A Notorious Love (17 page)

Mr. Wallace chuckled. “I think the ale is goin’ to yer head, Mrs. Brennan.”

“It is not!” she protested, then hiccupped again. Was hiccupping covered in Mrs. N’s guide? She couldn’t remember.

She drank the rest of her ale to silence her hiccups, but when she set the glass down, it fell over. Now how had
that
happened?

All the men laughed now. Then one of them added, “His Christian name is Roger and he likes to jest with his men, so they call him Jolly Roger.”

“He’s also got a pirate’s greed,” Daniel grumbled. “Not to mention lack of scruples.”

“You seem to know the man well enough,” Mr. Wallace commented, eyes narrowing.

“I’ve heard of him,” Daniel said. “Who hasn’t?”

Mr. Wallace leaned across the table and stared at Daniel. “Wait a minute. Yer name’s Brennan, ain’t it? Like Wild Danny Brennan, the highwayman? Didn’t Jolly Roger used to have—”

“Aye, he did,” Daniel interrupted. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best take my wife upstairs. She’s had all the ‘fun’ she can stand for one night.”

Chapter 10

I took this fair maid by the lily white hand

And on the green mossy bank set her down

And I planted a kiss on her red ruby lips

And the small birds a-singing all around.

“Queen of the May,”
anonymous ballad

D
aniel had to get them both out of here before they said or did something to give themselves away. So far matters had gone well, but now that he realized Crouch was involved, not to mention that Helena was drunk to the gills…

Christ, on two pints of ale and naught else. He’d never seen her drunk, never even imagined the possibility. This was pure disaster.

He called the taproom maid over. “How much do I owe for the drinks?”

She glanced over to Wallace, then back to Daniel. “You’ve got to settle up at the bar, sir. The proprietor keeps accounts up there. He don’t let me take money at the table.”

“Be right back,” he told Helena as he rose and headed for the bar.

The proprietor took his time about settling the bill, and when Daniel headed back to the table he discovered why. Apparently Wallace had signaled the taproom maid to delay Daniel, for he now had Helena on his lap and was trying to kiss her while she protested. Rage seared Daniel, even after he saw Helena draw back and slap the man.

“What was that for?” Wallace asked, rubbing his cheek. “All I wanted was a little kiss, and you said you wanted fun—”

“Not that kind. And not with you.” Helena attempted to climb off the man’s lap, but instead fell heavily onto the chair next to him.

At her cry of pain, Daniel nearly hurdled the-table in his eagerness to get his hands on Wallace. Daniel lifted him bodily from his chair and held the smaller man dangling in the air so they were nose to nose. “In future, you keep your bloody hands off my wife or I’ll break them both. D’you understand?”

Wallace glared at him, and Daniel shook him until the smuggler nodded. Then Daniel set him down.

Straightening his clothes, Wallace said with a sneer, “Don’t worry. Nobody wants yer crippled wife anyhow.”

Daniel heard Helena’s pained gasp and saw red. Before he could even think, he’d planted a facer on Wallace, laying him out flat. As he stood staring down at the man
who lay moaning on the floor, he growled, “That’ll teach you to insult a lady, you bloody arse.”

The others half-rose from their chairs, and he brandished his fists at them. “The rest of you want a bunch of fives? Do you?”

But they weren’t as stupid as their leader. He glowered at them all, and they took their seats again, mumbling into their ale. They might outnumber him, but anybody could see he wasn’t nearly as drunk as them. Besides, he was in the right, and they knew it. Nobody touched a man’s wife, even smugglers.

He turned to Helena. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes riveted on Wallace.

“Let’s go.” He picked her up and strode for the door. Between the ale and her weak leg, she probably couldn’t manage to walk.

As they headed for the stairs, he grumbled, “You do know how to shake up a room, lass.”

“So do you.”

He glared down at her, only to find her laughing—laughing, the little witch! “What do you find so funny?”

She twined her arms about his neck and smiled with the breezy manner of a woman well into her cups. “You warn’d me not to insult people. Then
you
go and knock ’em in the head. P’raps you ought to take your own advice, Danny.”

“If you hadn’t been so bloody friendly with that arse Wallace and got yourself drunk, I wouldn’t have had to knock him in the head.”

