My Favorite Thief (18 page)

His booted foot stopped by her backside.

“Give over,” he commanded thickly. “Now.”

She leapt up and scooted away from him, trying to put herself just beyond striking range.

“Here,” she said, pulling a thin chain from her sleeve. “And here,” she added, extracting a small, worn snuffbox from the pocket of her gown.

He grabbed the two items and turned them over in his grimy hands, his face twisted in drunken confusion as he tried to make out their value in the weak light. Finally, he bit the chain. He grunted in disgust and shoved it into his coat pocket, then turned his attention to the snuffbox. Charlotte knew it was of no great value, for it was only of silver plate and it lacked any stones or other ornamentation that might have increased its worth. But it was pretty enough and in good condition, which meant that her father would be able to sell it for something. She hoped that would be enough to satisfy him.

“Is that all?” he demanded, his eyes dark and heavily glazed.

She nodded.

“Christ, ye're useless,” he spat. “All day ye've nae to do but nip a few things so we can eat, an' this is the best ye've got?”

She looked down at her feet, ashamed.

He slapped her hard across the face, causing her to stagger back.

“Ye're just like yer bloody ma,” he growled furiously, “good for nothin'. Only way she could earn her share was by quiffin', an' that's the way it'll be for ye, too. But ye're too skinny an' ugly for any man to want a snatch. I should just throw ye out, do ye hear?”

Charlotte bit the inside of her mouth, fighting back the tears threatening to pour from her eyes. If he saw her crying, it would only be worse. Her father hated it when she cried.

“Ye're goin' to fatten up a bit, an' then I'm settin' ye to work,” he decided. “Christ knows, ye ain't much to look at, but there's swells out there that likes 'em young an' tight. They'll nae mind how ye look, as long as ye spread easy an' give em' a fair ride.”

Blood leaked onto her tongue. She swallowed it, trying to
fight the wave of nausea coursing through her. Say nothing, she told herself, fighting the impulse to protest. To say anything would only earn her a beating. Better to say nothing, and pray that he would forget about his ghastly idea when he awoke the next day.

“Tomorrow, we'll nick ye some new togs,” her father informed her, lurching unsteadily toward his bed. “An' clean ye up a bit. Swells likes their snatch clean. Then I can charge more for ye. Not too much at first, mind. That'll scare 'em off. I'll let ye learn yer trade, first.” He collapsed onto his bed. “Ye'll be a prime piece, once I'm through with ye,” he added, mumbling into his pillow. “I promise ye that.”

She stood rooted to the floor, afraid to stir for fear that even the slightest movement might rouse him. After a few minutes his snores filled the miserable little room. Once they had become deep and rattling, she permitted herself to move.

She went to the battered old table in the corner and splashed a little water from the chipped jug onto a dirty cloth. Then she held the cloth against her stinging cheek, trying to ease the pain in her jaw. She had gotten off easy that night. Normally he was not satisfied until she was either cowering in a corner, or he had drawn blood. The fact that he had not beaten her more caused a knot of fear to tighten in her gut.

Prime pieces did not attract men when they were covered in cuts and bruises, she realized bleakly.

Even when they were only nine years old.

 

H
ER SKIN WAS BEADED WITH SWEAT AND HER MUSCLES
had contracted, as if preparing to fight. She moaned and turned onto her side.
No,
she thought, fighting the hideous memories invading her sleep.
No, no, no.
Pain was crawling up her injured leg, warning her that another spasm was about to strike. She whimpered and pressed her face deeper into her pillow, attempting to summon the strength she needed to endure it.

A rough hand clapped hard against her mouth.

“Hello, Lottie,” her father drawled, his breath sour and reeking of gin.

She lay frozen beneath him, overwhelmed with terror.

“If ye make a cheep, I'll kill ye,” he informed her matter-of-factly. “If someone comes runnin' in to save ye, I'll kill 'em, too. Understand?”

She nodded mutely.

He glared at her a moment, his calloused hand crushing her mouth. He could have killed her then and there, she realized. He could have wrapped his hands about her neck and squeezed the life from her, or pressed a pillow against her face, or cut her throat with the wickedly sharp dirk he always carried in his boot. But if he did that, he wouldn't get his money. She held fast to this, trying to dredge some fragment of strength from it. She had something he wanted. That gave her a modicum of power, fragile and fleeting though it might be. She stared up at him, trying to hide her fear behind a frozen façade of near calm.

Abruptly, he jerked his hand away.

She swallowed thickly.
Think,
she ordered herself, trying to bring the storm of fear raging through her under some semblance of control. She took a slow, shallow breath, trying to steady herself.

