The money was mine to do with as I wished."
"And you wished to—to do this?" Adam waved a hand at the building.
"I'm good at it. You might say it's—it's a gift."
Adam almost strangled on his own neckcloth. What the devil—had she been "practicing" up in the choir loft while her papa was scribbling down his sermons? "You're gifted at... this?" Why the hell couldn't he just blurt it out— you're good at flipping up your skirts? Bloody hell, even the thought made his cheeks burn like fire, and the dread Sabrehawk hadn't blushed since he was ten years old.
"I am a very sensible woman, and it's up to me to teach them everything I know. I'm proud to be able to help the girls here."
Adam gaped. What the blazes could a vicar's daughter teach these women? Was this some sort of establishment catering to particular tastes? Hell, he'd heard of men who preferred women young and innocent-looking—every love-making seeming as if a man were seducing his first virgin. Life in the vicarage must be a damn sight different than he'd imagined.
"They're fast learners," Juliet insisted. "All of them. They amaze me with their energy. I delight in their progress."
"You—you oversee their... progress?" Adam choked out, flabbergasted by the vision of Miss Fragile Angel Grafton-Moore tutoring her little flock on how to bring a man pleasure.
"It's my most abiding passion. Everyone must earn their keep at Angel's Fall."
"Wh-what about you?"
She flashed him a fierce smile. "I work hardest of all. Papa always said that people learn best from example."
But Adam was damned sure when "Papa" was tutoring his daughter in that maxim, the old vicar hadn't figured his precious darling would employ it in a bedroom full of lightskirts!
"And this mob who was ready to toss you on a pike? Why the blazes were they charging down on you?"
"Because I took my ladies away from them."
Whoring and thievery—from some damned ugly customers at that? No wonder the vicar had been wandering around Ireland—he'd been looking for a cliff to jump off!
Adam's jaw clenched, grim. "Well, madam, you're going to have to find another grand passion—like needlework or—or boiling calvesfoot jelly—because I'm packing you up and hauling you out of here by your bloody petticoats if I have to!"
"I've never even seen you before! Who do you think you are, ordering me about?"
"I'm the damned fool who swore a blood oath to see that you are safe."
"I don't understand—"
"Of course you don't! You've never even seen me before! I should be off in Italy drowning in a cask of wine, or in France, sampling the... delicacies. Or, hell, I could be enjoying myself mightily, with an enemy's sword-blade slashing at my heart. But no. I had to ruin everything. I had to play the bloody hero!"
The girl stumbled back, those blue eyes capturing his. "Who are you?"
"The biggest fool in England! The moment I get back in the blasted country, I race off to find you in that infernal little village. But are you there? No! Widow Birds in Her Belfry tells me you didn't have the brains to stay put! You've struck out for London! I chase all over the blasted country searching for a grieving vicar's daughter, and what do I find? Miss Prim and Proper has carted herself off to London to become the madam in a blasted brothel!"
"A brothel?" Those soft cheeks went ashen, then flooded with hot color. "You think I... that this... Angel's Fall is a... house where ladies—"
"I don't have to elaborate for you, I'm sure," Adam snapped. "After all, you're the one who's taught them everything they know!"
That soft pink mouth dropped open, hot blood spilling into her cheeks. Hell, with all the adventures she'd indulged in since her papa's death, he was stunned he could shock her.
"There's been a terrible mistake!" she stammered.
"Damned right, there was, and I made it!"
"Angel's Fall isn't a brothel. It's a place where... where ladies come for shelter so that horrible people like Mother Cavendish and the rest of that mob can't exploit them."
"I see. You bring them here and expect them to perform—what? Only once a night with men you choose?"
"There are no men allowed at Angel's Fall!"
"But you said everyone had to earn their keep! You said it was your grand passion!"
"To turn them into ladies' maids and seamstresses. Give them something good to do with their lives."
What the devil? This was a place for wayward lightskirts? She had a houseful of demimondaines trading what? Diamond bracelets and satin fripperies for years of growing blind and stoop-shouldered from bending over a needle all day? Or running themselves ragged to answer some demanding rich witch's every command?
Hellfire! He should have known better, after meeting the father! Of course the stupid little fool had charged off on some idiotic quest! Just like that Quixote lunatic Gavin was always reading about!
"Who are you?" The woman demanded, her eyes sparking fire. "I demand to know who sent you!"
"Your father!" Adam blazed back.
She seemed to crumple in on herself, that fierce belligerence, her blistering determination wilting like the fragile curl of an ash. Eyes that had faced down that ugly mob with such tenacity grew large and soft and wounded, her lips trembling. Somehow, her reaction only made Adam more furious—at himself, and at her.
