Wild Card: Black Aces, Book Three Read online

  The shot caught Burton under his raised arm, then exited through his jaw, and the red haze within Jack howled with glee.

  Jack then flipped to his feet, his heart pounding with a fierce joy, as he inhaled for what seemed like the first time in ages.

  His cloak floating gracefully around him, Jack’s lips twitched as he heard Thordis' voice in his head, saying, There is a long history of great warriors who’ve seen red while in battle.

  Jack was a warrior, and he was proud of that fact.

  He noticed one man, the one he first attacked, was still upright, although roaring with anger, as he held his injured hand to his chest and tried to wipe the blood from his eyes with the other.

  Red blood.

  The euphoria sucked into his lungs, and Jack knew he wouldn’t be able to get enough of it. Lifting his right hand, he used his last two fingers—the ones not currently holding the revolver—and yanked down the bandana, so he could breathe even deeper.

  “One more chance to run?” he offered, panting in anticipation, because he knew the foolish man would deny himself the opportunity to live, and the red haze would claim another life tonight. It was why he’d gambled and allowed the man to see his face.

  Sure enough, the man spat out a curse, then reached his good hand, fingers curled into claws, toward Jack, who simply grinned and met the charge head-on. Jack twisted at the last second, ducked and whirled behind him, then sliced across the man’s unprotected nape with his sharp blade, severing his spinal cord.

  Jack’s cloak floated around him, coming to a silent rest, as the man’s body finally gave way to gravity and toppled to the ground. The blood—the red blood—had dulled Jack’s blade, and he missed the way it had gleamed in the lantern light just moments before.

  Squatting, he reached for the man’s jacket and wiped his sword, cleaning it more lovingly, and more carefully, than he’d tend to his own wounds.

  Speaking of which…

  The haze, the mania, was dissipating, and Jack’s tongue darted over dry lips as the pain from his side slowly registered. It was always like this, after he gave up control to the demon. He felt…deflated..

  But just like opium, the rush, the thrill was worth it.

  Crouching there beside the men he’d killed, Jack holstered his gun and pressed his hand to his side where the shot had scraped across his ribs. He felt blood seeping into his black waistcoat, but not too quickly, which was good.

  Remembering the thrill of seeing his enemies’ blood bloom, Jack squeezed his eyes shut on a wince. His own blood was decidedly less thrilling.

  He forced himself to stand and shuffle back a few steps, so he could lean against the porch rail as he returned his blade to the scabbard. Then he pulled his revolver once more and took time to reload it.

  Just in case.

  Think.

  King wasn’t here, and neither was the deed, he was sure of it. He’d been methodical in his search, and had even found and successfully cracked King’s safe, although it had taken longer than he’d ever admit to Thordis.

  There’d been a number of interesting papers inside, but the deed hadn’t been among them.

  In his pocket was the one piece of paper he’d taken: a contract between King and a Mr. Dick Stevens, dated yesterday, hiring the latter as “protection.”

  King had one goon left, and Jack needed to know everything he could find out about this new man he was now up against. Being out of the country for fifteen years meant he didn’t recognize the current gunslingers’ names as he and Daniel used to. But Tavie would know.

  And she’d help him, by God.

  It was bad enough the woman had dragged his arse home from Aegiria. It was bad enough she refused to kiss him again. But now she was masquerading as his mother’s companion, and that meant he had to see her every damn day.

  There was a hotel in town, and even King himself had offered Jack housing when he’d come to town, but Mother wouldn’t hear of it. She’d not seen her “baby” in much too long, and he’d sleep at home where he belonged, by God! It would blow their subterfuge all to hell, if King or the people of Black Aces discovered who he really was, but he couldn’t deny his mother.

  Not anymore.

  Jack swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut again, making sure his breaths were even and full. He remembered the expression on her face when he’d strolled through the door to his old home, right before Christmas. Even though she’d known he was coming, thanks to the indomitable Miss Tavie Smothers, her reaction had been…

  Well, if he were being honest with himself, her reaction had been everything he’d ever imagined, and secretly longed for.

