Chapter Seventeen

“I’m sorry, Miss Sinclair, he’s not here.” Ron Murray frowned at Dorothea in concern. “Left early, he did; had a meeting with someone.”

“Who? Where?” Desperation gripped Dorothea’s throat so she could barely speak. She’d taken two cabs and run blocks through the gathering dark to reach Ron’s shop, only to find her quarry flown. Now her knees threatened to go out from under her.

“Here, sit down.” Ron guided her to a chair. “What’s the matter?”

“He’s in danger. I found out today. Someone’s hired an assassin. An assassin, Mr. Murray!”

Ron studied her with emotionless, hazel eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time. He’s survived two attempts in the past, plus as many beatings. Put in hospital once. Do you think he knows about this?”

She shook her head. “How could he? I just found out today at the newspaper office. I wanted to come at once but couldn’t get away.” She shuddered; Jeremy Winton had kept his eye on her all day, till she handed in her story and left in Molly’s company. She’d taken a cab home in case he had her followed, waited ten minutes, and taken another to within walking—or running—distance of Ron’s shop.

“I have to warn him, Mr. Murray. Do you have any idea where he went?”

“Most likely to Dooley’s.”

“That’s a tavern, isn’t it?” She pushed to her feet. “I think I know where it is.”

“Miss—you can’t go there by yourself. It’s a rough place and a dangerous neighborhood.”

“He’s the one in danger, and better for being warned.”

“Well, you’ll not go alone. Just let me close up; I’ll take you.”

“Oh, Mr. Murray, I’d appreciate that.”

It seemed to take forever for Ron to shut the shop, interrupted by a customer whom he politely turned away. By the time they left, full dark had fallen. Clouds trailed inland from the ocean like ink.

“How’d you find out about this threat, Miss Sinclair?”

“I heard my employer, Mr. Winton, and his son, Jeremy, talking. They made no secret of it, at least to me.”

“Jeremy Winton—he’s got a reputation round town, all right. Runs with a wild crowd when he’s not chasing women—thugs masquerading as toffs, they are. Word on the street is they’ve bashed many an Irishman. They like to catch a man when he’s on his own, the cowards. Rumor has it they killed at least one.”

“I believe it. It seems I’ve been spending my time in a snake pit, Mr. Murray. You can be sure that’s at an end.”

“Does that mean you’ll be quitting the Guardian?”

“Something like that.”

Dooley’s brimmed with light and sound. A group of what could only be lightskirts stood outside the door with a couple of men. They eyed Dorothea and Ron curiously and called soft taunts.

“You don’t belong here, lass.”

“Aye—stick to your own patch. We don’t need any more competition.”

Ron put his arm around Dorothea and ushered her in. She looked around in consternation, fearing she’d never find Hare among the throng that filled the place. A crowded bar occupied one wall, rows of booths the other, with tables—all taken—in between. More groups of people stood about, and a band in the corner competed with dozens of voices to be heard.

“Oh, my,” she breathed.

Ron pulled her aside as two men barreled toward them, half angry and half laughing.

“Take it outside, lads!” someone hollered, and hands opened the door for the men as they rolled through. A barmaid passed by, balancing three plates of food, the smell of which reached Dorothea’s nostrils and turned her stomach.

She fought back concurrent waves of sickness and panic. “How do we find him?”

“Good question, miss. If he’s here to meet someone, he won’t be standing out in the open. Come along.”

Ron guided Dorothea to the left side of the room, edging his way through the crowd. The booths, ill-lit, looked like smoky caves where patrons—men and women together or just groups of men with their heads close—glanced up to glare at them. One couple, both on the same side of the table, occupied themselves with something beyond conversation and didn’t look up at all. Dorothea determinedly turned her eyes away.

But a new thought occurred to her: what if Hare had come here not to meet a man but a woman? What if she happened upon him in just such a clench with his hand down some female’s bodice? She didn’t know what he got up to in his free time. And he didn’t belong to her.

Much as she might want him to.

That thought startled her, so she barely noticed when Ron grunted, “There.”

Still with his arm around Dorothea’s shoulders, he guided her to the very back of the room, opposite the band, where gloom hung thickest. Here, Dorothea realized, a patron stood the least chance of being seen—or overheard.

