CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

The girl was a wildcat!

It was all Shay could do to hold onto her as she struggled in his arms. He pushed into her rented room and kicked the door closed with his foot. He growled as she clawed at his arms, his hands, even his eyes. Her heel slammed down on the arch of his foot, making him clench his teeth as pain shot up his leg. She even tried to catch him in the groin with her boot heels bringing his temper to a boil.

“Cease with this, minx,” he hissed. “I’m not here to fight you.”

She went still as stone in his arms at the sound of his voice. Her breath was hot against his hand and came in hitching gasps.

“If I move my hand, will you scream?” he asked.

She shook her head quickly, and he dropped his hand from her mouth.

“I’ll let you go now so I can give us some light, but don’t think to disappear again.”

She nodded silently, and Shay frowned. She was never this quiet. Never. He’d expected some sort of tirade when he’d moved his hand, but there was nothing. Slowly, he loosened his grip, and she stumbled forward, crashing into something in the dark. His frown deepened as he heard her scrabbling about in the shadows. What the hell was she doing? Why did she not just light a candle?

Then the sound of retching filled the room, and he shot forward for the table near the window. Quickly he lit a candle and held it high, looking for her.

She was huddled over the chamber pot in a far corner. Her hat had fallen off in their tussle and her hair hung in tangled disarray to hide her face. As he watched, her body convulsed and she vomited once again; a sound of abject misery.

“Jolie?” he asked softly. “Are you ill?”

She lifted her head, and for one brief moment, Shay forgot to breathe. The terror he saw in her dark eyes stole his breath. Jolie? Afraid? But then, she ducked her head again, leaving him to wonder if he’d imagined it. He called her name and took a step toward her, but she scrambled away from him across the floor to find her feet alone.

“Don’t bloody touch me!” she croaked. “I’ll be fine, just leave me be.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked sharply. He hadn’t meant for his tone to wound, but her reaction took him by surprise. She acted as if he were going to kill her.

She drew in a deep controlled breath and let it out with a sigh.

“I told you, I’m fine,” she said tightly.

Shay stared at her, willing her to look at him. Her eyes rose to his face and skittered elusively away again.

She’s lying, he thought. He could always tell with her. She was as hard to pin down as quicksilver when she lied.

“Tell me the truth, Jolie.”

Finally, her gaze snapped to his; her eyes furious. Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, she raked him with a contemptuous sneer.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “You were following me?”

Shay crossed his arms over his chest and scanned her face. She was white as milk and her eyes were bright and startled looking. As he watched, she rubbed her palms on her trousers as if they were filthy. A man could be insulted by the way she behaved; as if his touch had fouled her in some way. He decided to let the matter drop. She’d made her feelings quite clear where he was concerned.

“I followed you for your own safety,” he said slowly. “Every sea dog and cutthroat in that pub saw you with that bag of coin. You’re lucky ‘twas me and not FitzHubert.”

She scowled at him, her eyes flashing like black diamonds.

“I can take care of myself,” she snapped. Crossing her arms over her chest, she studied him. “I don’t need your help.”

He barked short laughter.

“You need a bloody keeper,” he returned dryly. “Wanting to cross blades with FitzHubert. Are you mad? He’d have gutted you like game.”

She said nothing, staring at him as if he’d sprouted horns. Her stoic silence was enough to grate on his already raw nerves. He tore his gaze from her face and glanced about the room. It was sparsely furnished, almost Spartan in its simplicity. The bed was hardly more than a cot covered with a threadbare quilt. There was no armoire, but a set of pegs in the wall near the door. Another frock coat in deep blue and a set of doeskin trousers were hung neatly from two of them. Travel boots, well worn but comfortable in appearance sat in a tidy row beneath the clothes. Beyond that, there was nothing personal to indicate that anyone even stayed in this room.

He snapped his head around at the clatter of metal on wood. His jaw dropped in shock and disbelief at what he found.

She had removed her coat and was now disarming. Disarming! The girl carried more weaponry than he did. Two pistols, old but lovingly cared for lay side by side on the dressing table. These were followed by a dirk and hunting knife. Next, came two double edged blades from her boots and a rather long ice-pick from between the swells of her breasts. Another tiny blade was lodged in the toe of her boot, something he discovered as she pulled it off.

“Why are you here, Shay?” she asked, dropping yet another knife to the table from the waistband of her trousers.