“This is a fine house ye've got for yerself,” he said mockingly, gazing about the simple, shadowed bedchamber. “I'd expect ye to be livin' much grander. I've seen his lordship's house here in London. Makes this place look like a shack.” He eyed her contemptuously through the darkness. “Does he nae think much of ye, then?”

“I picked out the house.” Charlotte's voice was small.

“Then ye're even more maggot-headed than I thought,” he snapped. “The ward of a bloody marquess doesna live in a cesspit with priggers an' whores. He canna care much for ye, this Redmond, or he'd nae let ye do it. The other wee dips he took on live better 'an this.”

Charlotte's heart sank. So he had seen her brothers' and sisters' homes. Of course he would have. Boney Buchan might have been a thief and a drunk and a brute, but that didn't mean he didn't take his work seriously. Especially when five thousand pounds was at stake.

“Still, he's kept ye on all these years, even though ye're well past bein' of age. I dinna suppose even with all that brass he could get one of his nob friends to marry ye. Swells like their women whole and clean, with a bit of backbone to 'em—not a squashed piece of crippled baggage like ye.”

She bit the inside of her mouth.
Say nothing,
she told herself desperately.
Don't fight. And don't cry. Just let him feel like he has all the power. That's what he wants.

“He'll have to keep on payin' for ye then, till the day he kicks the bucket,” Archie mused, rifling through the boxes and jars on her dresser. He pawed through the contents of her jewelry box, stuffed most of the items into his pockets, then snorted in disgust. “Ain't ye got nothin' worth more than a few bob?”

“No.”

“Why not? Does he nae buy ye nothin' fancy?”

She shook her head.

“I dinna suppose I'd waste the money on ye, either,” he muttered, sighing. “All right then, give over.” He held out his hand expectantly.

Charlotte reached under her pillow and withdrew the envelope that Harrison had given to her.

“Here.” She limped over to him, praying he wouldn't bother to count it.

He snatched the envelope from her hand and went to the window. For a moment she thought he was going to simply climb out and disappear into the night, leaving her be. Instead he extracted the wad of notes and began to slowly count them in the moonlight, his lips moving as he squinted and frowned at the numbers printed onto the crisp new bills. When he came to the last of them, he scowled.

“Where's the rest of it?”

“That's all I could get. There is no more.”

He raised an unconvinced brow. “I told ye I wanted five thousand pounds.” He spoke slowly, the way one talked to a recalcitrant child. “An' five thousand is what ye're goin' to give me, Lottie.”

“I can't.” Her voice was small. She started to back away from him. “I tried everywhere, and that was all I could get. I told you I couldn't go to Lord Redmond. He'd want to know what the money was for, and if he thought for a minute that I was in any sort of trouble, he'd have the police watching over me—and we don't want that.” She tried to make it sound as if they were co-conspirators. As if she was on his side.

He stroked the grizzled gray on his chin, thinking. “Ye're right,” he agreed finally. “We dinna want that—do we, Lottie?” His voice was heavy with menace. “ 'Cause the second I see a bobby sniffin' about for me, I'll be right cagged, and ye know how I get when I'm mad.” He inched closer to her. “Ye remember what they call me, don't ye, Lottie?”

She nodded.

“Say it,” he commanded harshly.

“Boney,” she managed, her mouth trembling. “Boney Buchan.”

He smiled, either pleased because she had remembered, or because he liked the way it sounded coming from her. “An' why do they call yer old da that?”

She swallowed.

“Why, Lottie?”

“Because you break bones.”

“That's right, I do. Lots of bones, Lottie. More than I can remember. But you remember, don't ye?”

She nodded, feeling as if she was going to be sick.

“So ye're goin' to get me the rest of my money, and ye're goin' to get it for me quick. An' if ye tell me ye canna, or willna, I'm goin' to be right cagged, which just might mean that I'll have to break some bones. An' do ye know whose bones I'll break first?”

She nodded furiously. Tears were stabbing at her eyes now.
I mustn't cry,
she told herself, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek.
I mustn't
.

“I dinna think ye do.” His mouth split into a hard smile. “ 'Cause ye're probably thinkin' it'll be yer bones I'll be crackin', when in fact I've somethin' better in store. Can ye guess what it is?”

Her eyes widened. Oh, God, he was going to go after someone in her family. He understood that was worse than anything he could possibly do to her. She knew he could do it. She would have to warn them, she realized. She'd have to tell all of them that they mustn't go out, or if they did, that they needed to have protection, and then they would want to go to the police—

“I'm goin' to break wee Flynn's bones,” he informed her succinctly. “One bloody bone at a time.”

