Page 2 of Sweet Hellion

“Nae, thank you.”

“Then, how might I be of service?” his tone took on an oily edge as his gaze flicked to her breasts.

He’d had time to notice her shabby hat and faded gown, even if he hadn’t noted her hands, roughened from her employment as a seamstress and washerwoman for the Royal Northern Infirmary. He knew she wasn’t a lady. Still, being poor didn’t give him license to ogle her.

Emma met his gaze squarely. “I have come for news of my brother, my lord. I am told he served under your command at Almeida. He joined the Green Jackets.”

Lord Munro’s eyes yanked to hers in wary surprise. “What did you say…Bamfield?”

Emma’s heart jumped. The caution in the man’s eye announced he knew something. “Tory. Tory Bamfield.” She suddenly found it hard to breath. “Tory from Inverness. Do you know him?”

Please God, say that you do.

The man’s gaze sharpened.

Emma swallowed.

Lord Munro cleared his throat. “Ah, Tory Bamfield. Aye, I recall the man. Blue eyes and a redhead, just like yourself, was he not?” His gaze dropped again to her breasts and his voice slid into a purr, “Though I daresay, you’re a damn sight prettier.”

Under any other circumstances, she would have slapped the man’s pretentious face and sailed out the door. Now, she couldn’t. In her months of searching for Tory, Lord Munro was the first who seemed to know him.

“Have you news of him, my lord?” Emma cursed the quiver in her voice. “The ministry will only tell me that he’s missing, and I—”

“He is dead, Miss Bamfield,” Lord Munro interrupted. “Betrayed by Captain Rhys Macleod. The bastard deserted his men in battle. His cowardice got the whole lot murdered.”

Dead? Emma jumped to her feet and swayed.

Lord Munro stood and reached for her. “Stay—”

She shoved his hand and raced out of the room, out of the man’s townhouse and into the street.

Dead. She turned in a hopeless circle. Her brother, her twin, the better part of them both. Dead. Like her father. Tears blinded her. She picked up her skirts and stumbled away, not caring where she went. Tory couldn’t be gone. She would have known. They were twins, and so very, very close.

Wind whipped her skirts. What would she do with the shop? She’d preserved Tory’s inheritance in anticipation of his return. Could she even consider selling the business now—all the tools that Tory had touched—a place that once rang with their laughter and sheltered their tears? Logic dictated that she’d be better off selling everything and renting a room at Mrs. Babcock’s boarding house. But logic held no sway in the rendering of her heart, in the denial of a stranger’s claims.

God. Tory. Are you truly gone?

Why hadn’t she known? Would she never hear him call her ‘wee stinkpot’ ever again?

Only when she stood on the step did she realize she’d returned home. She stared at the large painted sign above the door until she finally saw the words. J. R. Bamfield and Son, Wheelwright.

Grief tightened her throat. Her father had proudly painted the words ‘and Son’ the day before Tory had joined the Green Jackets. Tory had promised to return and make him proud. Tears slid down Emma’s cheeks. From that accursed day on, their lives had gone utterly wrong. Nearly a year later, their father died of a seizure. She’d written Tory, but he hadn’t replied. The last letter she’d received from him had been three months before.

She stumbled into the shop and closed the door. Silence met her. The hearth fire had burned to ash. In times past, her father and brother had whistled and laughed over their work. She’d faithfully oiled and polished their tools and kept them hung on hooks about the shop’s white, lime-washed walls. Axes, saws, hammers, and mallets. The wire wheel loops her father had last commissioned hung over the door, whatever wheels they’d been destined for had, no doubt, been long since forgotten.

There truly was no reason to pay rent here now. Yet, how could she leave? The shop was her only connection to the past, to her family…to belonging, to love. Tears burned. Now, she truly was alone, and after her foolish affair with Vicar Ramsay, she’d ruined herself for any other man. Did it matter she’d thought she’d found love, someone to comfort her in her loneliness? When Joseph had proposed, she’d shared his bed that very night. After all, had he not promised that God would count their engagement as a vow?

Emma wiped her eyes and gave a bitter snort. The very fact he had insisted they keep their engagement secret screamed of something unsavory. She shouldn’t have been shocked when his wife and children arrived at the door of the vicarage two months later. Still, that shock was nothing compared to the devastation of being introduced as the maid when she’d escorted them to his study, confused by the woman’s claim.

“You are such a fool.” Emma banged her forehead lightly against the shop’s green painted door.

She’d lost everything. Her father. Her virtue. Now, even the dream of her brother’s return had been snatched away because of a cowardly commanding captain. What name had Lord Munro called him? Rhys Macleod. Because of Rhys Macleod, she would never again hear her brother whistle over his work.

“What now, Emma?” she asked. “What now?”

She crossed the shop to the back window. The grindstone stood abandoned in the center of the small yard. Weeds surrounded the well and stable. She’d sold the horse months ago. With her wages, she couldn’t afford such a luxury. She eyed the woodshed, still holding its valuable storage, a half-finished hand cart and stacks of oak and elm for spokes and hubs, each arranged by year. It was good wood. She’d faithfully kept it for Tory’s return. But now?

She slammed her fist atop the worktable. Something bounced off and clattered to the floor. A revolver. Tory’s revolver. The revolver he’d spent hours teaching her to use. Slowly, she bent and scooped up the weapon. Perhaps there was something to live for, after all.

Perhaps she should take justice into her own hands.