"You knew my father?" sh
e asked.
"No. I didn't know him. I just—" Adam rammed his fingers back through the tangled mane of his hair. "Just stopped by the side of a blasted road."
"You're the one. The kindly old soldier who—" Stinging disappointment washed across her face. Crushing disillusionment. It shouldn't have mattered a damn to him.
"No! You can't be Adam Slade!"
"At the moment, I wish to hell I wasn't! I gave your father my word of honor that I'd see you were safe. I don't think dangling your little nose out as a target for angry mobs was what your papa had in mind for your future. Now, you go inside, gather up whatever female nonsense you need, and I'm hauling you back to—to—whatever relative of yours has a spare dungeon still hanging around to lock you up in."
The words poured steel into the girl's spine. It stiffened beneath the soft blue of her gown. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I gave your father my word of honor," Adam enunciated, as if speaking to a particularly dull child.
"I release you from it."
"Oh, no. It's not that simple. The only one who can release me from that vow is your father. And he's probably sitting up in heaven laughing his bloody head off! Now that mob I just sent packing was as ugly as they come. And the next time they pay you a visit, I might not be around to reason with them."
"I never asked for your interference! I had things well under control myself."
"Hell, yes! One parasol against thirty furious men! I must have imagined that they had you flattened against that door like a bug under the sole of a boot! Now, damn it, woman, I'm tired. I'm hungry. And I'm trying bloody hard to keep my temper and not throttle you. If you have any sense of survival instinct—which I doubt—you'll bustle your little petticoats into this—this Angel's Hell, and do as you're bloody told!"
"Does bellowing usually get you your way, Mr. Slade? It's a reprehensible habit. Along with swearing. Papa always said it was the sign of a weak vocabulary. I attribute it to laziness."
Adam's cheeks burned, his jaw clenching into an aching knot. No hardened officer in his right mind would defy Sabrehawk in one of his notorious tempers. But this—this slip of a woman was flying in his face with such infuriating dignity, he was tempted to bellow at her until her ears turned numb.
"Damnation, woman, I—"
The sound of a horse charging toward them at breakneck pace made Adam wheel around, half expecting another attack from the woman's legions of enemies. He would have welcomed about a dozen of them, swords slashing, murder in their eyes. A nice bloody battle with opponents he could actually fight. What he saw instead made him let out a long-suffering groan. As if this whole fiasco wasn't bad enough!
A youth of about nineteen thundered toward them, his carroty hair whipping over his face, his sword waving in his hand. Adam wondered how many innocent passersby who'd been in the idiot's path were lighter by the weight of a head.
"Blast it, boy! I told you to stay in your room!" Adam raged as Fletcher Raeburn reined in his frenzied gelding and flung himself from the saddle.
"I'm hearing there... was a... fight. Knew was... needed to watch... your back."
"How many times have I told you I've been watching my own back for thirty-seven years, and it's still in one piece."
"Sure an' you couldn't have expected me to stay in that room with trouble brewin'!" Eyes like a Kerry lake glinted with raw delight. "The... innkeep said there was a... mob bent on murder."
"I'm beginning to understand the temptation," Adam said, slashing a glare at the woman. "But as for a fight? Hah! Behold Sir Bonnet Brave-Heart. She drove them off with her parasol."
"You mean 'tis over?" The boy looked crestfallen. "But... well, 'tis possible they'll come back!" He brightened a little. "Thievin' scoundrels often do!"
Adam ground his fingers against the throbbing pain in his temples. "It won't matter if they come back, because we won't be here. We're escorting Miss Grafton-Moore... well, I don't know exactly where, but I'll find somewhere to put her!"
Fletcher flashed her an ornery grin. "Be careful he doesn't nail you in a barrel! 'Twas that he did to me!"
Startled blue eyes flashed to his. "What kind of a monster would do such a thing?"
"I drilled airholes in it!" Adam snapped, furious at himself for the searing of embarrassment that flooded up his neck. "And I left food and water."
"Good thing, too," Fletcher observed. "Spent the night in it, I did. Beginnin' to wonder if I'd ever get out."
"You'd already jumped ship three times, and I was getting damned tired of swimming to shore after—oh, bloody hell!" Adam swore darkly. What the blazes was he doing? He didn't owe Juliet Grafton-Moore any explanation of his behavior. He didn't give a damn what the woman thought of him, did he?
"Fletcher," he began again, "put your damned sword away before you slice Miss Grafton-Moore's petticoats, and..."
Adam stammered to a halt. He wanted nothing more than to drive the boy away from this place pell-mell, like some pesky gosling. But sending Fletcher Raeburn careening back through London alone was like flicking burning brands at a powder keg. Like most of his infernal Irish breed, Fletcher was spoiling for a fight. Doubtless the boy would find one.
