Burning for the Baron Read online

  “And the fire?” She chewed on the inside of her cheek. There was so much more to the story than he revealed. The fear of a boy going to bed with his belly aching for food. The uncertainty of not having a parent he could trust to see them through. It was a story all too common in London, but one she didn’t expect from the Baron of Sutton.

  “The day my grandfather’s carriage came to collect us, my mother gathered all our clothes, everything except for what was on our backs. She piled them in the yard.” Max stared at the wall, as if seeing that long-ago scene. “She set everything on fire and she held my hand as we stood there and watched it all burn. There was a lot I didn’t understand, but I knew the fire represented a new beginning. A clean start. My mother was crying she was so happy. That fire was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

  They sat in silence, holding hands. Colleen rested her head against his shoulder. Her throat was thick, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing she needed to say. She was content to merely sit next to this man. Her future was uncertain. Her plans in a disarray. But she wouldn’t regret a minute of her time with the baron. He truly was the finest man she knew. And she would treasure every moment they had together.

  He cleared his throat. “Regardless, that feeling never left me. Growing up, whenever something bad happened, I would start a small fire, usually on the manor grounds, and the flames would settle me.” He turned and looked down at her, his mouth twisting. “My grandfather and parents were not amused, as you can imagine. But they couldn’t stop my fascination.”

  “Thank you for telling me.” There wouldn’t have been many people he’d told. Colleen sat up tall. “I’m honored.”

  Max opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to say more, then snapped it shut. He scratched his cheek. “Damn, it feels strange without my beard. It will take me a while to become accustomed to.”

  Scooting off the bed, Colleen gathered her clothes and began to don them. “You don’t have to get used to it. You could always let it grow back.” She missed his bushy, bear-like appearance. Though she must admit, the face under all that hair was startlingly attractive. The beard had hit chiseled cheekbones and a tiny dent in the center of his chin.

  “Summerset would never forgive me if I did that.” Max grimaced. “He almost wept in joy when the hair came off.”

  “Interesting friends you have.” She pulled her shirt over her head and turned for the waistcoat. She plucked it off the bureau, and something thudded to the floor.

  “You lost something,” Max said, tugging up his trousers.

  Colleen clutched the garment to her stomach, staring at the gold watch nestled in the green carpet. Half of a chain swung loose from the buttonhole of the waistcoat.

  “Colleen?” Max moved towards her.

  “It’s nothing.” She cleared her throat. “The chain to my watch broke.”

  “I’m sorry.” He shifted behind her then stepped around and picked up the watch. “It was important to you. I’ll get you a new chain.”

  A new chain to her past. She shrugged into the waistcoat, took the watch, and slipped it into her pocket. “No, thank you.” No more chains. “It isn’t worth replacing.” Smoothing down her skirts, she smiled up at Max. “Now, tell me how large an apology I owe Lord Halliwell. Was he merely annoyed at being displaced or was he harmed in the process, as well?”

  The tips of Max’s ears flushed red. “He received no less treatment than he had coming to him.”

  “Ah. So free membership for half a year, along with prostrating myself with contrition.”

  She stepped past Max, and he grabbed her elbow. “No prostrating yourself with him in any form.”

  “That was only a figure of speech.” She patted his hand. “Now, are you hungry?” Her own stomach grumbled. “I know the cook has some lovely pheasant down in the kitchens. Tonight is Lord Manderley’s weekly appointment. You know how he likes his bacchanalian feast, and there is always plenty left over.” She caught his expression. “Everything that goes into the red room is disposed of. I’m speaking of food that is never sent up.”

  He blew out a breath. “In that case, do you think there’s enough leftovers for seven?”

  Pausing at the door, she frowned back over her shoulder. “How hungry are you?”

  “With you, I feel like I’m always starving.” He patted her bottom. “But tonight isn’t just about my appetites. Darling, we have company.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Max leaned back in his chair and rubbed his full stomach. The cook at The Black Rose was quite remarkable. He’d never tasted a juicier bird. The hollowed-out carcass on the table attested to the fact that everyone agreed.

