Wild Card: Black Aces, Book Three Page 3

  Tavie nodded, stretching her arms out to either side as a yawn tickled the back of her throat. “I’m not far behind you, but I’ll stay up a bit longer.”

  “Goodnight, dear.”

  “’Night,” Tavie mumbled, around the yawn, which had finally escaped her.

  After the older lady left, Tavie rose and stretched again.

  Fifteen more minutes, she promised herself.

  If Jack still wasn’t back by then, she’d assume the blackguard wasn’t coming home at all that night.

  Thinking about Caplan made her even more anxious than she already had been to start with. If the man recovered, he’d be able to answer so many questions about King and—based on what Tavie had heard about Diamon’s investigations into the mine’s books—possibly even the Black Ace himself. She didn’t know where the rumor of the mysterious vigilante had started, or if he even really existed…but she knew Jack was taking advantage of it now.

  Rubbing at the back of her neck, she crossed to the small desk set along one wall, the skirt of her dull brown dress swishing around her ankles. Her body blocked the light from the lantern, but she didn’t need to see to know what was written on the paper she picked up.

  This was the results of her investigations, all carefully cataloged on the desk. She’d shared everything with Ruth back when she arrived, and again with Jack when he’d returned to Black Aces.

  It had been his idea to pretend to be an investor from Philadelphia in order to get close to King, and claimed he’d been inspired by Tavie’s disguises. Even though he’d returned to America with her, he’d stayed on the east coast in order for his lawyer to arrange contact with King, so he didn’t arrive in Montana Territory until just before Christmas.

  And despite her warnings, he’d still been shocked by what he’d found. Augustus King was the new owner of Mr. Jim Hoyle’s silver mine, the Bicycle, but that wasn’t all.

  Technically, the deed included a big chunk of land the town was sitting on, and every homeowner or businessman who lived or worked on that property—including Ruth herself—now had to pay King rent. Because of that, so many citizens have moved away over the last few years, that now Black Aces was in danger of becoming a ghost town…except for the actions of a few stubborn, loyal citizens.

  In December, thanks to the bravery of one Finnie Pompey—now Finnie Diamon—the town had discovered the mine was all played out, and every dime of King’s income was coming from those rents. He’d been increasing them regularly in an effort to maintain his lifestyle. Jack had been paying Ruth’s rent since he got here, of course, but now he was even giving her extra to spread amongst the townspeople.

  Still, this couldn’t last; something had to give soon.

  Jack’s adventure tonight was an attempt at a catalyst to end King’s hold over the town.

  Her thumb flicked at the edge of the page she held. In her hand was a sworn testimony from a saloon girl up in Helena, who’d been present at the poker game where King supposedly won the Bicycle deed from Jim Hoyle. She swore that, while the deed had been wagered, Hoyle had pulled the winning hand, not King. Hoyle had left that night still in possession of the deed.

  Tavie hadn’t been hired to investigate King, no. Ruth had paid the Pinkertons to find her son, whom she’d never once given up for dead as so many others had. But once Tavie heard the situation in Black Aces, once she’d met King herself and knew him for the evil son-of-a-bitch he was, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to put this case behind her.

  She’d returned to Chicago to report to her superiors and close the case of the missing Jack Hoyle. Then she’d quit, cashed in her accounts, and headed west to Montana Territory.

  Ruth Hoyle’s outrageous claims about King killing her husband and stealing the deed—and her inability to pay much—had just run off another companion, and Tavie knew she’d welcome her company. So Tavie dressed in her plainest gowns and held herself meekly, knowing no one in Black Aces would connect her with the arrival of the icy investor, Mr. Jonathan Douglas—Jack in disguise.

  And she’d helped. Although Jack probably didn’t realize it, she’d been helping all along, providing him with information and supplies he would need to defeat King. Now that he’d read the accounts of her investigation, he was even more ready to finish this.

  Assuming the whore’s testimony could be trusted—and having met her, Tavie had no reason not to—then King hadn’t won the deed as he’d claimed. Hoyle had turned up dead only a day or two after that fateful poker game, and King had spread the story the poor man had probably killed himself after drinking too much, in order to console himself over his loss.

