Every crag and line in his arresting features, each scar and honed muscle whispered of violence, a terrible grace that could deal death with a flick of his wrist.
He was a man who had challenged the fates countless times, against appalling odds, and emerged triumphant. A man who had decided with that same implacable will that he was taking her away from Angel's Fall.
She'd seen the hard light in those Stygian eyes when she'd evicted him from her house. He'd gazed at her with the menacing indulgence of a jungle cat letting its prey squirm free for just a heartbeat, just long enough for the shivering quarry to feel a surge of hope that they might escape, while the cat—the cat always knew escape was impossible. The prey was there for the taking whenever he tired of the game.
He had nailed Fletcher Raeburn in a barrel when the poor boy defied him. A tyrant, bending him to his will. But Slade would not batter her into submission. He might have more brute strength than she, but she had far more determination. She would outlast the barbarian, and then, word of honor or no word of honor, he'd tire eventually and go off, seeking adventure. And she would still be here, the doors to Angel's Fall wide open to any woman needing sanctuary.
She would outlast him, and pray that she could keep the ladies at Angel's Fall from taking up his cause in the meantime.
She unfastened her gown with so much energy that stitches popped, then, casting a cascade of petticoats and bodice onto the chair, she jerked on her prim nightgown and crossed to the window.
A thin cold veil of rain glistened beyond the jagged points of glass that still clung to the wooden windowframe, the dampness turning everything muddy and miserable. She felt a sinful surge of pleasure, knowing Adam Slade was out in it. She flopped down on her bed and pictured water drops running down beneath his collar as he stomped down London's streets, but her stomach heated at the knowledge that the path the drops took was traced by the corded muscles of his neck, the shaggy thickness of hair dark as midnight.
She imagined him swearing as rain trickled into his mouth, but that was more dangerous still as his tongue swept out to swipe away the cluster of drops on his lips.
There was something wickedly delightful in knowing he was furious. Anger, never acceptable in the vicarage at Northwillow, was oddly pleasurable in the dark of her own bedchamber. But not half so pleasurable, Juliet realized with a shiver, as Adam Slade's mouth, hot on her own.
Rain. It drenched Adam—cold and miserable as he stalked down the London Street, Fletcher all but running to keep up.
Blast that woman anyway! He'd fought off assassins and rival armies, battled enemies so dangerous they'd make an avenging angel tremble.
But never, in all his years as a warrior, had Adam contended with a foe who fought with a vindictive little prayer—one that was answered so swiftly he'd barely been a step from the door before the rain began to fall.
Hell, he supposed he should be grateful the spiteful little witch hadn't called the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse down on his head. He'd already come face to face with War. Doubtless, she'd have sicced Pestilence on him. Aye, that was what she might have prayed for. A cluster of lovely boils blossoming on his body. He grimaced. Considering what a man-hater she was, he knew exactly where she'd have instructed God to put them.
"Sabrehawk! Sabrehawk, wait!" Fletcher's strident voice grated across Adam's nerves, and Adam caught a glimpse of the youth, elbows and knees pumping, red-faced and breathless, with all the desperate determination of a little brother trying to keep up with a pack of older boys.
But a single glance at the Irish youth's eyes made Adam lengthen his stride in a vain effort to escape. Censure. Disapproval. Confusion clouded Fletcher's features.
Adam gritted his teeth. Damned if he'd be raked over the coals of guilt by an empty-headed stripling like Raeburn.
But before he could dodge around a copse of roving sailors, Fletcher launched himself, catching Adam's arm with surprising strength. "Confound it, you can't just leave Miss Grafton-Moore like this!"
Adam rounded on him, rain streaming down the rigid muscles of his face. "In case you didn't notice she threw me out of her house and slammed the door in my face. I've already had my nose broken three times, boy, and I like the angle it's bent at now. I have no intention of letting Miss Prim and Proper smash it flat."
"You gave her father your word of honor you'd protect her," the boy asserted stubbornly.