  He and his friends sat around the long, rough table in the kitchen of the club, drinking watered down wine and feasting on what hadn’t made it to the table for one of their strangest members. There were times when Max thought that Manderley truly believed he was a Greek god.

  Max glanced at Colleen, seated to his right. After seeing one of Manderley’s scenes, Max had to admit the idea of Colleen hand-feeding him grapes and other succulent tidbits with one hand whilst stroking his cock with the other, wasn’t a bad one. Maybe Manderley was onto something.

  The club was quiet, now closed, and workers and customers alike had gone home.

  “What now?” Summerset tossed a wing, picked clean, down on his plate and wiped his fingers on a towel. He jerked a thumb at Pinkerton. “We’ve placed this man in every window of every club, coffee house, and tavern, and no one has taken a shot at him. Zed obviously doesn’t think he’s worth the time to try to kill”—Summerset ignored the American’s objection—“and we’re left feeding and housing the annoying sot. I think we need a new plan.”

  Everyone but Pinkerton and Colleen muttered an agreement. It felt as though they were giving Zed more time to retrench while they passively dropped a line in the water. Max had always preferred a more active hunt. If he saw a fish he wanted, he would dart his arm in the pond and grab for it. It was time they stopped letting Zed dictate their actions.

  “Any ideas?” Max asked and looked around. Montague tapped the flat end of his knife’s blade against his mouth, looking thoughtful. Rothchild stared at the ceiling. And Summerset looked more interested in cleaning the grease from his fingers.

  Only Dunkeld spoke. “I think we’ve been dangling the wrong bait. Zed has shown an interest in one person, and it’s time we used her to flush out our prey.”

  Everyone swiveled their heads toward Colleen. She had a bit of bread raised to her lips, and her eyes darted to the surrounding faces.

  “No.” Max threw his own towel on the table. “We will not parade her about waiting for someone to put a bullet in her head. Absolutely not.”

  “But that was fine for me?” Pinkerton asked, outraged.

  He was ignored.

  “Maximillian, we wouldn’t let that happen,” Montague said gently. The duke rested his elbows on the table. “We’d have to stay close to her, of course.”

  “Too close.” Summerset kicked a jewel-encrusted boot up onto the corner of the table, and Dunkeld knocked it down. Summerset grunted. “If we did this, Sutton couldn’t come along. He’d be in her petticoats the entire time, and Zed would never try to strike.”

  Heat flushed through Max’s body. He clenched his fists. “Go to hell. You’re not using my woman as bait. And if you try to do so without me there, I swear I’ll—”

  Rothchild pushed him back into his seat and patted Max’s shoulder. “Everyone, calm down. No one wants to take down Zed more than me, but we won’t put Mrs. Bonner in danger if Max is against it.”

  “Interesting that no one’s asked my opinion,” Colleen said, a brittle smile curving her lips.

  “It’s. Not. Happening.’ Max’s glare encompassed everyone, including Colleen. She was just the sort of woman who’d put herself in danger to help others. Noble. Determined. Daft. Max needed to make his decision abundantly clear to everyone involved. “We find anot
her way.”

  Dunkeld shrugged one shoulder. “I understand,” he said in a quiet voice. “But sometimes danger can’t be escaped. She’s already a target.”

  “Well, we’re not going to make her a more appealing one. And that’s final.” Colleen opened her mouth, but Max cut her a look. “Final,” he repeated.

  Rising to her feet, Colleen took her plate to the sink. “Since it appears I need permission for my own actions”—she dipped into a low, insolent curtsy—“may I adjourn to the cellars for another bottle of wine, my lord? I promise to hold tight to the rail going down the steps and tread carefully. No injury to my person shall occur.”

  His friends raised their eyebrows and looked to see how Max would respond. A smile ghosted across Montague’s lips, and Max frowned. He knew how the duke’s mind worked, knew how he would handle such impertinence from a lover. Max didn’t want Montague’s mind anywhere near Colleen’s bottom. Standing, he tossed his plate at the duke, who caught it to his chest, startled.

