Chapter Four

“Well, now,” O’Hare said, giving it due consideration, “that’s an intriguing prospect.”

“Isn’t it?” Dorothea Sinclair tore her beautiful eyes from his and looked around the room. “Where’s that woman with our drinks?”

“Never mind that, for the moment.” O’Hare reached across the scarred table—it looked like someone had been playing knives for pints on its surface—and covered Dorothea’s hand. “One thing at a time here, lass. Just exactly what are you asking of me?”

She blinked at their linked hands before raising those great, fey eyes to his. “Well, here it is: you could make my career by giving me an exclusive interview, and I believe I could further your cause with it.”

“My cause?”

“Almost ever since I arrived here in Boston I’ve heard about you—the rebel Irishman who’s determined to make things fair for the Irish here in Boston. But let me tell you, most of what I’ve heard has come from the mouths of your detractors. No one’s got your side of it—from the horse’s mouth, as it were.”

“I see.”

“You’re considered a very nefarious man.”

“Am I, then?”

“That means—”

“I know what it means; I may be Irish, but I’m not ignorant, though the toffs in this town seem to think it means one and the same.”

“Well, but with such a reputation, people are going to believe the worst of you, even more so if you don’t present your position in your own words. I’m offering you the opportunity to state your case, clear up some misunderstandings, and perhaps garner support. Your cause is just. You deserve a chance to define it.”

“You consider my cause just, eh?”

“Well, of course—as just as is my own in refusing that pig’s advances. Why should Irish workers be paid less for the same day’s work? Why should they be charged more for housing? Why are they the first to be fired, and from the lowest-paying jobs? Irish girls cleaning English society women’s privies. Irish lads made to run errands for less than a penny a day…”

“I know how it goes, miss.” O’Hare had once been one of those lads and knew the sting of seeing his “betters” ride by in fine carriages behind their high-stepping horses as if he didn’t exist. “They say we’re good for nothing but drinking and fighting—with some whoring thrown in for good measure.”

“Then set them straight. In your own words, in the Guardian.”

O’Hare thought about it. “What’s to make that bastard Winton print a true account of what I say? I doubt there’s a hint of veracity in that rag of his.”

Her gaze held his. “I’ll tell him you’ve granted me an exclusive series of interviews—that you’ll speak only to me and will break the whole thing off if he doesn’t print the interview as I present it.”

“Smart lass.”

“He won’t dare misrepresent you. And I’ll do your story justice, you’ll see. I’ll even let you read the copy before I turn it in. Once the series starts running, there won’t be a soul in Boston—rich or poor—but buys a paper. I’ll be able to show what I’m made of and, incidentally, pay back that Jeremy Winton.”

O’Hare narrowed his eyes. “It might indeed be an advantage for me to state my side of things.” Better than that, it would give him an excuse to see Dorothea Sinclair again. A series of interviews, she said. That meant a series of meetings.

Fine, that. But would he be able to keep his hands off her? Either way, he wouldn’t mind throwing a spanner in the works of that scunner Winton.

He smiled at her. “Finish your meal while I think about it. You can’t expect a man to make such an important decision on the fly.”

“By all means. But first, please find out what’s become of my cherry cordial.”

****

The music started up just as they finished their meal and decided to leave—a man with a squeaky fiddle and another with a squeeze box. A third kept time with a pair of spoons.

Dorothea would have lingered to listen, but the fight broke out only a minute later, when they were halfway across the tavern. Someone swore at the man next to him at the bar, someone else threw a punch, and suddenly blows rained from every side.

The fiddler stopped on the upbow. A table went over just behind Dorothea, and a body came flying in her direction.

Suddenly, as easy as nothing, she became airborne. It took her an instant to grasp the fact that O’Hare’s hands had closed around her waist, lifting her high off the floor while the brawler passed beneath her.

She gave an involuntary whoop as he swung her round, her feet still flailing, and carried her swiftly to a corner, out of the main line of fire.

“There now,” he said and set her down slowly, his warm hands sliding upward from her waist over her ribs and stopping just beneath her bosom.

Dorothea froze. She could feel the heat from his hands on the undersides of both breasts, could feel the muscles rigid in his arms and see the light flare in his eyes. Suddenly, despite the chaos all around them, it felt as if the two of them stood alone—as if he might kiss her.

She wanted him to kiss her.

But no. This was the infamous O’Hare, a man she didn’t know and dared not trust too far. She’d have to be mad to kiss him.

No one had ever called Dorothea Sinclair mad. Impractical, yes. Pig-headed, maybe. A bit too impulsive for her own good. But look where it had got her now.

Someone knocked her hat from behind, and it sailed into the midst of the fray.

“Ah, blast!” O’Hare exclaimed and waded in after it.

Dorothea stood clutching the edge of the overturned table behind which he’d deposited her and watched the swath he cut, marked by the banner of copper curls. He shoved a man here, pushed another there, knocked the heads of two combatants together, and disappeared briefly from view. When he came up again, he bore her hat in his hands.

He rejoined her an instant later, his eyes full of laughter. “A bit more battered than it was, I’m afraid. Let’s get out of here.”

“But how will we reach the door?”

In answer, he swept her up and bore her through the chaos; before she could blink twice, they slid out into the chilly night.

“I think it’s safe for you to put me down now,” Dorothea said.

“Eh?” Mere inches from hers, his gaze seemed to consume her. If anything, his arms tightened.

Temptation sizzled through Dorothea like hot fat on a griddle. She wanted to kiss him—oh, yes, wanted to know how those clever lips tasted and whether he’d melt her the way she suspected.

But he set her down on her feet and clamped the hat to her head. Amusement flooded his face.

“More trouble than it’s worth, that hat—not but it is fetching.”

“And, I fear, quite ruined,” Dorothea lamented, striving to cover her discomfort. “But thank you anyway.” She adjusted the hat. “What were they fighting about, do you know?”

“Someone wanted a certain song and someone else wanted a different one, from what I heard. Are you all right, though?”

“Yes, thanks to you.”

He gave her a third bow. “Glad to be of service.”

“And—?” Dorothea prompted.

“And?”

“Have you decided to take me up on my offer?”

“Offer?” His gaze inspected her lips, and heat flooded through her yet again. Sharp and abrupt, she relived the feel of his hands beneath her breasts.

“The interviews. Will you do them?”

“Ah, well.” For a moment he stared away into the night, and Dorothea held her breath. She wanted this opportunity. She wanted a chance to see him again.

“Let me get you home. I’ll give you my answer then.”

This time it felt right—and safe—to walk with her arm linked through his. He took her through streets she didn’t recognize to a main thoroughfare she did and thence to the tall gray boarding house.

“I detest this place,” she confessed reflexively.

O’Hare slanted a look at her. “Then move. There’s a thousand other places to stay.”

“This is respectable. Safe.”

She drew her arm from his reluctantly and turned to face him.

“Thank you for your help this evening.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Sinclair.”

“And may I have your answer?”

He mused, his eyes narrowed. “It’s about taking chances, isn’t it? You have to take one, and so do I. We have to gamble on each other.”

“I guess you’re right.”

He leaned close. “Then yes, I’ll take a chance on you, Dorothea Sinclair.”

Her heart bounded. “Wonderful! When—?”

“I’ll send word.”

And before she could pin him down further, he strode away into the night.