“You see, if I was a betting man, I’d lay odds that youknewthose two men who accosted Lady Woodville.”
“I never laid—”
“Else why be so sure Lady Woodville would not see a nefarious end? After all, you yourself ran.”
“Discretion is the better part of valor.”
“I don’t think so, Jack. I think, knowing how much money she was carrying on her person—the inordinate amount you’d agreed upon to take her across and back, same day—You either bragged about your lucrative fleecing and thereby brought the danger on Lady Woodville by accident, or, and this is where I’m leaning, you worked out an arrangement with one or both men, and had no real intention of taking her across.”
“I tell you I did.” He slammed his fist on the counter.
Sterling leaned very close and, despite speaking through clenched teeth, enunciated each word. “And I’m telling you, it wasn’t safe for the lady to cross in the weather that existed two nights ago, guide or no. You’re lucky she didn’t break her neck.I’m also telling you that your days operating as a guide over the flats are over. If I see or hear of you on the island, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.
“And last but not least, I have a message for your cohorts. I don’t take kindly to thieves terrorizing visitors to the island, much less to hearing one of them held a pistol on someone under my protection. I consider their action as if having been done to myself and will deal with them on those grounds. Do I make myself clear?”
The bar had gone eerily silent.
Jack stared at Sterling, eyes wide. He managed the merest of nods.
Sterling stalked from the dank bar.
Outside he strode for the shadowed alley, where he paced in the grit, hands shaking, breath rasping in his lungs, and allowed the late afternoon chill to cool his overheated blood.
He wanted to believe what he’d said in the bar. That the men’s audacity in threatening anyone in his purview had ignited his ire. Wanted to believe the rage that had welled up in him had nothing whatsoever to do with the fate that could have befallen Annabelle, if not for her sheer grit, determination, and luck. The damned woman could have been shot. She could have died, or been maimed. Had either outcome so much as occurred to her?
He doubted it.
Just as she never questioned her own ability to navigate that stretch of sand on an unfamiliar horse.
Bloody hell.
It wasn’t the threat to the islanders which had aroused his fury to the point of violence, but imagining the danger she’d faced—that she’d bloody putherselfin.
He leaned against the brick wall, closed his eyes, and knew himself for a fool.
In his mind’s eye, he saw another man, another time. It was a day he did not like to recall…
Dillon Ramsey, future Earl of Greywood, his mentor as much as his friend, had just learned of an insult his intended, Lady Constance Merriweather, had received when Sterling joined him in the coffee house where their group often met to philosophize, aggrandize and bemoan the preceding generation in the way of young men who thought they knew better.
It seemed Constance, while a guest at a weekend house party, had been asked to dance the waltz—twice, by the same man, a noted rake. She had agreed, of course—out of politeness, Dillon maintained—laying one hundred percent of the blame squarely at the feet of Mr. Lawrence Biddington.
Had Sterling attempted to downplay the situation, as he ought? No, he had not. Had he pointed out that Lady Constance might have had a shred of responsibility for what happened? Again, no.
Dillon’s anger had been palpable, heady, and to Sterling, wholly righteous.
When Dillon decided to challenge Biddington to a duel, he’d given no thought to cautioning his friend to let cooler heads prevail.
“I shall challenge him. Call him out,” Dillon had announced.
“And show him the folly of his ways,” Sterling had seconded.
Fools. Imbeciles. And here he was, behaving in the same boorish manner. Bowing up. Throwing his weight around in the name of honor—and for the likes of Annabelle Montrose, no less.
He drew a deep, steadying breath and straightened from the wall.
He had thrown down no gauntlet. Crossed no irrevocable line. He’d gotten carried away by the moment, with the need to make his point. To send a clear message.
The best thing now would be to forget the business. Annabelle’s recent ordeal was her own, largely of her own making, and had nothing whatsoever to do with him.