  “You go ahead,” Max told Colleen. “We’ll clean up here in the while.”

  “Bring two bottles,” Dunkeld hollered at her retreating back. “We need to drink twice as much of that swill to feel anything.”

  She waved her fingers over her shoulder and disappeared down the narrow hall.

  Summerset wrinkled his nose. “We’re going to clean up?”

  “Put your plate in the sink.” Max planted his fists on his hips. “It won’t kill you to help out.”

  All the men cleared their places at the table.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Pinkerton asked. “My wife and son will starve if I go to prison.”

  “That isn’t our problem,” Dunkeld said. But Max and his friends eyed each other uneasily. Twisting a towel between two meaty hands, Dunkeld grumbled, the sound trapped deep in his throat. “But you’ve tried to help us. And the prisons here are full enough with our own criminals. We don’t need Americans taking up all the spots. I can give you some blunt to start over.”

  Pinkerton widened his eyes, looking hopeful.

  A shadow moved, and Max peered out the window to the small yard behind the club. Something glinted in the moonlight.

  “Down!” Max kicked out at Pinkerton’s thigh, knocking the man sideways just as the window above the sink exploded in a hundred shards of glass. The men dove to the ground. Pinkerton clutched his arm to his side and groaned. A starburst of torn fabric erupted from the shoulder of his coat, a darkening stain spreading from the hole.

  Rothchild flipped the large table, bowls and bird remains flying. Max dragged Pinkerton behind the barrier, joining Rothchild and Summerset. Montague holed up in a nook beside the pantry and Dunkeld pressed his back flat against the cupboard underneath the sink. All men save Pinkerton had pulled out their pistols. They hadn’t trusted the American with a weapon.

  The pane of glass in the door that led outside shattered, and they all ducked. They were easy pickings in the well-lit kitchen, yet Max could see nothing outside in the pitch of night. Narrowing his eyes, he took aim at the oil lamp on the wall and shot it out. The spilled oil ignited on the floor, and a slow blaze crept across the wood planks towards Summerset.

  His friend whipped off his coat and smothered the flame. “Careful what you’re doing! I think I’d rather be shot than burn to death.”

  Max let his eyes adjust to the dark, ignoring Summerset. That small amount of oil would have burned itself out before putting anyone in danger. The moonlight limned the edges of the windows, casting a faint glow.

  Dunkeld edged up from his squat and peered through the bottom of the window. “I see two men.” The pane next to his head took a shot and splintered in two. He ducked back down. “At least three men.”

  Perfect. While they’d been eating like gluttons, Zed had chosen that moment to spring an attack. Max could have kicked himself for letting his guard down, even for a moment. He glanced to the hallway entrance and prayed Colleen didn’t step through it, into the line of fire.

  A tall figure melted from the shadows behind Summerset.

  “John!” Max shouted. He swung his gun towards the attacker, his movements seeming too sluggish.

  Summerset rolled, his hand slicing out. The form screamed, hopping on one foot before toppling over. Summerset was waiting, knife in hand, and slit his throat with the same ruthless efficiency as he had the man’s Achilles tendon.

  Max released a deep breath. That had been too close. The attackers had infiltrated the club. His hand froze. There was an entrance to the cellars from the yard. It was kept locked from the inside, but Max didn’t want to give the bastards any time to break it open. Not with Colleen down there.

  Summerset wiped the blade of his small dagger on his sleeve and shifted back behind the table. “One down.”

  “Fucking hell,” Pinkerton whispered.

  “What?” Summerset shrugged. “I didn’t want to waste a bullet.”

  Montague pointed at Dunkeld and made a swirling motion with his hand. The Scotsman nodded. “Give us some cover,” Montague said, and without waiting to see if they complied, he and Dunkeld slithered to the doors and disappeared outside.

  Max, Summerset, and Rothchild each took a turn leveling a shot out the broken windows, hoping it was enough of a distraction.

  “You have a two-shot?” Rothchild asked Summerset.

  John held up a pearl-handled pocket pistol. “Three barrels. I have two shots remaining.”