  She placed the paper in the folder, her fingers skimming over another testimony. The Helena undertaker she’d interviewed had said Hoyle’s body showed no signs of him having partaken in too much drink, and he also stated no wallet or other personal items had been found on him.

  King’s claim to the Bicycle Mine and the land of Black Aces was dubious at best, illegal at worst. And Jack was determined to prove it.

  But he’d never been the most stable of men, and each time he went out to prove King a villain, Jack returned just a little darker than he’d been when he left.

  She was worried for him, and more than just for his safety.

  She worried for his soul.

  A noise on the back porch had her reaching for a heavy vase to use as a weapon, only to realize it was likely Jack returning. She curled her fingers into fists to keep herself from reaching for him once he entered the room, but allowed a sigh of relief to escape.

  He was back. He was alive.

  And she would do her damnedest not to let him know how much that meant to her.

  Her shoulders straightened, and she affected a nonchalant air as she turned toward the rear door.

  3

  Her good intentions went right out the window when he finally stepped into the light, and she was sure her gasp could be heard upstairs. She remembered Ruth was sleeping, and forced herself to be more quiet. She didn’t want to bother her friend, unless it was serious, and she had no choice.

  “Jack!” she hissed, reaching him and shoving her shoulder under one of his arms. “What happened?”

  He was hunched over and had three bloody fingermarks on his forehead—he must’ve run his hand through his hair at some point—which told her he was bleeding somewhere. Still, he shot her that wry grin of his as he shrugged her away.

  “I’m fine. Mostly,” he added with a groan, as she tsked and reached for his cloak. “Gently, please.”

  “Swear to God, Jack, if you make me fetch Doc Vickers in the middle of the night, you better have a damn good lie to tell him”—she tossed the cloak aside and glared at him—”but not me.”

  “Never you, Tavie.” His expression was oddly intent as he lifted his hand toward her cheek. “I don’t lie to you.”

  But she’d lied to him, hadn’t she?

  Tavie swallowed, knowing now wasn’t the time to focus on the way his oath made her feel, and she cast about for a distraction. She found it easily enough, right before his fingers reached her.

  “You’re bleeding!” She grabbed his hand and wrenched it down, yanking his glove off and ignoring his wince as she turned his hand over and back, looking for the wound. She also ignored the spike of warmth which shot through her when they touched, but she’d gotten good at that in the months since their first meeting at the royal ball. “Where are you hurt?”

  “My side,” he managed to gasp, and she dropped his hand.

  “Show me.”

  God help her, he smiled again. “You’re not just trying to get me out of these clothes, are you, Miss Tavie?”

  “Yes,” she snapped sarcastically, all business. “I’ve been trying for months, can’t you tell? Now shut up and hold still.”

  Miracle of miracles, he did, and even allowed her to unbutton his tight jacket and the fancy black waistcoat he wore as the Ace, then the thick shirt underneath. They both sucked in a breath
as she peeled away the last of his coverings, and he was left standing in his mother’s parlor in just his boots and trousers.

  The wound was a gunshot, obviously, but was only a flesh wound and already the bleeding had stopped. The skin had been torn away, but there wasn’t much to stitch, and as long as they kept it clean, she knew he’d live.

  Yeah, the wound wasn’t that big of a deal, but the rest of him…?

  Tavie knew she was staring, and didn’t bother pretending she wasn’t. Despite the months of living under the same roof, despite the way he teased and cajoled Tavie, despite the way he made her pulse race…she’d never seen him without a shirt.

  And he was magnificent.

  He wasn’t a large man, but carried himself with the lithe grace of a dancer, and his chest and shoulders told the same story. He was muscled, but not overly so, and his skin was peppered with small scars, reminders of distant nicks and cuts. There was a larger one on his left shoulder, another under his right nipple, and a large tattoo of an Asian feathered design in blues and blacks sweeping up and over his right shoulder.

  Her fingers itched to touch it, to touch him.