She stared at him, stunned.
No,
she thought, feeling on the brink of hysteria.
No, no, no.

“Have ye nae noticed that he ain't about, Lottie?” He regarded her with something akin to amusement. “He's a clever wee tooler, that's for sure. Caught him just this mornin' fleecin' a shop. Near got away with it, too. But then a mob started after him, an' I had to lend him a hand. He was soddin' mad when he realized I was keepin' him till our business was finished. Refused to believe I was yer da. I had to crack his napper for that one.” His expression darkened as he finished, “He kept his gob shut after that.”

Charlotte stayed frozen, trying desperately to absorb what her father was telling her.

And then she shrieked in helpless rage and flew at him, striking him as hard as she could in his face.

Archie was too astonished at first to fend off the blow, which sent a surge of ringing pain through his cheek and ear. He recovered quickly enough to grab his daughter by her arms and crack her own cheek with the back of his hand before heaving her to the floor.

“Try that again, ye fuckin' bitch,” he swore fiercely, “an' I'll kill ye.”

“No, you won't,” Charlotte bit back, her entire being roiling with a powerful mixture of hate and fear. “Not if you want your money.”

His eyes widened with surprise. “Well, well,” he said, “looks to me like my Lottie has grown a bit o' backbone.”

“Charlotte?” Oliver's sleepy voice was laced with concern as he called through her chamber door. “Are ye all right, lass?”

“If he steps through that door, I'll kill him,” Archie promised softly.

“I'm fine, Oliver,” Charlotte managed, trying to make her voice sound bright. “I just stumbled in the dark, that's all.”

“Can I come in?” Oliver persisted, unconvinced.

Archie whipped his dirk out from his boot.

“No!” cried Charlotte. Thinking quickly, she hastily added, “I'm not dressed, Oliver. I'll just be a moment.” She pulled herself up off the floor and faced her father. “You have to go.”

“Ye've one week to get me the rest of my money,” he bit out angrily. “After that I'll start sendin' yer precious Flynn back to ye, one piece at a time, startin' with his ears. Got it?”

She nodded frantically, terrified that at any second Oliver would open the door. If he did, she had no doubt that her father would kill him.

“Good.” He stuffed the envelope of money in his pocket, sheathed his dirk in his boot, then went to the window. “One week, Lottie,” he repeated, wanting to be sure she understood. “No more.”

With that he hoisted himself over the windowsill and was swallowed whole into the night.

Chapter Nine

S
OMEONE WAS TRYING TO KILL HIM.

It took a moment for this realization to pierce the heavy mantle of sleep that had left him lying helpless on his bed. But once his senses returned, he did not hesitate.

He exploded upward and began to wring the murdering bastard's scrawny neck.

“Please, your lordship,” squeaked Telford, his eyes round with shock, “you're choking me!”

Harrison stared at his butler blankly. Telford was trying to kill him? That was ridiculous. He looked to see if his long-suffering butler brandished a weapon, seeking some evidence that he actually meant to harm him.

There was nothing.

“Jesus Christ, Telford,” he swore, abruptly releasing him, “what in the name of God is going on?”

“Forgive me, your lordship,” Telford croaked. He climbed off the bed and made a halfhearted attempt to regain his dignity by straightening his night robe. “I didn't mean to startle you. I was only trying to waken you. I knocked and knocked before coming into your chamber. When you didn't answer me, I grew concerned and tried shaking you.”

Harrison raked his hand through his hair, trying to leash the adrenaline pounding through his veins. He could have killed Telford. Another moment or two, and he would have either strangled him or snapped his neck. He stumbled over to the table in the corner of his bedchamber and splashed some brandy into a glass. It was reckless to mix alcohol with the laudanum he had taken earlier, but at that moment, he didn't care. He took a hefty swallow, then another. It had been an accident, nothing more. Anyone might have reacted the same way, waking to find some man hovering over him in the middle of the night. And after all, the moment he had realized it was Telford, he had stopped throttling him. That proved he had a complete understanding of what was actually happening around him. Therefore it wasn't paranoia. He downed the rest of his drink, clinging to that feeble piece of logic. He was not turning into his father.

Not yet.

“What time is it, Telford?” His vision was still a bit blurry from his headache, making it difficult to see the numbers on the mantel clock.

“Twenty minutes past three o'clock, sir,” Telford replied. “In the morning.”