“My God, woman! ‘Tis a wonder you do not clatter when you walk.”

She gave him a pained smile.

“It did not protect me from you, though, did it?”

He frowned. “Had no intention of harming you,” he ground out, insulted.

“Mayhap not, but it happened nonetheless.” She looked away and dragged off her other boot. “The question still stands. Why have you sought me out, Shay? You made your feelings quite clear earlier.”

Shay clenched his jaw, trying to steady himself before he simply snapped her up and shook her for her insolence.

“You never used to be this impertinent,” he said.

“You never used to be a bloody scallywag.”

Shay gripped his arms hard enough to bruise. She was impossible and single minded in her intentions to anger him. He threw her a dark look.

“I’m taking you back to Scotland,” he said carefully, and was surprised when she laughed. It was high laughter on the verge of hysterical, but laughter nonetheless.

“Oh, my, that is rich,” she said, her tone light with mirth. “And just how do you intend on getting me there?”

He scowled and turned to face her, dropping his hands to his waist.

“Pray tell what is so amusing?” he asked dangerously.

She tossed her boot negligently toward the door and actually smiled. Her color had improved, a blush pinking her cheeks. Though he was relieved that she was feeling better, he was still on the verge of grabbing hold of her.

“Well, minx? You’ve not answered me.”

“Nor will I,” she said smartly, crossing to the bed. Lifting the straw tick mattress, she ran her hand along the bottom before pulling out a clay jug.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked. “’Tis the least I can do before I send you off.”

She pulled the cork with her teeth and spat it upon the table. Then, to his shock, she tilted the jug on her forearm and drank deeply.

“Where did you learn to drink like that?” he asked as she lowered the jug and shoved it into his hands.

She gave him a narrow look and found her seat.

“Why are you here, Shay? For that matter, why did you come to the Barnacle tonight?”

Shay tilted his head to stare at her in disbelief. She was actually getting to the root of the matter, avoiding his questions outright. To his knowledge that had never happened before. Arguing with Jolie was like waging war with the most skilled general in history. He narrowed his eyes and noted how pale she still was, her lips slightly tinged with blue. Even as he stared at her, she wiped a thin sheen of sweat from her brow. He could have put it down to the heat from the drink, but it rang false. He must have scared her very badly indeed. All the more reason to take her back to Scotland immediately.

“I came to find you, Jolie. I’m returning you to Scotland.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I’m returning myself on the morrow.”

“Aye, you are,” he agreed and drank from the jug. The whiskey was smoother than any he’d ever tasted, and the after burn was as mellow as a warm fire on a winter’s night.

“This is very good,” he remarked.

“Aye,” she said with a nod. “Trystan is the finest stiller in Scotland.”

“Trystan? Trystan MacRae? But he’s only a lad,” Shay said, trying to remember just how old the boy would be.

“He was twenty last spring,” she informed him softly, taking back the jug. “But he’s still the best.”

“But what of his father? Collum…”

“Collum MacRae died three years ago come winter,” she said, her tone hard as marble. “Trystan took over and has improved his process.”

Shay swallowed and shook his head. Collum had always seemed much like James; immortal.

“How did he die?”

She drank her gaze far away.

“Fever,” she said at last. “His wounds festered and I could not bring the fever down.” She sighed helplessly. “I lost him.”

Shay frowned.

“You nursed him? Why? Is there no physician?”

“The physician only responds to coin,” she snapped, turning a glare on him. “MacRae had none, and so he died.”

Shay kept his eyes on her, noting the sudden tension in her shoulders, the whitening of her knuckles on the jug.

“What has my uncle done to stop this?”

She laughed at that, though the sound was dark and brittle.

“He is the one who issued the order.” She set the jug on the table and glared at him. “Not that it makes one whit of difference to you. So tell me, Shay. Why the bloody hell are you really here?”

“I want you to return to Scotland where you belong. Stop playing this ridiculous game before you get killed.”

She held his gaze and leaned back deliberately in her seat.

“I’m returning,” she said softly. “But I’ll continue for however long is necessary.”

“You’ll not…”

“I’ll go back to Lindell. Worry not about that. But I’ll return to London as long as needs be. This is my responsibility, Shay. I’ll not abandon those who count on me.”

As you did. She left the words unspoken, but he heard them as clearly as if she’d shouted them.

“You will do as I say or I will tie you down until this madness passes.”

