She wobbled as the bulk behind her vanished and the knife fell, clattering to the stone path, Jack nowhere to be found.
Whirling, she saw…
The oaf lay sprawled, eyes wide, blood seeping from lip and nose.
Atop him a raging angel, thundering his grim wrath, fist crashing into the villain’s gut, something silver glinting upon his knuckles.
Lord Winterbourne was fervent prowess and swift intensity.
Magnificent, unexpected and…she was going to faint.
Pathetic but inevitable.
“Jack,” she rasped, but even though it was the veriest whisper, he heard and before she could hit the ground, strong arms gathered her, cocooning her in warmth and citrus, and she buried her face in that shameless waistcoat.
A blurry beamed ceiling above, softness beneath. Male murmuring and a beguiling fragrance of lemon and leather.
Jack.
Tamsyn didn’t know where she was, but with all her senses fulfilled, she didn’t particularly care.
Yet as the low beams lost their blur, thoughts raced in and a particularly stubborn one declined to leave.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said in hushed tones to the room.
A door closed, footsteps and then there he stood, eyes concerned. Not a scratch on him.
She’d felt that villain behind her, colossal and evil, and yet Jack had felled him with a fist.
His gentle hand brushed her forehead and she struggled to sit, a jacket falling from her shoulders.Hisjacket.
“Rest, Tamsyn. You’ve had quite a scare.”
“No… I am well. It was just…the cave and then… I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He sat beside her, and she realised she lay on a large bed in a small but clean room.
Without jacket, the white muslin of his shirt brushed her cheek as he smoothed her hair, the walnut locks cascading down in a knotted flood, pins lost.
“You have nothing to apologise for. In fact, it is I that should have taken more care–”
“No!” She grasped his waistcoat. “Not that, I…I misjudged you. I thought… In the churchyard. I thought you a fop, that you were being flippant. I’ve been so blind, haven’t I? So prejudiced. And for that I’m sorry…”
A broad palm cradled her cheek and she expected umbrage but instead a chuckle boomed.
“But, Tam, lovey, you’re supposed to think that. The knife would not have moved away a fraction if he’d thought me a worthy adversary. Folk wouldn’t divulge secrets if they thought me astute.”
She felt rather stupid. “What are you then? A façade? A fribble or a scoundrel? A jester or a warrior? Or neither? Are you telling me the true Jack Winterbourne is a dour bore?”
Those handsome lips twitched. “I do hope not, Tamsyn. But equally there is no pretence. I can be all those things as well. I adore fashionable waistcoats and London glitter, yet work for the Crown in high and low society alike.” His broad palm brushed. “I fight and I jest, be it in a ballroom or gin den, with duke or demon.”
Smiling, she stared into those lustrous black pupils and saw his dual nature, a light amusement covering his profound eyes.
She remembered Mrs Mildern’s foretelling.
“Devil, angel. Dark, light. Sorrow, joy,” she whispered. Perhaps that scrying mirror held more than polished obsidian. “I like you, Jack.”
An impish smile. “I’m no angel, lovey. I’m a rogue.” The impish smile waned. “You must remember that.”