And there sat a man with copper curls that looked bright even in the poor light, speaking earnestly with another man parked across from him. They both looked up when Ron paused beside their booth, the stranger with a forbidding glare and Hare O’Hare with astonishment.

He came to his feet as if drawn by force, and his tawny eyes went wide. “Dora?”

She could barely hear him. The band had broken into a lilting tune that had several couples on the packed floor, swaying.

O’Hare leaned close enough for her to smell the ale on his breath. “What are you doing here?”

She placed her mouth at his ear in turn. “I had to see you. To warn you. Mr. Murray was kind enough—”

Hare nodded at Ron. The stranger got to his feet abruptly and shot Dorothea a second dark look. “I’m off.”

Without another word, he melted into the crowd. Ron herded Dorothea into his seat; her knees collapsed, and she subsided behind the man’s half-drunk mug of black ale.

“I’ll leave her with you,” Ron told Hare and moved away also before Dorothea could protest.

Hare returned to his seat, and they regarded one another. A thousand emotions tumbled through Dorothea’s breast, and she saw most of them reflected in Hare’s eyes. They’d last parted in anger, but she found she didn’t care about that. She reached across the table and grasped his hands. He turned his fingers to grip hers, hard and strong.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I had to see you.”

“Another warning?” he asked, leaning close across the table so she could hear him. “Did we not quarrel over the last?”

“We did. As you can see, that did not serve to discourage me. Because here I am.”

“Here you are,” he echoed.

“Whether you like it or not.” Sudden tears filled her eyes. “You’re a hardheaded Irishman, and you drive me to distraction, but I—” She had no words for the rest. Instead, she leaned still closer and kissed him, letting her emotions do the talking in a gesture filled with her fear for him, and her devotion.

For an instant his lips, against hers, remained merely acquiescent. Then he began to participate enthusiastically, his lips molding to hers, wooing and coaxing them apart. Time stood still and even the tumult around them faded away as Dorothea tasted him: his warmth and the spice of ale, the passion and the essence that was his alone.

Both his hands came up and cradled her face. He broke the kiss but didn’t release her. Staring into her eyes, he breathed, “Dora, Dora, by God, what am I to do with you?”

She could think of several things, all of which shocked her. She dismissed her shock as irrelevant. She wanted this man, wanted his company, his attention, his conversation, and his touch. His presence in her life made her understand so many truths, including the fact that men and women were halves of the same whole.

And he—with his warm hands, guarded eyes, and courageous heart—had been made for her. She didn’t understand how, or why—just that he was her other half.

“Love me?” she suggested, calling upon every shred of courage.

He shook his head, and emotion brimmed in his eyes. She thought for an instant he meant to push her away even as he had in Ron Murray’s quarters. Instead he asked, “How can I do anything else?”

He kissed her then, her face still fast between his hands, making a thorough job of it and setting Dorothea’s blood alight. A joyful song started up in her mind. He loved her. He’d as much as admitted it. His heart was hers, the one prize she wanted in all the world.

This time when the kiss ended she gazed into his eyes and said raggedly, “Take me somewhere. Your room.”

“Dora, no.”

“Do you really intend to try arguing with me again?”

He laughed. “No.”

“We need some place quiet where we can talk.”

“Talk, is it?” Devilment leaped in his eyes. “That kiss did not taste like talking.”

She gifted him with another, quick and hard—a promise. “But I came here with a warning for you. Listen. I discovered today your enemies have hired an assassin. There’s a price on your head.”

“How did you find this out?”

“At the newspaper office. I came as soon as I could…”

“Hush.” He held up a hand, even though, close as they were, no one could possibly overhear them. “You’re right, we cannot talk here.”

“Where will we go? Not Mrs. Bennett’s.”

“No. Come on.”

He took her by the hand, pulled her from the booth, and headed for the door. Halfway there, they were jostled by two men; just as Ron had, Hare wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

She pressed into his warmth. This felt nothing like contact with Ron Murray. Instead, Hare’s heat and strength started a fire low down in her belly and threatened to melt the last of her resistance.

She’d come to warn him of danger. But she suspected her danger lay in his arms.