“That gives me someaught to look into. Anything else? Where he grew up? Brothers or sisters? Parents?”
“I didn’t want to sound like I was digging for information, but he did mention dreary Cornwall winters and a never-sober uncle John. Nothing about immediate family.”
“That sounds like a bit of truth, or it could be someaught he made up a long time ago because his family embarrasses him,” Aden mused. “Or he embarrasses them.”
That elicited a dark smile from Miranda. “I hope it’s the former, and they’re so horrid they would ruin his chances of joining the aristocracy,” she put in. “Perhaps they’re drunken smugglers who spied for Bonaparte.”
“That would be grand, but I dunnae think it’ll be that simple. Even if he becomes a laughingstock, he still has yer brother’s notes.”
“I could well end up married to him even if he’s actually a smuggler or a farmer and pretending to be related to an aristocrat, you mean. So I could be a smuggler’s wife, or a milkmaid.”
“The prettiest one in Cornwall, but aye.”
She glanced up at him, her dark eyes catching his and color returning to her cheeks before she looked away again. Miranda cleared her throat. “He’s thirty-two years old, or so he said,” she went on, “and he claims to have spent the last ten years in India. Or off the coast of India, I suppose. According to him, he frequently captured smuggling vessels, taking a percentage of the goods as a bounty and working closely with the East India Company.”
Aden frowned. “I cannae sail to India to verify anyof that.” The fact that the idea had occurred to him at all demonstrated just how soundly he’d come down on her side in this mess. And he generally didn’t get involved in messes at all. Coll called him slippery, and he preferred that to Niall’s depiction of him as calculating. He liked stealthy, or wily, even more, but the epithet didn’t really matter. He was the MacTaggert brother that fathers weren’t chasing about with swords and pistols—not because he hadn’t dallied, but because he made an effort not to be caught at it.
In this instance, though, it might well be his wily—or calculating—nature that best served Miranda. His Miranda, hopefully, after he rescued her from the ogre. “I dunnae suppose ye’re acquainted with anyone from the East India Company who happens to be based in London.”
“I think my father might be. Or perhaps Matthew.”
“Nae. I’ll ask elsewhere, for now at least.”
“You don’t trust Matthew not to go running to Captain Vale, do you?”
“Nae, I dunnae.” Aden narrowed his eyes. “Yer brother’s a menace, lass. And while I’ll keep yer secret, I’ll tell ye to yer face that if he’s willing to toss his own sister to this vulture, I’m nae certain how safemysister would be in his company.”
“Which is why we are going to resolve this, after which I will convince Matthew that if he so much as looks at another deck of cards or pair of dice I will break all his fingers. And youwillcontinue to assist me in resolving this, yes? If it can be resolved. We have an agreement.”
A tremor ran through her fingers where they rested on his sleeve. Aye, she kept logic and a certain sarcastic view of her fellows wrapped about her like a blanket, but she knew precisely how deep a hole she’d landed in. And he was beginning to realize himself that Captain Robert Vale was no novice. “I keep my word, lass,” hesaid evenly. “I do mean to have a word with yer brother, though, when I reckon it’s safe.” And most useful. He took a breath, mentally shaking himself. “I asked around a bit this afternoon, but my kind, as ye say, tend to come outside after dark. What—”
Behind them the maid touched her mistress’s shoulder. “It’s getting late, Miss Miranda.”
Dusk had settled into the nooks and crannies of the houses around them, the sky a chalky blue-brown edging into black at the east. When had that happened? “I’ll walk ye back. Or close by, anyway,” he said, reversing course and escorting her past the maid and a bored-looking Loki.
As they passed back behind the overgrown length of hedge, she put her free hand on his shoulder, went up on her toes, and kissed him on the mouth. “Thank you for this, Aden,” she said, resuming her place at his side and abruptly hurrying her steps before he could wrap his arms around her.
He accelerated a bit to keep up with her. Even more this time, the warmth of her mouth, of her breath against his cheek, lingered on his skin.She’dkissedhim. That meant something. “Ye’re welcome, Miranda,” he returned. “But I’m nae running down the street because ye’re embarrassed that ye like me.”
She stopped in her tracks, nearly sending him stumbling into the street. “I’m not embarrassed. I’m… surprised. And somewhat alarmed. You aren’t nearly as dastardly as I imagined, but you still give me pause.”
That made him grin. “If ye keep flirting with me like that, I’m likely to swoon.”
Her color deepened, but she only wrapped her hand back around his arm and yanked on him. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.
Chapter Seven
Aden glanced down at his cue sheet to make another mark by the number four. Only one four remained in the deck now, amid a mix of twenty or so other cards. It made sense to bet against the four, but siding with the bank barely netted a lad enough to stay even. All the sevens remained in the deck, though, which explained why each of the other three men at the table had placed bets on a seven coming up the next winner.
With a sigh he moved his wager to the queen; not as sure a bet, but that made it more interesting. Then he sat back, watching as the dealer turned a seven, making it the loser card, then a deuce. Well, he hadn’t lost, anyway.
“Damnation,” the bony older man to his left grunted, cradling another pair of chips in his hand before placing them on the rectangle markedHIGH CARD.
“Do ye reckon that’s enough to keep ye entertained, Crowley, or would ye rather have me buy ye a beer?” Aden asked, leaving his chips where they were.
Generally, he excelled at faro. Generally, he didn’t require a cue sheet to remember which cards had been dealt and which remained with the dealer. But then tonighthe wasn’t playing because he enjoyed it. He was playing because a lass with big brown eyes and a dislike for his kind had asked him for a favor, and he’d decided he’d met his bride. Somehow that had sent him out hunting for a man who looked like a great vulture.
Crowley chuckled. “A beer’s the most profit I’ll see tonight. Buy me a beer, MacTaggert. Hell, if you buy me two of ’em I’ll be back in the black.”