"Blast it, I chased all over England after that infernal wench. And I did pluck the vicar's daughter out of that mob when they looked ready to dangle her by her corset-strings from Tower Bridge. In case you didn't hear, she wasn't overwhelmed with gratitude. She swears she's not leaving that Angel's Hell of hers. I considered nailing her in a barrel the way I did you, but I'd have to let her out sometime. And the instant I pried up the first nail, she'd be charging back into this mess, parasol waving. So I might as well save myself a hell of a headache and just leave her be."
"She's in danger. Desperate danger. And she's helpless against it, despite her courage."
"Courage is another word for idiocy. My brother, Gavin, taught me never to stand in the way of someone anxious to get their head blown off for a righteous cause. They'll just keep sticking it out there until you get yours blown off, too. God forbid that I stand between Miss Grafton-Moore and her chosen martyrdom."
"You don't mean that." Fletcher went ashen in the light of a coach lamp passing by. Disillusionment haunted the youth's features. Adam should have rejoiced in it. He'd been waiting to see it for almost a year. God knew, he'd never wanted to be anyone's hero. Why was it that Fletcher's expression jabbed at him, making him squirm inwardly?
"Fletcher, she flung me out of her house and prayed for rain. What do you expect me to do? Stand guard all night out in her garden like a bloody fool?"
"I expect you to honor your promise to a dying man. Not turn your back on a helpless woman who needs your protection."
Protection, hell. After what had happened in Juliet Grafton-Moore's bedchamber, it was Adam the woman needed protection from!
Adam's memory flashed—his own reflection captured in wide blue eyes, sweet lips he'd wager no man had ever tasted parting in a shocked gasp just as his mouth closed over them. A jolt of raw heat searing through his shameless attempt at manipulation, leaving him stunned and needing and, yes, damn it, scared as hell.
He jerked away from Fletcher as shame darkened his cheekbones, half afraid that the boy would suspect something in Sabrehawk's protestations wasn't ringing true. Blast, if Fletcher had an inkling of the depths Adam had sunk to, the hotheaded fool would be challenging Adam to a duel!
"I don't care if you scowl until you blister me!" Fletcher insisted. "You pledged your sword to Miss Grafton-Moore."
"She won't be needing it this evening. Even that surly mob of hers wouldn't be roaming about on such a miserable night, I promise you. Now, you can stand here in the rain all night if you want. I'm going into a warm tavern, dry out by the fire, and drink myself blind."
"I'll go back to guard the lady myself," Fletcher insisted, jaw jutting at that pugnacious angle that had tempted half of Christendom to take a swing at it.
Adam resisted the urge to grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him inside the tavern. "Fine. Go sit in the rain like a half-wit. Just leave me in bloody peace!"
Adam turned his back on the youth and tramped the last few steps to a tumbledown tavern tucked beside a pawnshop that marked the edge of a seedier part of town. The dens Mother Cavendish's mob had sprung from.
It made him more than a little uncomfortable that he was stalking into the same tavern where some of those animals had doubtless drunk their pint of courage before they marched on a house full of women. But Fletcher had riled up his stubborn streak, and he'd be damned if he'd turn back now, like a green lad shamed into behaving himself.
He flung open the door, heard the sullen roar of those within. Instincts honed in years of battle had given him the ability to gauge the mood of any
room he entered. This tavern was a cave filled with spitefulness and anger, edged with just enough cruelty to make Adam's fingers check the hilt of the sabre strapped to his lean waist.
He'd been in worse places. More dangerous ones. He preferred them. One step into a hell-hole, and a man knew where he stood—a heartbeat away from an honest dagger in the back. Here, violence and ugliness would be cloaked behind benign smiles and drooping lashes, in a place where nothing might be what it seemed.
Adam made his way to a scarred table and sat down, his back to the wall, his eyes scanning the room. He could tell the instant the rest of the occupants noticed him. A choked-off sentence. A forced cough. Elbows poking ribs, stubbly chins jerking in his direction.
More than one of the patrons looked vaguely familiar. And after a moment, Adam could feel the press of two dozen furtive gazes. He glared back, a cold warning that he was aware of the attention and alert to any movement. Sabrehawk's warning. One he had perfected in countless years of trying to discourage the foolish from seeking death at the point of his sword.
