Surrender The Night (26 page)

Katrina gave him a wan smile and trudged out. Times were hard here, too. Indeed, why should anyone hire her, when they all had families of their own who needed employment?

Telling herself she was only going to stroll about before returning home, Katrina wandered from shop to shop until the sun lowered in the sky. Yet somehow she found herself near the wharf, on a rougher street. A peeling sign portrayed a garish cock crowing atop the back of a handsome stag. Katrina stood across the street, hesitating. Her belly rumbled at that strategic moment, reminding her that she’d not eaten since breakfast.

Goaded, she crossed the street. Merely to look in the window, she told herself. The bow windowpanes were sooty and she saw only the dim glow of candles. Taking a deep breath, she entered the tavern. The heavy door closed behind her with an ominous thunk that made her start. Could she go through with it? She sighed. Did she have a choice? She lifted her chin, wrapped her shawl tightly about her shoulders, and stepped confidently into the taproom.

A quick glance showed her several tables where games of chance were being played, and others where men clanked together frothy mugs of ale. But it was the sight of a barmaid rubbing herself against a seated customer in a manner Katrina could only call indecent that made her halt barely two steps into the room. She was too busy staring to notice the attention she was drawing.

One tippler’s eyes widened. Slowly, he set his mug down and nudged his tablemate, spilling the fellow’s ale down his shirt. He scowled and turned on his friend, then saw what he was staring at. He set down his own mug.

The buzz of conversation died as she became the cynosure of all eyes. Out of her corner vision Katrina saw the flash of two shapely, bare legs swinging from their position upon the lap of a gamester. Katrina cringed inside. If the barmaids were expected to entertain patrons in
that
fashion, she couldn’t work here. But the player’s uncommonly long, powerful thighs clothed in expensive satin knee breeches seemed somehow familiar. Katrina realized two things simultaneously: She had to leave, but first, she wanted to see what kind of local roisterer could afford such clothing. Before she could look, however, a brawny arm caught her by the waist.

She gasped and tried to squirm away, but Jack Hennessy’s voice, rich with satisfaction, said, “Faith, I knew ye’d change yer mind. But ye didn’t have to come all the way into Truro, darlin’. I’d have met ye wherever ye pleased.”

Katrina forced a polite smile to her lips. Guilelessly she met Jack’s lustful eyes. “It’s good to see you. Jack, but I’m afraid I came in search of employment. Do you know where I might find the proprietor?” Gently she tried to pull away as if to seek the owner out, but Jack’s arm tightened.

His wide chest rumbled with laughter. “And glad he’d be to have ye here, for ye’d draw the lads like flies to a honey pot. But I’ve other plans for ye, darlin’.” He began to pull her to the door.

Katrina planted her feet and struggled harder, casting desperate glances about the room. “No, Jack. I don’t want to go—’ ’ Instinctively, she looked toward the well-dressed man. She gasped. Awareness of the whispering patrons, even of Jack’s insolent touch, escaped her as her world narrowed to one man.

There, his long white hand intimately high on the barmaid’s thigh, sat Devon. Stubble dotted his face, and his hair hung partway down his shoulders, having long since, apparently, escaped its queue. A bottle and a half-empty glass sat at his elbow. Their eyes held for a timeless moment. She saw his shock change to anger as he looked at Hennessy’s encroaching arm. Her mouth curled, and she controlled her panic by pure iron will. Not this time, my fine rake, she thought. I’ll show you I don’t need your help. Jack abetted her intent by pausing in trying to drag her out. She deduced that he, too, was staring at Devon.

She nodded regally toward the corner. “How nice to see you again, my lord. In your natural habitat, as it were.”

He flung down the cards he’d been holding and dumped the barmaid off his lap. She screeched, but he merely stepped around her. As he approached he gave an elaborate sigh.

‘ ‘And somehow you seem just as out of place despite the fact that you look so much the part.” He encompassed her patched gown, peasant shoes, and simple shawl with one scornful glance. “But I, as ever, shall be magnanimous and save you from this lout.” He continued his advance.

Vaguely Katrina noticed that his steps were steady, but his eyes glittered. With drink? For the first time in her life she wished for a dram herself—anything to make her senseless s
o she didn’t have to suffer his brand of mercy. Certainly, he might spare her a ravishing in the bushes, only to subject her to a seduction on a bed. In her heart Katrina knew there was a difference; in the mind that still resented him there was little.

