Jessie gave him a doubtful look. If Ben only knew what misery the man could invoke with only a glance... if only he knew... but he couldn’t possibly.
He smiled down at her, giving her a playful chuck beneath the chin. And then, as though he scarcely could help himself, his fingers slid up and he stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Sweet, sweet, Jess... how they’ve hurt you—Christ, if only you weren’t my cousin,” he said, and smiled down at her then. He said lightly, “I believe I would marry you myself and tuck you safely away from all the world.” His expression sobered suddenly, his gaze shuttering. “If you weren’t my cousin,” he added.
Something in his expression made Jessie uneasy suddenly. She peeled herself away from him. “And yet you are,” she reminded him firmly. She didn’t wish to hurt Ben’s feelings, but it seemed of late he made more and more such declarations.Didn’t he realize? Cousin or no, she could never love another man as long as she lived!
“Come,” she told him, taking his hand and leading him away. “Your mother will worry.”
The noise was unbearable.
And the stench.
For the fifth time in as many moments, St. John glanced over his shoulder at the door, readjusting his tricorne. He’d forgone his powdered peruke for this meeting in hopes of blending more easily with the rabble of Dillon’s tavern, but he felt exposed without it. His tricorne was much too large for his unclad head, as it had been made to fit a gentleman’s peruke, an item of dress he was rarely without. He only hoped he wasn’t too conspicuous... that this meeting would mete itself well.
A barmaid came to him and he shook his head, sending her away without a word. It seemed to him that everyone was staring in his direction, and he fidgeted uneasily under the scrutiny, ignoring them as best he could. Thankful for the dim light of the tavern, he seized up his full tankard, lifting it up to his lips, sipping hastily before stopping to glance once more over his shoulder at the door.
Filthy, the place was filthy!
He loathed the thought of drinking after all these stinking mouths—wouldn’t be surprised to find they didn’t even wash their cups. He eyed the tankard with unveiled disgust.
Again he glanced over his shoulder.
A dark-haired man entered and peered his way, nodding politely before turning away, but it was not the man he awaited, and he cursed softly as a nervous spasm shot through the cordsof his neck. Wincing, he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain and set his tankard down, resisting the urge to slam it, for fear of drawing unwanted attention.
Where the devil was McCarney?
Haukinge—damn his hide to hell—he and Hawk were one in the same, and St. John intended to prove it, once and for all. By God! The blackguard had managed to make him look the fool one too many times, and he intended to make him pay, at long last. He gritted his teeth in frustration.
The problem was that Haukinge was much too cunning... his men too loyal—or terrified one.
Still, it was merely a matter of time before he exposed himself. Merely a matter of time... and St. John intended to be there when he did.
Damn it, where was McCarney?
“Ye look like a damned fool!” commented a voice at his back.
St. John leapt from his seat in startle. He swung about, dislodging his tricorne in the process. One hand flew out to catch it.
“About time! I’ve been waiting for over an hour! What have you brought for me, McCarney?” he demanded. “I expect you’ve summoned me for a better reason than to simply admire my dress!”
McCarney adjusted his own tricorne under St. John’s watchful eye, then lifted St. John’s tankard from the table, quaffing the last of his ale without bothering to ask.
“God’s teeth, man! What have you brought? I cannot stand this accursed place!” He glanced about. “Come outside before I suffocate in this filthy pigeonhole!”
With a brief glance about and a shrug, McCarney followed St. John from the tavern. Once outside, St. John made his way to where a groom held his mount, pausing a good fifteen feet away. There, he turned to McCarney expectantly.
“Ye want Hawk?”
Removing his tricorne, St. John crushed it to his chest, thumping an anxious finger against the brim of it. His lips slowly curved into a triumphant grin. “You know I do.”
McCarney paused long enough to create a moment of anticipation, and then revealed, “He’s raidin’ the warehouse at Adger’s wharf tonight... ten, or thereaboots. Seems ’is men mistakenly unloaded somethin’ of consequence late this morn... somethin’ that must be removed by first light... Do ye take my meaning?”
“I do,” St. John said. “How did you discover this?”
McCarney’s eyes gleamed by the light of the moon. “Stone. He’s roundin’ up men for the job even as we speak.”
St. John eyed the man suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this, McCarney? I know you’re in league with them.”
McCarney sneered. “You ain’t the only one with a grudge against the man. Anyhoo,” he added, “I’ve heard ye’re offerin’ coin—might as well do fer money what I’d like tae do fer free.”