Well, at least that explained his butler's nightgown. Harrison glanced down at himself and saw that he was naked. “And why are you waking me?” he demanded, snatching up his dressing gown from the chair on which he had tossed it. A terrible thought suddenly occurred to him. “Has something happened to my mother?”

“Her ladyship is fine, sir,” Telford hurriedly assured him. “She is sleeping. I'm here because Miss Kent is downstairs in the drawing room and she would like to see you.”

Harrison frowned. “At this hour?”

“Yes, my lord. I explained to her that you were sleeping and were not in the habit of entertaining guests at this hour, but she assured me that you would receive her.” He hesitated slightly before delicately adding, “She seems rather distraught, my lord.”

Harrison didn't need to hear any more. He cinched the belt of his robe and raced past Telford, his chest tight with dread.

He found Charlotte standing in the center of the drawing room. Her face was ashen and her auburn hair was falling in tangled disarray about her shoulders. Her simple gray gown was heavily creased, making it almost look as if she had been sleeping in it. But what caught his attention most were her eyes. Their green-and-gold depths were wide and filled with terror. For a moment he could only stand and stare at her, feeling sick and helpless. He knew that stricken look.

He had seen it in his mother's eyes, many years earlier, on the night his father in a fog of madness had tried to kill her.

He fought the sensations reeling through him, trying to distinguish between the past and the present. Then Charlotte turned slightly, and he saw the ugly plum-colored stain upon her cheek.

Rage surged through him, of such intensity he could not speak.

“I'm sorry,” Charlotte began, mistaking the fury in his face for anger toward her. “I know I shouldn't be here at this hour—I've no right to be. But I didn't know where else to go.” Her voice was strained. “I thought…”

She paused, not certain how she could explain it to him. He was still staring at her, his hands fisted at his sides. She had made a mistake, she realized desperately. She had thought she could turn to him. For some reason she couldn't explain, she had believed that Harrison would want to help her. But she had been wrong. She could see that now.

“Forgive me.” She started to limp toward the door.

Harrison moved in front of her. He reached out and gently grasped her chin, tilting her face up so he could better see the bruise seeping across it.

“Tell me who did this,” he said, his voice low and soft.

His expression was hard, but his touch was achingly gentle. She stared up at him, uncertain, confused, and yet something in the powerful anger emanating from Harrison made her also feel stronger. It was as if he was enveloping her within the protective shield of his outrage, even though he was only touching the tip of her chin. And in that moment, she needed some of his strength. She needed to feel it coursing through her, giving her the courage to face the hideous situation in which she, and Flynn, and every one of those whom she loved, had suddenly been thrust.

“I need your help.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

He said nothing, but escorted her over to a sofa and seated her. When he turned away to pour her a drink, Charlotte gripped the armrest, feeling a need to hold fast to something. She stared blankly at the faded blue-and-marigold-striped fabric, which was worn and threatening to split open near the seam.

“Here,” said Harrison, handing her a glass of wine. He adjusted his dressing gown, a flimsy affair of sapphire silk that barely concealed his otherwise naked legs and chest, and seated himself as far away from her as the length of the sofa would permit. He realized it was entirely inappropriate for him to be sitting alone in his drawing room in a state of undress with a young, unmarried woman, but unfortunately, he saw little way around it. She was far too distressed to be kept waiting while he went upstairs to dress, and whatever Charlotte was about to tell him, she would never reveal in the presence of another. Besides, he reflected, nothing about their relationship thus far had fallen within the confines of what might be considered even remotely socially acceptable.

“I want you to tell me everything, Charlotte, starting with who struck you.”

She set down her glass and looked away.

Unwilling to let her withdraw from him when she had demonstrated such inconceivable faith by seeking him out in the first place, he moved closer and took one of her hands in his. The hell with propriety, he thought to himself. “Tell me,” he urged, his voice gentle. “Let me help you.”

She stared down at his enormous hand holding hers. How comforting it was, to have such a warm, strong hand hold fast to her. No man ever held her hand this way. Oliver sometimes patted her hand, his gnarled, aged fingers softly tapping her knuckles as he told her not to fret over something or other. And Jack, Jamie, and Simon always gave her a reassuringly brotherly squeeze when they offered her their arms, to help her in or out of a carriage or to stroll some short distance with her. Their touch was always sweetly caring and protective, a touch that told her not to mind the fact that she was limping in front of the rest of the world. But their touch was nothing like the feel of Harrison's hand upon hers. His palm was like fire against her skin, a searing heat that was spreading through her flesh and making her feel warm and liquid and strange. It struck her as rather pathetic, that an inexperienced crippled spinster like her could be so moved by the mere touch of a man's hand. But she didn't shift away. Instead she tightened her fingers around his, wanting to feel more of his masculine power.