  “I have to reload,” Rothchild said. “Watch my back.”

  Rolling to his feet, Max crouched behind the table. “I’m going to check the rest of the building. Watch—”

  A scream tore through the night air. Coming from the basement.

  Max popped to his feet and ran like the devil himself was on his heels. He pounded through the doorway to the hall, jerking his head as a chip of wood frame exploded from a bullet strike, scratching his cheek. The door to the cellar was five feet away and stood open. Max plunged inside and took the stairs three at a time, stumbling at the bottom and hitting his knee to the stone floor.

  A candlestick rested on a large barrel, the small flame of its taper bouncing in the draft. He heard a grunt, a low curse, before Colleen’s sturdy frame hurtled around a row of casks.

  He took in every detail in a second. The small tear in the shoulder of her shirt. The way she clutched her skirt high in front as she ran. The look of panic in her eyes that melted to relief when she caught sight of him.

  The fucking bastard who was three steps behind her, knife clutched in his hand.

  Max took two running steps forwards, pushed Colleen behind him, and planted his fist in the attacker’s face. His nose broke with a satisfying crunch.

  The man staggered back, his legs as wobbly as a newborn fawn’s. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed in a heap.

  Grabbing the back of Max’s coat, Colleen tugged him towards the staircase. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “No. There’s more upstairs.” Max picked up the candle and strode to the base of the short flight of steps that led to the yard. The cellar door was closed and the bolt remained in place. The arsewipe must have come down the club’s stairs. “You’re safer here. I’ll take the man upstairs, and you barricade the door until I tell you it’s all right for you to come out. Understood?”

  Tiptoeing to the crumpled body, Colleen tentatively stretched out a hand and snatched the knife that lay inches from his trouser. “How do you suggest I barricade myself inside? Carry wine barrels up the stairs on my back to lodge against the door?”

  That was a good point. The door from the club didn’t lock on the inside. Still, he could have done without the impudence. Not while their lives were in danger. “Fine. I’ll leave the body here and take you up with me instead. But you will stay behind me and do as I say. We don’t know how many men are up there, but I’m certain each of them is eager to kill you.” Bile rose in his throat with the words.

  She raised her
hands in a placating gesture, almost cutting her ear with the blade. “I’m not the spy. I’ll do as you say.”

  Pulling the knife away from her face, Max sighed. “Just don’t stab me in the back, please.” Taking her free hand, he tucked it to his side and started up the steps. When they reached the top, he blew out the candle and waited for his eyes to adjust.

  The door swung open, and Max pounced. He grabbed the man by the throat and throttled him against the wall.

  “Max!” Summerset wheezed. He clawed at Max’s hands. “It’s me.”

  The hiss of a flame meeting an oil-soaked wick sizzled in the air. Montague lit one of the wall lamps, illuminating the hallway, and replaced the glass cover. “I wanted to make sure we could all see this,” he said mildly. “It’s always amusing seeing Summerset get his daylights darkened.”

  Max dropped his hand. He brushed Summerset’s shoulders. “Apologies. How many did we capture?”

  Rothchild strode down the hallway. “None,” he said, his lip curling with disgust. “All either dead or escaped.”

  “Blast.” Max grabbed Colleen around the waist and swung her out of the doorway, enjoying her little yelp. He bounded down the stairs. It should have been black as pitch in the cellar. But the cellar doors were flung open, letting the blue of the quarter moon illuminate the space. No body lay on the floor.

  “Sodding hell!” He plodded back up the stairs. “My man got away, too.”

  Dunkeld tramped into the hallway, Pinkerton a step behind with a red-soaked towel pressed to his shoulder. The Scotsman crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s like these men are smoke. Deadly, but we can’t seem to grab ahold of them.”

  Colleen leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her chest heaved up and down, and her fists were buried in the folds of her skirt.

  Max ground his teeth. She’d had more frights than anyone deserved. And she’d faced them all, as resilient as a soldier. He’d been looking forward to pounding information out of someone, and now there was no one to loose his aggressions upon. He eyed Summerset. No, it wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying pounding on a friend.