His ebony gaze clashed with that of a portly man who had been among the mob at Angel's Fall, and the coward all but dove beneath a serving wench's skirts.
But there were plenty of other culprits that weren't so wary. The half-pay officer who'd led the attack nursed his wounds in the corner with a half-dozen cronies. Percival's eyes shimmered with hate, and Adam was dead certain that the man was imagining his pistol-ball splitting the flesh of Adam's chest.
Ah, well. If the fool attempted to strike, it would be the last mistake he ever made. Sabrehawk's enemies claimed that he could hear the whisper of a dagger being pulled from a boot top on the other side of the city. It was the greatest gift any soldier could have—that fierce instinct as much a part of him as his dark hair, his sinewy hand. Never, in the years since Adam first took up the sword, had it failed him.
With arrogance born of that certainty, Adam surveyed the rest of the establishment, a motley collection of men and women who hovered beneath the gloss of respectability. Black sheep from merchant families, sailors doing their best to live up to their vile reputations. People smart enough to know they were scorned by decent society and mean-tempered enough to make someone pay.
It would be easy enough to raise a mob out of such rabble. Easy enough to goad them into a frenzy, Adam realized with a chill, recalling the cozy house just down the street, its tidy garden and doors not half thick enough to ward off the crack of one sturdy boot-kick.
He frowned, his gaze snagging on a caricature of a man across the room. More cadaver than human he was, bone-thin, yet wiry, his face carved with ivory hollows beneath eyes so pale they seemed milky as a witch's charm. An austere nose and thin lips slashed across that face, a smattering of thin black hair revealing glimpses of his scalp. But it was the fact that he sat, like Adam, alone in the crowd that was strangest, as if contempt had drawn an invisible circle around him.
A thin walking stick was leaned against the table at the man's side. Adam was dead certain it concealed something lethal—a sword-stick, probably so rusted it would shatter at the first blow, and so dull-edged it couldn't cut warm butter. Not that the man would be able to wield the weapon, anyway. Juliet could doubtless defeat him with a single wave of her parasol.
But, incompetent as the man seemed, his glare was obviously in working order. He leveled it at Adam with burning intensity.
What the blazes had he done to offend the scrawny cur? Adam wondered idly. The man hadn't been in the mob, of that Adam was certain. He would have noticed someone like that, wouldn't he? Adam grimaced. He'd have been lucky if he'd recognized his own brother in that mess. His whole awareness had been stolen by the golden-curled angel with her parasol.
A buxom serving-maid sidled up to him, her eyes huge beneath an off-kilter mobcap. "Eh, there, me fine sir, do ye be thirstin'?" she quavered, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder.
"Whiskey. A big glass of it."
"Aye, sir," the girl replied. But instead of bustling off in a swirl of threadbare petticoats, she lingered, hovering beside Adam like a jittery butterfly.
Adam cast an impatient glare at her. "What is it? Did I forget to say 'please'?"
The girl's cheeks went pale, and she twisted her fingers together. "They're whisperin' that you were at the Angel Lady's house today. That you sent Mother Cavendish an' her crew scramblin'. Be you that same gennelman?"
Perfect. Adam frowned. Doubtless Percival had sent the girl over to check out his identity before he blasted him to eternity. Surprisingly civil of the bastard. "I was at Angel's Fall. But I'm certain if you asked the Angel Lady, she'd tell you I'm no gentleman. Tell Sergeant Percival, over there, to blast away."
"P-Percival?" The girl's lips curled as if she'd just seen a dead rat floating in her bath water. "I'll not be tellin' him anything, the slimy, no-good cur! I just... just wanted to say thank you, sir, fer helpin'," she whispered in a tiny earnest voice. "The lady, she be so all alone. And kind. When my baby sister was sick, she... well, doesn't matter. Jest, thank you. When next ye see her, will ye tell her that little Janey's back at her mama's knee?"
"Pegeen!" the tavern keeper's bellow made the girl whirl around. "Ye'll not make me any coin standin' there yammerin'! Fetch out some drinks or go home!"