A flicker of raw terror flashed in her eyes before she rose to her feet, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Leave, Shay. Or should I call you The Wolf?”

“I’m taking you back to Lindell where you bloody well belong, and you will stay there, Jolie. There is no room here for argument.”

“Aye, I’ll argue,” she hissed. “I’ll fight you any way I can. You’ve no right to tell me how to do anything anymore.”

As her voice rose in anger, her brogue colored the words. Shay glanced at the door, wondering how long it would be before someone called for a constable.

“You, girl, need a strap across your backside.”

“And who will do it? You?” She laughed. “You are one to talk. Shay bloody Donovan. The Sea Wolf.”

Her words slurred together and she fell back in her seat to glare up at him blinking.

“I’ve already had a strap across my back,” she admitted coldly. “I lived through it once, and I can again. But if you touch me, I’ll kill you. Laird or nay, I’ll kill you.”

Shay blinked as she took another drink, his blood chilled to the bone. He’d heard threats of death for years, but he’d never heard one so cold blooded. Nor had he ever heard one that carried so much quiet sincerity. She grimaced as she swallowed, and he suddenly wondered how much she could drink before the spirits took her into oblivion.

“I already know about the Admiralty,” he said quietly. “That is but one more reason for you to stop this…”

“You know nothing,” she said flatly. She was staring off at some point on the opposite wall. Her face suddenly twisted and she closed her eyes as if to block out what she was seeing. “You know nothing at all.”

Shay frowned, wondering if this was some trick, connived to lure him to a false sense of trust. He narrowed his eyes. Nay, the twist of grief in her soft lips was real. He’d stake his life on it. Slowly, he knelt beside her.

“Then tell me, lass.”

She focused on his face and blinked before shaking her head in refusal.

“Nay. No one must know,” she sang in a childlike murmur. The hairs rose on the back of Shay’s neck in response.

“Jolie…”

“You know, Shay, your father used to say there was no rest for the wicked.” She smiled thinly. “He was so very right.”

“Lass…”

“I have no home. No family.” A small sob escaped her and she turned to rest her head in her arms on the table. “I am so tired,” she whispered.

Shay felt his eyes burn with the misery he heard in her voice. He’d not had occasion to feel compassion for another soul in years, but she brought it to the surface. He reached out to touch her shoulder, meaning to shake her awake.

“Jolie, wake…”

He didn’t have the chance to finish. The barest touch of his hand, and she was suddenly up, armed, and ready to fight. He didn’t know where the sharp little blade had come from, but he felt it bite him nonetheless. Christ, she kept them sharp! The blade sliced through his sleeve and into his forearm before he even realized he’d been cut. He cursed softly when the pain actually set in, but had no time to react to it. He was too busy with her as she came in for another deadly swing, aimed right at his heart.

He caught her wrist in his hand and held on as she struggled.

“Stop this, woman!” he growled in her ear. “Drop the blade.”

He repeated the order more sharply when she shook her head, lunging at him again. He wrenched it finally from her grasp and she collapsed in a quivering heap to sob at his feet. He stared at her in shocked silence, unable to comprehend what had happened, but unable to deny it. The blood running freely down his arm was proof enough.

What the hell had happened to the girl to give her such a honed instinct for self-preservation? He’d seen seasoned warriors who had slower reaction from a drunken sleep. Each pitiful sob she uttered tore through his soul like her dagger had his arm. On the other hand, she was entirely too reckless with her life, frequenting the lowliest holes in Britain. She was a mystery, a paradox that he dared not solve. He would return her to Scotland and see that she stayed there. Beyond that, he would be quit of her and the entire tragedy that was his past.

He knelt down and lifted her into his arms, wincing as the movement pulled at his wound. She flinched away from him though she didn’t fight. It was as if her fate was inevitable and she no longer had the strength to fight it.

“I want to go home,” she whispered, and he shuddered, his body focusing on the soft curves he could feel in his hands and against his chest. He clamped down on his desire. Neither one of them needed such things.

“I’m taking you home, lass. Worry not.”

She sighed, her eyes closing as she slipped her arms around his neck.

“I’ve missed you, Shayne,” she said softly before her body went limp in his arms.

Shay closed his eyes for a brief moment before turning for the door. Hearing his former name on her lips brought too many memories to the fore. He ground his teeth, shoving them back to the furthest darkest corner of his mind. The sooner he got her home, the better off it would be.

For both of them.

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