  In ten long years, he hadn’t bothered to write to her. Hell, he’d been out of prison for six of those years and living the high life in Aegiria, a friend to princes and courtesans alike. He hadn’t written to her, hadn’t let her know he was alive, because he assumed she was better off not knowing. She had Father, and she had Daniel, the perfect son, and Jack…

  Jack had been happy to fade into memory.

  But when she saw him for the first time after all these years, she’d risen from her chair, her build a bit plumper and her face a bit more wrinkled than he’d remembered. Her hands had shaken as she’d raised them to her lips, and her tears had been silent. When he’d taken her in his arms, she’d whispered a shaky, “I knew you’d come back, my boy. I knew you’d help us.”

  In that moment, he’d mentally cursed his selfishness, which he knew was what had kept him away for so long.

  He’d cursed himself, and cursed his brother for dying so nobly, and his father for getting himself murdered by a useless waste of air like King. And he’d cursed Tavie, who’d found him and dragged his sorry arse back home.

  Tavie, who’d given him just one delicious, tantalizing taste, before closing herself off for what seemed to be forever.

  Exhaling, he dropped his head back on the porch rail.

  Tavie.

  He’d found her in his rooms at the palace, dressed in the same drab smock his fire-tender always wore. She’d kept her head down, just as his regular maid always did, but he’d been drunk and left uncomfortably aroused by a courtesan at a state dinner, so when Tavie had scurried past him, he’d reached out and snagged her arm. When she tumbled into his lap, he’d wrapped his arms around her and dragged her lips to his.

  She’d froze, and he’d thought her to be in shock. But when she had melted against him, returning his kiss with a passion he hadn’t expected, it had literally taken his breath away.

  The mania and his demons…they were nothing compared to the thrill of her lips against his skin.

  It had been shocking, stimulating, and more than a little confusing, and Jack had loved every bit of it.

  But then she pulled away, and he’d finally seen she wasn’t the mousy little downstairs maid who always tended his fire, but was actually the sexy barmaid who’d served him too much vodka the week before.

  And then, she’d blinked and straightened, pushing away from him with a deep breath, and he’d realized she wasn’t really either of the roles she had played.

  She delivered him a lecture on responsibility and honor, then handed him the letter from his mother, and a ticket to New York, leaving on the next steamer out of Copenhagen.

  A Pinkerton.

  She’d been a Pinkerton, and she’d taken on the roles of those other women in order to track him down and get close to him. Once she had, once she’d watched him, she’d given him the most magnificent kiss of his life, but refused to even touch him again.

  God help me.

  He swallowed and pushed himself upright, the pain in his side enough to make him growl in frustration, and caused his stomach to churn.

  But was it really the pain, or was it the memory of Tavie’s kiss affecting him like this?

  He’d returned to Black Aces to find Tavie firmly ensconced with his mother, playing the drab little mouse once more as Ruth Hoyle’s devoted companion.

 
He missed the barmaid.

  He wondered who the true Tavie really was.

  Telling himself it didn’t matter, he pushed aside thoughts of the elusive agent, and forced his mind to focus on his current predicament, which was what to do about the damn deed.

  King had obviously hidden the deed well, and King wasn’t here. Jack’s night had been saved from being a complete failure by his success in removing most of King’s henchmen from the picture.

  He glanced down at the body of the last man he’d killed, the lack of red haze allowing him to see the husk at his feet as a recently breathing man, and Jack swallowed again.

  He told himself the wooziness and confusion he was feeling was because of his wound and the loss of blood.

  With a groan, he pushed himself toward Burton’s horse, which was still standing placidly in the yard. Feeling as he did, Jack had no choice but to borrow one of King’s mounts in order to return to town. Return home.

  But his head was spinning by the time he pulled himself up into the saddle. It was always like this when the demon left him; he always felt so drained and tired.

  He placed his damp forehead against the horse’s neck, pressed his hand against his wound, and nudged the animal into motion.

  Home.

  Sleep.