“You’ve a real facility for attracting ruthless suitors, my dear,” Devon drawled, stopping several feet away. His eyes, brown, fathomless as a Cornish bog, looked only at Hennessy. Jack’s grip about her waist loosened as his attention focused on Devon. Katrina felt Hennessy stiffen alertly.

Damn them both, she thought. I’ll have neither their “help” nor their “admiration.” Katrina inched away enough for leverage. “Indeed, my lord, you should know.” Devon’s gaze slipped from Hennessy to her. She smiled sweetly and brought her heavy clog down on Jack’s foot, simultaneously ramming an elbow into his gut. With an oof of pain he released her. Mentally she thanked John for showing her the maneuver after she’d taken to walking the moors alone.

She swiveled free and shot a triumphant look at Devon. She turned to the door, tossing over her shoulder, “And I’m also learning how to deal with them.” Before she could exit, Hennessy straightened painfully and grabbed her arm.

“Ye bitch! Ye ain’t too good for Jack—”

“Scum? Or is that your middle name?” a soft voice asked.

Jack turned to shoot a glare at the man who rocked casually on the balls of his feet. The rakes who had sparred with the earl would have recognized that stance as anything but indolent, but Hennessy was not so fortunate.

“Ye stay out o’ this, if ye don’t want that pretty face smashed,” Hennessy snarled, jerking Katrina’s arm to turn her so they could leave. He was too busy dodging her kicks to notice when one of Devon’s forward rocks propelled him into a lunge. Hennessy found himself pinned against the sturdy tavern door by a patrician hand at his throat.

Since Jack still held Katrina’s arm, she was jerked alongside them, feeling like part of one of the Earl of Sandwich’s new snacks. She didn’t envy Jack his part as the meat, however.

“Let her go, else find your
ugly
face smashed,” Devon warned cordially. When Hennessy sputtered a denial and brought up his free hand to shove Devon away, Devon caught his wrist and twisted it. His long, fragile-looking hand tightened its grip about Hennessy’s throat. Hennessy let go of Katrina to try to pry Devon’s fingers away, but he was already winded, and Devon slammed his body against Hennessy’s to trap his other struggling arm.

“On second thought,” Devon purred, “I’d rather see you turn purple.” Devon cocked his head to one side as Hennessy gurgled and went red. “That’s close, but not quite right. You Cornish barbarians painted yourselves blue not so long ago, so purple shouldn’t be too hard for you.” His grip tightened again.

Devon, his face curiously remote yet intent, apparently didn’t hear the grumbles from the other patrons growing to roars at his words, but Katrina did.

“Hey there! Let the lad go. ’Ee’ve made your point,” one man called.

From other quarters came shouts of “Aye!”

A slim but powerful-looking man Katrina had often seen in Jack’s company shoved his chair back and jumped to his feet. “’Ee ain’t in London now, your bloody lordship. If ’ee’s aimin’ to see how
barbaric
Cornishmen be, then come to me and find out.”

Devon didn’t even give the fellow a glance.

The door was blocked, Katrina told herself. She couldn’t leave. But she shot the patrons an uneasy glance, wondering what to do. Only then did she spy Billy, sitting at a table adjacent to Devon’s.

He spread his hands at her pleading look, and she had the feeling he half hoped Devon would indeed get his pretty face smashed. She agreed that Devon richly needed the thrashing he’d never gotten as a lad, but his arrogance couldn’t hold a baker’s dozen of muscular
Cornishmen at bay. Wondering why the thought of Devon being hurt caused her pain, Katrina marched to the nearest table and snatched a full mug from a surprised miner.

She went back to Devon and flung the strong ale into his face. He blinked in shock and let Jack go. Coughing, Jack stumbled away and flopped into a chair one of his friends shoved behind him. His face was one shade away from purple.

Devon didn’t notice. He jerked the mug out of Katrina’s hand and flung it against the wall, then caught her waist and hauled her against his muscular frame. “Vixen! You really enjoy putting a damper upon a man’s fun. Literally, in this case.” His face relaxed into that whimsical, charming smile that usually went straight to her heart. This time it missed its mark, for she was casting worried glances over her shoulder.

