Page 6 of Sweet Hellion

He cocked his head to the table in the corner, half hidden by a supporting post and a stack of barrels.

At least it afforded some semblance of privacy. Still…he’d obviously followed her to exact justice. Perhaps, he’d already informed the constable. Would they toss her in prison? With no living relatives, how would she be fed?

“Very well,” she murmured, and walked toward the table.

A moment later, Rhys arrived. After setting two glasses of whisky on the table, he dropped into the chair opposite her. Emma reached for her whisky and drank a large gulp. The amber liquid seared her throat. She gagged and a violent coughing fit followed. It tasted horrid, as if she’d just drunk a bottle of perfume. She stared at the half full glass, half tempted to pour the obnoxious liquid onto the floor, but the memory of Tory’s fate spurred her on.

She drained the glass to the last drop, thumped the empty glass back onto the table, and lifted her gaze to Rhys. A single cough made it past her resolve to ignore the burn.

He lounged in his chair, studying her quietly, his drink untouched. Emma drew a long breath and waited. Voices murmured in the background. The tavern door opened and closed, each time bringing a shaft of light into the dim interior. Emma twisted her fingers. How long did whisky take to work its magic? Perhaps, she hadn’t imbibed enough. She reached for the Scotsman’s glass. He didn’t stop her, but merely watched as she downed the whiskey.

She’d scarcely finished when a comforting warmth began to spread through her. Blessed be, she’d succeeded…almost. Still, she could think. For one night, at least, she needed to escape even that.

“More,” she whispered.

At first, the man across the table didn’t move. His sharp, dark eyes probed hers silently. Then, he rose and she watched him return to the bar. Why he indulged her was a mystery, but she didn’t much care. Not now. But then, perhaps he had nefarious motives? Alarm rippled over her. She knew, first hand, just how men took advantage of women.

“Tarnal,” she swore, patting her pockets.

Where was her gun? Tory’s gun? Realization dawned. She’d left her brother’s gun, his last gift, at Blackstone Abbey. She closed her eyes. She’d lost so much already, she couldn’t lose that last piece of her brother, as well. Emma lurched to her feet. The room spun. She gasped and reached for the table to steady herself, but her fingers closed on warm, hard muscle instead. Rhys had returned, looming large before her.

“Have a care, lass.” His deep, booming voice made her wince.

He placed a fresh glass of whiskey on the table, then gently guided her back to her seat.

“The gun,” Emma blurted. “Tory’s gun.”

Somewhere deep inside, a wee voice informed that of all people to walk God’s green Earth, she really shouldn’t mention the gun to that particular man. She shrugged the warning aside.

“Tory’s gun. It’s all I have left of him. I must return to the abbey.”

“Nae.” He shifted and withdrew something from his belt.

The next moment, the gun lay on the table between them. Emma’s relief lasted seconds. Ah…the gun…the same one she’d pressed against his back. She swallowed hard.

“It is yours.” He pushed the weapon closer.

Emma closed her fingers around the familiar hilt. “Perhaps, I will attack you again,” she barely breathed the words.

Their eyes locked.

“Why, lass?”

Emma stared and gripped the gun tighter. You killed my brother. She couldn’t say the words. To say them was to admit the end, to admit she was alone. Completely.

“When Tory returns, he will settle this matter.” Again, she attempted to rise. Her legs felt like jelly. She collapsed back onto the chair. “I just want to forget,” she blurted.

There was so much she didn’t want to remember: her father’s death, her foolish nights with the vicar, her brother… No. She’d never forget Tory, but she did want to forget the pain. Wordlessly, Rhys slid the whiskey across the table. This glass slid down much easier. A strange, soothing sense of numbness stole over her. She closed her eyes, clutching her brother’s gun in a death grip.

“Shall I see you home, Miss Bamfield?” Rhys’ deep voice soothed like velvet.

Home. Why go home? The silence of an empty house awaited her, along with a host of memories. Emma snorted a bitter laugh that came out as a gurgle followed by a hiccup. Suddenly, she was aware of the table’s rough surface flat against her cheek. God, her head felt heavy.

“Surely, your father is worried?” he asked. “Or your husband?”

Emma blinked. Father? If only he could fret over her absence…if only he were alive.

“He’s dead,” she answered dully. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Too many memories.”