  Tender hands.

  He’d feel better tomorrow.

  2

  Octavia Smothers lifted the sock she was knitting and squinted at it. Something was wrong, and she sighed as she realized she dropped at least eight stitches over the last few rows. Knitting was damn near impossible for her at the best of times, but when her mind was so scattered, it was hopeless.

  “And did he notice at all?” Ruth Hoyle, Jack’s mother, asked.

  “He’d better not,” Tavie mumbled in reply, before realizing the older woman hadn’t been asking about Jack and her pathetic excuse for a sock. She blinked and dropped the mangled knitting into her lap. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Ruth chuckled, which turned into a yawn. “Land sakes, it must be going on midnight. I don’t know how much later I can stay awake, and I swear my knitting is getting worse by the minute. Maybe Jack won’t mind mismatched socks too much.”

  Instead of chuckling along with her friend, Tavie scowled at the yarn as she began to pull out her rows by the lamplight.

  Jack better not mind mismatched socks, because that’s what he’s getting! Leaving us here alone to worry about his fool self, with nothing to do but knit...? I’m going to kill him.

  “Oh, forget that mess, dear. Even I can see you’re terrible at it, and I’m missing my glasses.”

  With a grateful huff, Tavie gave into the command and slumped against the back of the settee, allowing the knitting to drop into the basket between them. “What were we talking about?”

  Ruth chuckled and peered with bleary eyes at her needles. “You were telling me about how you met my Jack.”

  Oh, that’s right. Ruth had heard the story any number of times—she’d been the one to hire the Pinkertons, after all—but the older woman still enjoyed Tavie’s descriptions of the opulent Aegirian court.

  Tavie had been assigned to Ruth’s case a year prior to finding him, and it had taken her months and months to track down her missing son. His last contact with her had been in the form of a letter, dated ten years ago, in which he’d told her about the steamer he’d signed on with, and also some bits of information about his crew mates. That letter had been mailed from Melbourne, and the steamer had gone down in a storm the following year. By tracking down some of the mates he’d named, Tavie had been able to track Jack Hoyle to a prison in Kuala Lumpur, where he’d been housed with an unlikely cellmate: a royal prince.

  At the prison, she’d found records of the prince’s release, likely a result of copious bribes, and had traveled to the man’s home kingdom of Aegiria, a tiny island nation in the Baltic Sea. There, she’d discovered Jack Hoyle living the high life, completely oblivious and uncaring toward his mother’s pain and desperation.

  The first time they’d met, she’d almost slapped him for his selfishness.

  But instead, she applied her talent to finding out what she could about him, and after two weeks of watching him, discovered he wasn’t a bad man at all…but simply lost. And with his many talents, she knew he’d be able to help his hometown, just as Ruth had wanted him to do.

  “Your gown, dearie. Tell me about that.”

  Tavie smiled and closed her eyes, resting her head against the cushion behind her. Ruth never seemed to tire of hearing little details like that. “It was an emerald green silk, with tiny pearls sewn along the neckline. Nothing at all to compare with the princesses and countesses in their finery and jewels. But it was what I had with me, and one of my favorite disguises.”

  “And Prince Thordis? He took your hand and—” Ruth interrupted herself with a yawn.

  “I can be quite charming, you know. His Majesty took my hand and told me he had to introduce me to someone…” Tavie trailed off, remembering her first sighting of Jack Hoyle.

  He’d cut such a delicious figure in his formal black, so charming and elegant. But there was something about him, a darkness coiled around him, which had barely been contained. He’d carried himself with all the grace of a dancer, but it was obvious he was the most dangerous man at that royal ball.

  He moved like an angel, but the shadows in his eyes told her he carried a demon.

  And when he’d bowed over her hand, she’d wished they hadn’t been wearing gloves. She wanted to feel him, feel his skin, and wasn’t that a surprising reaction?

  “And Jack didn’t recognize you?” Ruth asked the question with a smile, her attention still on her knitting, bringing Tavie back to the present, yet again.

