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A dark cloud passed over Rem's face. "You sound like Samantha. Coming from her, I can understand it. She's a romantic child. But you, Boyd? What is this sudden preoccupation with falling in love?"
"It isn't sudden. Nor should it only be my preoccupation." Exasperated, Boyd shook his head. "You're so damned stubborn, Rem; so determined to keep your scars raw, never allowing them to heal. Is self-protection really worth all that?"
"For me, yes."
"Well, it isn't for me."
"What about Boydry's?"
"What about it? It's a bloody tavern, Rem, not a person. I set it up to suit the Admiralty, and you know it. I'd much prefer operating a coffeehouse with sober, respectable patrons than a dilapidated pub in the worst section of London."
Their discussion ceased as Cynthia returned, setting two mugs on the table. Vaguely, Rem was aware that snatches of conversation were transpiring between Cynthia and Boyd, but the majority of his attention was claimed by a resurgence of the powerful warning sensation that plagued him earlier. Dammit. Something was wrong.
This time he swiveled totally about, boldly scrutinizing the room.
"That's the second time you've done that since you arrived," Boyd murmured when Cynthia had gone.
One corner of Rem's mouth lifted. "I'm glad to see you're still alert. . . despite your budding infatuation."
Boyd didn't smile. "What is it?"
"I don't know. Nothing probably. I just have this nagging feeling I'm being watched."
"Were you followed?"
Rem frowned. "I don't think so. In truth, I was so rushed, I didn't pay much attention."
"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Boyd replied, scanning the room. "Anyone who followed you to Annie's would assume you're merely enjoying the entertainment."
The person who'd followed Rem was assuming exactly that.
Sammy, just moments ago, had realized what sort of establishment she was observing. Shocked and hurt, she'd crept closer, peering inside to convince herself that Remington was, indeed, a patron. Seeing him flash his dimple at the woman who was handing him a drink, Sammy's eyes filled with tears. Not only was he frequenting this seedy brothel, but he had deceived her about the purpose for his hasty departure from the opera. What kind of hero, conventional or not, cavorted with prostitutes, and lied, as well?
The untainted entity of Sammy's blind faith fragmented ... a bit. Still, she refused to allow it to shatter completely. As a heroine, it was up to her to reform her hero.
Now, if she only knew precisely how to go about it...
Pensively, Sammy paced the length of the shadowy street. She'd never lain with a man; these women were proficient at it. Remington was deterred by her inexperience. He didn't want her; yet he didn't want her to lie with another. So, how could she gain the experience he obviously sought without angering him? This was all dreadfully confusing.
"'Ey, love! What've we 'ere? A little jewel, I'd say!"
The slurred male voice cut into Sammy's thoughts.
"Pardon me?" She blinked into the darkness.
"Look, Blake! We've found ourselves a regular lady, we 'ave!" Three unkempt, burly men loomed before her.
"Whatcha lookin' fer, yer highness? Yer coach?"
A tight knot of fear formed in Sammy's stomach. Furtively, she looked about, praying for another person to call out to. But the shoddy street was deserted.
Instinctively, she backed off.
"Where ye goin', m'lady?" The first man stalked forward and snatched her wrist. "We 'aven't 'ad the chance to impress ye yet!"
"Please," she whispered, "let me go."
"Ah, now is that nice?" He pulled her against him, so close she could smell the alcohol on his breath. She shuddered. "Ye're a good lookin' little thing, ye know?" He traced the top of her bodice. "Real good-lookin'."