"Aye, Traupman! I'm comin'," the woman called, but she turned to flash Adam one last grateful smile before she bobbed a curtsey and dashed away. Adam stared after her, bemused. It seemed as if Miss Grafton-Moore had one champion in this mess. Something hard lodged in Adam's chest at the memory of the gratitude in the serving girl's eyes, and his mind crowded with images of his own younger sisters, headstrong termagants, every one, yet, the notion of them far from home, sick... frightened, alone. The mere thought scuttled a chill through Adam's veins.
He drove his fingers through the thick waves of his hair, as if he could scatter such thoughts to the wind. His sisters were daughters of an earl—illegitimate, though they might be. Their lives were worlds away from the hardscrabble existence of Pegeen and little Janey. Yet if circumstances had flung them into the snake pit that was London, wouldn't he have been grateful if there were someone like Juliet Grafton-Moore waiting to take their hands?
The thought was damned disturbing—bloody inconvenient. Far better to hold on to the opinion that the woman was a rattlepated fool. One who had tossed him onto the prongs of a dashed irritating dilemma. Keep his word to a dead man and drive himself insane, or walk away, leaving not only one wide-eyed angel behind, but the last tattered remnants of his honor.
Pegeen slid a glass of whiskey onto the table, and he flipped her a coin with a smile, then downed the fiery liquor in one gulp. When he opened his eyes over the rim of the glass, he caught the thin black-garbed stranger staring at him with a hostility hotter than the whiskey's burn.
The stranger got to his feet, rumpled frockcoat tumbling around lanky legs, one hand closing around the silver-headed walking stick leaning beside him. Those pale eyes fixed on Adam as he crossed the room.
Loathing, pure and cold, shone out of odd lashless eyes. "Is it true?" his voice rasped. "You are the man who was at Angel's Fall today?"
Adam's eyes narrowed. "And if I was?"
"I should kill you for what you did there."
Thunderation. That was all he needed. An offended starveling cur trying to sink its teeth in his ankle. Adam wanted nothing more than to shake free of the fool.
He slashed a scathing glance from the man's thinning crown to his shabby boots, letting contempt glimmer about a hard-edged smile. "Kill me? You are welcome to try it. Don't tell me you are one of the poor sots whose doxy has run away from home? Save your shillings, buy a decent wig, and I'm certain you can find another ladybird."
Hot color surged into those wasted cheeks. "How dare you even imply that I would soil myself fornicating with— with some sin-spawned slut! It is Miss Grafton-Moore who concerns me."
Why was it that the very sound of Juliet's na
me on the man's tongue made Adam's fists clench? "Miss Grafton-Moore is your concern, is she?" Adam repeated. "Just exactly who are you? And what have you to do with the lady?"
"My name is Barnabas Rutledge. Proprietor of the shop across the street from her establishment."
Adam searched his memory, recalling the painfully tidy shopfront beyond the wall of Juliet's garden. "The pawn- shop?" Adam grimaced in distaste, abhorring vultures of this sort who preyed on the desperate. "What's the problem, Rutledge? Afraid Miss Grafton-Moore's ladies will move away, and find somewhere else to pawn the jewels and trinkets their protectors gave them? You must be doing a lucrative business with Angel's Fall so near."
Rutledge bristled until Adam half expected that thin chest to explode. "I am only a neighbor. A friend to Miss Juliet. I wish only to save her from this madness!"
Adam had stayed alive by reading people's emotions. The flicker of an eyelash, the infinitesimal twitch of a lip could reveal much to one attuned to it. Barnabas Rutledge's pale eyes were almost feverish, his hands fitful on the head of his cane. Devotion. That was what it was. It seemed Pegeen was not the only one loyal to the lady of Angel's Fall.
Adam should have been amused by the absurdity of it all—this spindly crow of a man tripping all over himself because of a woman, flinging himself into the fray against a man who was five times his size. It should have been funny as bedamned. But it seemed as if Adam had lost his irreverent sense of humor somewhere in the rain.
Impatience surged through Adam, mingled with an odd twinge of possessiveness that made him mad as hell. Possessiveness where Juliet Grafton-Moore was concerned? Blood and thunder, he couldn't wait to be rid of her!
"If you have business with me, Rutledge, conduct it before I lose my patience. My affairs with the lady in question are none of your concern."