“I do appreciate your rescuin’ me, y’know. I didn’t like Mr. Wallace at all.” Her eyes shone up at him. “I like you so much better.”

Despite being a mite slurred, her words turned all his annoyance into pure need. Combined with the soft weight
of her in his arms, they sent a sudden surge to his wayward pego that was downright criminal. Christ, he wished
he
were drunk. At least drunkenness would blunt the edge of his lust.

He climbed the stairs as fast as he could manage, trying not to think of her breasts a few inches from his hand, her legs draped over his arm, her sweet little arse bumping against his belly every step he took.

She stared up at him with an unsteady gaze. “Danny?”

“Yes?” Strange how it didn’t bother him so much when
she
called him Danny. She meant it for an endearment, not a reminder of his highwayman da, and that made all the difference.

“You’re still cross at me, aren’t you?”

He glanced down at her and raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m cross at you?”

She bobbed her head. “You look ex-tre-e-emely vexed.”

He bit back a smile. She was going to have a devil of a headache tomorrow. “I’m not vexed, although God knows I ought to be. I told you to stay in our room, and you didn’t. Our agreement was that you were to do as you were told, and you’ve already broken it repeatedly.”

Her brow wrinkled up in a frown. “Our ’greement was that
you
were s’posed to find out what happen’d to Juliet. If not for me, who knows how long it would’ve taken?”

“I was coming to it, Helena. I didn’t want to rouse their suspicions.”
Which I probably have now.

“Pish-posh.” Her lips curved into a pout, and it only made him want to kiss them. “Thanks to me, we know where Pryce took Juliet. Yet you’re vexed.”

“I’m not bloody vexed!” he growled, then lowered his voice as he reached the floor where their room was. “Not at you, anyway.” No, he was far more vexed at himself.
For not seeing what should have been obvious—that Crouch was involved in this. For letting her come along.

For wanting her so badly he ached with it.

“Then who’re you vexed at?”

“Never mind who. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” Not that he wanted to discuss the implications of Crouch’s involvement, but he must. She should know all his suspicions. “You’re in no condition to discuss anything now.”

“I’m perfectly well, y’know,” she said with a lofty air so typical he laughed at her.

“I can see that.”

“Even if I did drink a bit too much, everything turn’d out wonderfully.”

“You nearly got mauled by an arse—I don’t call that ’wonderfully,” he muttered as he strode down the candlelit hall toward their room.

She stabbed a finger at his chest. “You’re only annoyed ’cause a lot of men were nice to me. You think it’s fine for women to drape themselves naked over
you,
but let
me
have a teeny bit of fun and you turn into a bully ruffian.”

“A bully ruffian?” he said, amused. “Wherever did you hear that term?”

“That awful Mr. Wallace said it.”

He scowled. “D’you know what it means?”

“It means you’re a bully and a ruffian. And you are, sometimes.”

“No. It means I’m a highwayman who’s rude to his victims. You should be sure of your cant before you start throwing it around.”

“Oh.” She frowned, apparently trying to assimilate the new information. Then her brow cleared. “Well, you were rude to those men, y’know.”

He rolled his eyes. “They’ll get over it.”

She looked pensive all of a sudden. “They weren’t at all like what I’d expect of smugglers. Except for Mr. Wallace, they were terribly nice.”

So nice they’d steal her blind as soon as look at her. He chuckled as he reached their room. “And you, sweetheart, are drunk.”

“I am not!”

Setting her down, he reached for the door, but he’d scarcely shoved it open when she lost her balance and swayed into him. He picked her up again, laughing. “You’re right—you’re not drunk, you’re
very
drunk.”

She peered up at him as he strode into the room and kicked the door shut. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” He scanned the room, noting the extra gown hanging over the screen. “D’you have something to sleep in?” But then he’d have to put her in it, and he’d never survive that. “Never mind, you can sleep in your gown.”

“Nonsense. It’ll get all wrinkled, and I only have two. I’ll sleep in my chemise.” With typical Helena loftiness, she added, “But you have to play lady’s maid, since you wouldn’t let me bring one.”

He supposed he deserved that, though the thought of helping her undress made his pulse pound madly. “Very well.”

