Page 9 of Sweet Hellion

“I will not dishonor him, lass.” He cast another glance around. “I cannot leave you like this.”

His gentleness summoned tears. Emma turned away. “It is easy to leave.” She stepped up to the fence and walked her fingers across the stones. “See? So simple. Like this. Walk away.” Everyone else had. She turned toward the door.

“I will not leave a lady stranded and defenseless,” Rhys said quietly.

Emma’s throat closed and tears stung her eyes. She raced into the shop and up the narrow stairs to her room. At the door, she stopped, heart pounding. Sight of her mother’s French mirrored armoire by the window loosed the tears. How many nights had her mother sat in the wicker rocking chair next to the bed singing Emma to sleep? Aside from the two years she’d spent at Lady Peddington’s School for Young Ladies, she’d slept in this room her entire life.

Now, the cherished memories choked like a noose around her neck. There was no reason to hold onto the shop. The small savings her father had left her were almost gone. With her wages from the infirmary, she could afford only the smallest of rooms in Mrs. Babcock’s boarding house.

Emma flung herself across her bed and buried her face in the down-filled pillow and cried.

When Emma’s eyes fluttered open, she turned her head toward the window. Gray clouds hung in the sky, but sweet, fresh air wafted in. It might rain and Tory would—

The thought cut off. Tory wasn’t here. Tory was dead.

The shop’s front door slammed. She bolted upright. Hadn’t she locked the door?

Rhys.

Emma jumped to her feet and hurried to the window. She drew the curtains aside and peered down into the street. The horse grazing at the tying post wasn’t Rhys’s. This animal was a fine beast, its saddle well made. Whoever its owner was, he would find no wheels to purchase or mend here…not anymore. She went out the door and started down the stairs, but paused halfway down at hearing the murmur of men’s voices.

“I will no longer bear the blame for your cowardice,” Rhys’s deep voice filtered to her.

Emma tiptoed down three more steps and peered into the shop below. Rhys stood, his back to her, as he faced a man dressed in a navy coat and a blue silk cravat. The man shifted, and she caught her breath.

Lord Munro.

“Mere words,” the viscount said. “No one will listen to a deserter.”

“The truth has an odd way of being found,” Rhys murmured.

Lord Munro smirked. “Have you not been disinherited by your own father?”

Disinherited by his father? Who was his father?

Rhys remained silent.

“Your reputation is in shreds,” Lord Munro’s voice took on a gloating edge as he clasped his hands behind his back.

“The blood of my men is on your hands, Munro.”

Emma held her breath. Lord Munro was responsible?

The viscount’s mouth thinned. “You should have died with them.”

Rhys folded his arms across his chest. “You will wish I had died with them. Until then, sleep well—if you can. Go and do not return.”

Lord Munro hesitated, then whirled, yanked open the door and strode out.

She’d disliked him immediately. She should have known. Emma sank down onto the stairs. Good God. She’d nearly killed the wrong man. She closed her eyes and drew in a shaky breath. When she lifted her lashes again, she found Rhys at the bottom step, peering up at her.

“Captain Macleod,” she breathed.

“Rhys,” he corrected. “I am captain no longer.”

“You should be.” She gripped the banister and pulled herself to her feet. “You have been slandered.” She dropped her voice into a whisper, “I believed him. I thought…I thought—oh God, forgive me. I—”

“Hush, lass,” he cut in. “There is naught to forgive.” He turned away.