There was nothing more dangerous than a brainless youth packed chin-deep in fury with a desperate need to prove himself a man. An uncomfortable throb of kinship pinched at Adam as he remembered another youth—dark-haired and defiant as bedamned—charging out to carve his fortune with the blade of his sword.
"This lady is Miss Grafton-Moore?" Fletcher's eyes widened in astonishment as he settled his grandfather's smallsword back in its scabbard.
"If it wasn't, I'd hardly be standing here making an idiot out of myself, now would I? Miss Grafton-Moore, meet Fletcher Raeburn. It's my job to keep his hide in one piece."
Delicate brows arched in surprise. "You're taking care of him, too?"
"I'm getting paid to do it!" he snapped.
"Paid?"
"Don't mind him, mademoiselle," Fletcher said. "He's crusty as a barnacle-infested keel, but 'tis all in show. Has a tender spot in his heart for me, he does. Like a mammy for its babe."
Adam growled something vile under his breath.
"As for meeting you, miss, 'tis enchanted I am!" The boy swept her an elegant bow and caught her hand, raising it to his lips. "I've been half out of my mind fearing that some calamity had befallen you! When they told us at Northwillow you'd fled to London, I feared I would go mad."
"Don't be overly concerned, Miss Grafton-Moore. It's a recurring condition with young Raeburn."
But damn the woman, if she didn't turn to the boy and smile at him, the kind of smile ladies-fair had been bestowing on their knot-headed heroes since the beginning of time. "It was very kind of you to worry, but as you can see, I am quite happy here."
Adam swore darkly. "Blast it—"
"But you're in danger, milady!" Fletcher protested, alarmed. "I pledge my sword to protect you."
"Oh no you don't, Fletcher. Keep your sword in your scabbard for God's sake. Miss Grafton-Moore is my curse to bear. Now, we've matters to discuss, madam. You must have some unsuspecting relation out there. All I have to do is dump you on their doorstep."
"There is no one," she said.
"Bloody hell, what the devil am I supposed to do with you?" Adam muttered, then glanced hopefully at Juliet. "I don't suppose you have a spare barrel lying around?"
Pink cheeks whitened in affront. "I most certainly do not! We have nothing further to discuss, Mr. Sabrehawk."
Adam grappled with the frayed ends of his temper. Sabrehawk hadn't triumphed in so many battles by allowing himself to be blinded with rage—no, keep your head, he'd told his students in swordsmanship time and again. Your wits are far mightier than the blade of your sword. And from the moment he'd ridden up to this Angel's Hell, he'd been fighting from pure gut-level fury. What had he gotten for his trouble besides a splitting headache? Fletcher barely sketched the woman one bow, and she beamed at him as if he was G
alahad returned with the Holy Grail.
Adam forced his lips into a smile, fearing his jaw would shatter at the effort. "Miss Grafton-Moore, it's obvious I began wrong. You must excuse a crusty old soldier. I have been searching for you for several months, haunted by my vow to your father."
She drew herself up with icy dignity. "It couldn't have been haunting you terribly bad, Mr. Sabrehawk, since you took nearly a year to keep your promise."
Adam ground his teeth. Damn, he wouldn't be accountable to a snippy little Miss Perfect like her—he'd not give her the satisfaction. "Perhaps you're right. After all, it's meaningless that your father begged me with his dying breath to find you. And it's obvious that you have no interest in his final hours. Poor old man. How could he have guessed what reception you'd give his emissaries?" Adam started to walk away. "Come along, Fletcher. We'll go toast the poor old vicar's memory at the Hart's Crossing Inn."
"B-but, Sabrehawk!" Fletcher stammered. "We can't be leaving her here! 'Twas your word of honor you gave the man!"
"I know. But my word of honor and the old vicar's last words are of no importance to Miss Grafton-Moore. She's moved on with her life."
Adam could almost hear the wheels whirring beneath the infernal woman's curls. He could only hope a healthy dose of guilt would kick in before he reached the end of the street. He'd hate to have to turn around and ruin his boots breaking down her blasted door.
At the last possible instant, he heard a soft cry. "Wait. I— I do want to hear about... about—what Papa said before he..."
Adam fought to squelch a surge of triumph—there'd be hell to pay if the chit caught a glimpse of that in his eyes. But as he turned, the emotion fizzled and died. An unaccustomed jab of guilt jolted him as he saw the expression on Juliet Grafton-Moore's face. Grief and regret and self-blame bruised the tender skin beneath her eyes. Emotions he'd learned to understand far too well in the wild highlands of Scotland during the hellish year after Culloden Moor.