“He has Flynn,” she began haltingly.

“Who?”

She bit her lip. What would Harrison think of her, she wondered despondently, when she told him? When she confessed that the man who had spawned her, and then spent ten interminable years terrorizing her and torturing her, forcing her to do all kinds of excruciatingly shameful things, had come back to her? Harrison undoubtedly knew of her past, despite his previous assertion that he didn't listen to gossip. But no one other than Genevieve knew anything more than the broadest strokes of that past. Even Genevieve wasn't aware of all the sordid details. When Charlotte had first gone to live with her, she had not wanted to tell Genevieve everything, out of fear that her new mother might be so repulsed that she would make Charlotte leave. Gradually, over the years, Charlotte had revealed her past in fragments, but Genevieve had never pushed her to tell her more than she was comfortable with sharing. Genevieve had instinctively understood that everyone manages painful experiences in different ways, and that for some children, the very act of calling up dark memories could be destructive rather than healing. For the most part, Charlotte had chosen not to discuss her father. Instead she had worked hard to vanquish his memory.

It was enough that her crippled leg served as a constant, lifelong reminder.

“Who has taken Flynn, Charlotte?” Harrison repeated gently.

“If I tell you, you must promise me that you won't tell anyone else.” She held fast to him, her gaze pleading.

“If you want us to get Flynn back, it may not be wise for me to make that promise. We may need some assistance.”

She vehemently shook her head. “No one can know about this, Harrison. I am already taking a great risk by confiding in you. If he finds out that I have told anyone—”

“If who finds out?”

She didn't answer.

“Fine,” he relented, realizing he would never find out anything if he didn't agree to Charlotte's terms. “I swear I won't tell anyone. Now, what has happened to Flynn?”

She swallowed thickly. “My father has taken him.”

Harrison frowned, bewildered. “Lord Redmond?”

“No, not Lord Redmond.” She stared down at the intricately woven Persian carpet, unable to meet his gaze. “My
real
father.”

He was unable to contain his surprise. “I thought he was dead.”

She nodded. “I think I did, too. Or maybe I've just tried to push that part of my childhood so far away, I just made him cease to exist—at least for me. I never wished him dead,” she assured him, although at that moment she was not entirely sure that statement was true, “or hoped that anything bad happened to him. I just didn't want him to be part of my life anymore.” She studied the wilted hem of her gown, feeling ashamed. “I realize that makes me a horrible daughter.”

“It makes you nothing of the sort,” Harrison contradicted firmly. “From what little I know of your background, Charlotte, your father was a common thief who was extremely abusive toward you. I don't think anyone would want someone like that kept at the forefront of either their lives or their minds—especially a little girl who could not possibly defend herself from him.”

She kept her gaze downcast. “I think most people who know me today assume that I was an orphan when Lady Redmond rescued me from jail in Inveraray. My real mother died when I was very young. I don't remember her. But until Genevieve found me when I was ten, I lived with my father. He was arrested for stealing at the same time I was, and he was sentenced to several years of hard labor. He didn't serve them in Inveraray, though. Genevieve was told that he was sent to a jail in Perth, and that was the last we ever heard about him. I never tried to find out more.” She ran her fingers along the worn fabric of the armrest, feeling guilty as she hesitantly admitted, “I didn't really want to know.”

“Didn't you think he might come looking for you one day, after he got out?”

“For a long time I was haunted by that possibility. I used to be afraid that he would escape from prison and come after me. But then Genevieve married Haydon, and my brothers and sisters and I were made their legal wards. Our names were changed, and the whole family moved north to Haydon's estate near Inverness. Haydon and Genevieve were wonderful parents, and they were extremely protective of all of us. After a few years, I started to feel safe. The life I had led before seemed so distant and ugly. I suppose I tried very hard not to think about my real father.”

“But he didn't stop thinking about you.”

“In prison, you have a lot of time to reflect upon things,” she remarked softly, her gaze still fastened upon the floor. “Especially at night.”

The thought of Charlotte being thrown into some dank prison cell when she was only a child struck Harrison as appalling. He could scarcely imagine how terrified she must have been, and how overwhelmed she must have felt when Lady Redmond rescued her and took her into her home to live. One might expect that Charlotte would have been so scarred by the experiences of her childhood that she would avoid anything that might remind her of that part of her life. Instead she had devoted herself to helping others who were trapped in the same desperate world she had once known.