After setting her down on the edge of the bed, he knelt to pull off her half boots. The sight of her fragile leg reminded him of her astonishing tale about regaining its use. No wonder she was so bitter about the men who condemned her for her lameness. He would’ve felt the same if he’d accomplished a minor miracle through sheer will, only to have it taken for nothing by a lot of arses who saw her leg as a weakness instead of the strength that it was.

She was more amazing than he’d realized. And if she
weren’t so drunk, he’d be tempted to show her exactly what he thought of her. Which would not be wise a’tall.

Swiftly he quelled the urge to strip off her stockings and kiss his way up from her trim ankle. Instead, he rose to sit on the bed next to her, then turned her so he could work loose her gown’s tiny buttons.

But the more he uncovered the transparent linen beneath, the more his John Thomas stiffened. Christ, any more of this and he’d explode. Quickly, he shoved the top of her gown off her shoulders.

Her delicate shoulders were barely veiled by her linen chemise. In a trance, he lifted his hand to cup one, then caught himself. Swearing under his breath, he jerked to his feet. “You can manage the rest yourself. Throw me the gown when you’re done, and I’ll hang it over the screen.”

It took all his will to cross the room. She’d made it clear that she thought him a conscienceless whoremonger; he wasn’t about to prove her right by taking advantage of her while she was drunk, no matter how tempting the notion.

Careful to keep his back to her, he dragged off his boots and untied his cravat. But when he shrugged off his coat, the slim volume he’d confiscated from Helena’s bag earlier bumped his hand.

He extricated it, remembering the peculiar title.
Mrs. Nunley’s Guide to Etiquette for Young Ladies.
Probably the source of all her notions of propriety. Later he’d have to read it, if only to find out why it took ale to loosen her up.

For now he shoved it under his discarded coat and took off his waistcoat. Once he was sure she was asleep, he’d remove his breeches. That was as much as he planned to disrobe. Being in the same room with her would be difficult enough without being half-dressed as well.

Her gown and petticoat came flying at him and he
hung them over the screen, then turned, expecting to find her in the bed with the covers dragged up to her chin.

Instead, she sat on the edge, clad only in her chemise. Sweet Jesus. The flimsy bit of nothing clung greedily to her darling breasts and lithe thighs, firing his own greed to new intensity. His fingers itched to touch every inch of feminine flesh. What in God’s name had he done to deserve this torture?

To make matters worse, she’d taken her hair down, too. Just as he’d imagined, it was long and thick and bloody gorgeous. Like the rich dark ale she’d drunk all evening, it frothed over her shoulders and down her arms past her waist, where the last bit curled sweetly about her hips.

It made him almost imagine he could see its echo between her legs beneath the linen. At least she still wore her stockings. Knowing Helena, she probably wore drawers as well. Not that it helped much. Helena with her hair down, in chemise and stockings, looked so damned erotic he wanted to vault across the room and take her like a savage beast.

She seemed oblivious to his arousal, however. She wore the smile of an innocent as she swung her good leg back and forth, her calf thumping rhythmically against the oak bedstead. “I’m not sleeping in the bed, y’know. You’re to have the bed. I’m sleeping on that.” She pointed to the mattress with her big toe. “See? I’ve already used it.”

He glanced down at the mattress, startled to find a blanket crumpled on top and a pillow that still held the indentation where her head had been. “Why did you do that?”

“Because you were cross at me. I hate it when you’re cross. You get all grumbly and…and arrogant. You
make stern pronouncements and order me about. I don’t like being ordered about.”

“I’d never guess,” he said dryly.

“I thought you’d be in a better mood if you had a good night’s sleep. That’s why I’m sleeping on the mattress.”

He shook his head. The woman never ceased to amaze him. “It would be better if you took the bed.”

“No!” Her voice retained some of its usual imperious tone. “I told you—you’re to have the bed, and I’m to sleep on the floor. It’s all settled.”

She rose as if to move in that direction. Only his quick action prevented her from collapsing without her cane for support.

Unfortunately, that put her in his arms again, every lovely, half-clad inch of her. When he tried to set her aside, she looped her arms about his neck and gazed up at him with a secretive smile that made his head spin.