“If you don’t get out of here,
now,"
she muttered, “you’ll learn an insulted Cornishman’s idea of fun.”

Devon quirked an eyebrow and looked over her head to see several more men coming to their feet and balling angry fists. “I see what you mean.” He released her, then strolled forward into the room to inspect Jack, who still cradled his throat. He ignored the angry glares blasting him from every quarter.

The door was free now. Katrina cast it a look, but somehow she was compelled forward instead of back. She had little influence here, but at least she’d been marginally accepted. She knew enough, now, of how these men thought to realize that they considered Devon an interloper. John had told her the tales circulating about Devon’s arrival in Redruth.

He was considered a rich outsider who had won one of the oldest mines in the district on the turn of a card. A spoiled aristocrat who’d been reared to think himself above other men, especially
Cornishmen, who were often considered inferior by other Britons. He’d probably bilk the mine of every shilling, then close it and leave them with hungry families and no way to feed them. Too many outsiders had done the same. And now this profligate had insulted them as Cornishmen. . . .

Katrina read these thoughts and others on their swarthy, angry faces. She knew they didn’t fear Devon, despite his display of toughness. To men who battled daily with the indefatigable earth and sea, Devon was not a formidable enemy. Lord or no, he needed a lesson.

Fear for Devon, not concern for Jack, led her to block the way of the tall, slim man who strode forward to examine his friend. “Here, let me, since I’m partly to blame for his state.” Katrina snatched the kerchief out of his hand and dipped it in a pitcher of water on the bar. She hurried back to wrap it about Jack’s throat. She straightened and smiled brightly. “There. It’s just a bruise, I think. He’ll be fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.” Casually, she took Devon’s hand to tug him to the door.

He cast her a surprised look, then gently pulled away. ‘ ‘You should know I’m not a man to flee conflict, Kat.” He propped his hands on his hips and said to the slim man who was coming around the table to meet him, “Here I am, fellow. I’m all yours—if you can take me.”

Katrina groaned, but she hastily stepped between the two men before they came nose to nose. She turned her back on Devon to meet the other man’s eyes. “Now, er, it’s Davie, isn’t it?” Those midnight-black eyes didn’t waver from Devon’s face, though he nodded.

“I’m more sorry than I can say for the trouble I’ve caused,” Katrina continued. “But really, haven’t I the right to refuse to leave with Jack? He would have dragged me out had not this man intervened.”

“Maybe,” Davie replied. “But thes blighter took a wee bet too much joy en chokin’ the life out of my friend. And then he ensulted us—”

‘ ‘He was angry and has obviously been drinking. Please, let us be on our way without further incident.” Katrina ignored Devon’s gentle push and hissed command to quit protecting him.

Davie tossed his head of unruly black curls at the door. “Be on weth ’ee, then. Et’s hem”—he stabbed a finger beside Katrina’s head into Devon’s collarbone—“I’ve a longin’ to have .. words weth.”

“I only hope you’re better at pugilism than elocution, my man,” Devon drawled.

Davie’s handsome, reckless face flushed. “Let’s see how fancy ye be weth my fest en your mouth.” He shoved Katrina aside. She stumbled and almost fell. Devon’s eyes narrowed at the action, and when Davie swung a wild punch at his chin, he ducked and returned with a blow to Davie’s jaw.

The crack echoed in the tense silence. Davie stumbled back, but caught himself and charged forward, his head low on his shoulders. His arms latched about Devon’s waist. The two men crashed against the bar in a tumble of pummeling fists and kicking legs.

Katrina ran to Billy and caught his arm. “Billy, do something! Davie may hurt him.”

“Aye, lass, he may. And mayhaps it’ll knock a nonce o’ sense in him,” Billy answered, never taking his eyes from the action near the bar. Katrina winced at a pained groan, but she forced herself to turn and look.

Devon already had a cut swelling above his eye and a bruise on his cheek. Davie was in even worse shape. His mouth was puffy and bleeding, and one eye would probably be a lovely purple by tomorrow. But his wounds didn’t seem to hamper him. As she watched, Davie landed a punch square in Devon’s middle. The earl gave an oof of pain and clutched his stomach, but he managed to dodge Davie’s follow-up blow that would doubtless have broken his glorious nose.