  “He had no idea who I was. Even later, after I revealed myself, he still didn’t know—still doesn’t to this day!—the French heiress he’d tried so hard to charm so beautifully the week before, was the same woman as the chambermaid he—” She bit down on the confession she’d been about to make. “The chambermaid who finally confronted him,” she finished weakly.

  Ruth, who appeared not to have noticed Tavie’s blunder, chuckled dryly. “Isn’t that just like a man? He probably didn’t bother to look above your décolletage. Was the dress low-cut?”

  Tavie’s lips twitched, and she opened her eyes to stare up at the ceiling. “The dress was cut in exactly the right way to draw attention to what needed attention.”

  She’d learned long ago that the secret to disguises was to give her audience something to remember. A lisp, a mole, a shrill laugh, an extremely low-cut gown. That’s what the people around her would remember, and once she removed that one thing, they almost never recognized her.

  The older woman chuckled again, then yawned. “Well, my dear, I don’t think I can last much longer. I think Jack must be staying in town.”

  Tavie hummed vaguely in agreement, but she knew the truth. Jack had gone to King’s ranch late this afternoon, and she knew he had been planning to confront the man. Since he wasn’t back yet, it likely meant something had gone horribly wrong.

  Or everything had gone perfectly right, and he was back in town drinking at the High Stakes Saloon, or something equally as thoughtless, not caring about the two women left waiting here and worrying about him.

  Pinching the bridge of her nose, Tavie let out a sigh, which might’ve been a groan. It was late.

  “Dear, I think I’m going to give up on these socks for now.” Ruth held her knitting aloft and frowned at it. “My Jack has gotten used to the finer things in life. Lumpy wool socks might no longer appeal to him.”

  Tavie’s heart clenched at the mother’s words. “I’m sure he’ll love them, Ruth,” she whispered hopefully.

  And if he doesn’t, I’ll make sure he tells you he does anyway.

  Ruth sighed and nodded. “You’re right. He is a good boy, isn’t he? Now, Dr. Vickers, he had the audacity to tell me I needed smaller needles, if you can imagine!”


  The way the older woman blushed told Tavie she wasn’t entirely displeased to be teased by the handsome doctor.

  “Oh, you made him socks, did you?”

  “More than a few pairs, actually,” Ruth said with a small smile, as she wound her yarn up, then dropped it into the basket. “Without anyone of my own around here to take care of, I’ve been known to make small items for some of the bachelors in town. The good doctor teases me, but is appreciative. Mr. Caplan is another one, although I believe he’s held a torch for me ever since I gifted him a pair!”

  Tavie joined Ruth in giggling this time, imagining the small man—easily a decade Ruth’s junior—believing a gift of socks meant she had deeply romantic feelings for him. Still, they both sobered when they remembered Millard Caplan’s current situation.

  “Has Doc said anything new about Caplan lately?” Tavie prompted.

  Ruth sighed. “The poor dear is still holding on, but gut shot is terrible. He wasn’t able to get out all the fragments, and Millard’s been in and out of consciousness for months now. Remember the infection back in January? Well, Cyril—I mean, Doctor Vickers—is afraid if another hits, Millard won’t be strong enough to survive.”

  Shaking her head, Tavie let out a sigh and scrubbed her hand across her face. “That’s too damn bad,” she whispered harshly.

  “Indeed.” Ruth cleared her throat as she stood, then brushed her skirts smooth. “Marshal Diamon is very curious to hear what Millard has to say, if it turns out he’s really been working against King all this time.”

  Up until the little man had stood up to the murderous former sheriff back in December, everyone had assumed Caplan was King’s toady. Now, US Marshal Diamon—who’d come to town on King’s orders, but being a better man, had taken over the job of sheriff instead—had felt he had sufficient cause to read through the books at the assayer’s office Caplan had been keeping for King all these years.

  Turns out, Caplan hadn’t been King’s toady after all.

  Ruth turned a sad smile her way. “I’m off to bed, my dear. If my son does manage to drag his butt home tonight, give him a talking-to for me, would you?”