  He cleared this throat. “You know, Tavie, you could always kiss it better.”

  Her eyes flew to his. “What?” she croaked.

  When he shrugged, he must’ve pulled at his wound, because he hissed and clamped one dirty hand against it. “When we were boys, Mother used to kiss our hurts. I merely suggested…”

  He raised his brows charmingly, which broke the spell he’d cast over her. She scoffed and turned away, heading for the kitchen and the basket of medical supplies Ruth kept there.

  “I’m not your mother, Jack,” she called over her shoulder, “and you’re not a boy, so I’ll not be kissing you.” When she was sure he couldn’t hear her, she added a whispered, “Again.”

  When she returned, carrying a bar of soap, a bowl of water, and some bandages under her chin, he was standing as she’d left him, his pale blue eyes intense as they met hers.

  “Let me.” He jumped to help, pulling the material from where she’d tucked it, and moving toward the low table which held the lamp.

  She joined him, her mind on the task ahead. Or at least as much as possible, while he stood there all…naked.

  She dipped a rag in the water and scrubbed it with soap, then took a deep breath. “Ready?” she asked, as she looked up and made the mistake of meeting his eyes.

  “Ready,” he whispered in return, his face a careful blank mask.

  Who knows how long she would’ve stood there—her hand dripping water, as she stared wordlessly at his beautiful blue eyes—if he hadn’t winked. And, as always happened when he winked at her, Tavie blushed and found something else to focus on.

  Like his wound.

  They both sucked in a breath when she touched his side for the first time. For her, it was because of the warmth, which shot so quickly up her arm, she became lightheaded with desire.

  For him, it was probably the pain.

  Keeping her mind on that, she bent her head to the task of scrubbing the wound, while he stood holding his arm out of the way and staring resolutely at the far wall.

  At one point, she must’ve rubbed too hard, because he jerked again.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “I’m no nurse.”

  “You’re doing a fine job,” came the reply, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “Better than some nurses I’ve had, and you’re far prettier than Hito.”

  “Hito?” Anything to keep him talking. Anything to keep her from stealing glances at that glorious chest only inches from her lips.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him touch the tattoo on his shoulder. “Hito and I…we crewed together. And we ended up in prison together.”

  She hummed, recognizing the name from the rosters she’d researched. “He didn’t go to Aegiria with you and the prince?”

  “No.” He was silent for a long moment, before taking a deep breath. “He taught me and Thordis more than a few things though, before he died. Our jailers weren’t meticulous, to say the least, and he was one of the many victims of fever.”

  Her hands stilled, and she flicked her gaze up to his. “I’m sorry. He was your friend?”

  “He was the best of friends.” He cleared his throat, then winked at her again. “But he didn’t have your gentle touch. And he never kissed me.”

  Scowling now to hide her flushed face, she stood and tossed the rag into the bowl of dirty water. “Neither have I,” she snapped, reaching for the bandage. “Hold this end.”

  He pretended to be wounded by her words as he began to turn in place so she could wrap the cloth around his middle. “You’ve never kissed me, Tavie? Have you forgotten so easily? Should I remind you?” he teased, as he completed his last spin. “I could pull you into my lap—”

  “That wasn’t me.” Still holding the roll of bandage, even though it meant they were standing far too close, she lifted her chin and met his eyes. “That was a role I was playing, Jack. I needed to get close enough to you to see what kind of man you were.”

  He lifted a brow, but kept his voice soft, when he asked, “So you served me too much vodka?”

  “Again, I’m not your mother. You’re a grown man, and I only served what you asked for.” Before he could object again, she clicked her tongue. “I wasn’t just there serving anyway. I was there to watch you interact with your friends, to see how you treated others. I wanted to see if you were a good man.”

  He hummed. “Well, you must’ve thought I was, because you came to my room the next—”

  “I came to your room every night for two weeks,” she hurried to correct him. “I was also the maid who tended the fire in your room each evening.”

  That information caught him by surprise. She could tell from his slight frown and the way his lids half-closed over his lovely eyes as he considered this new information.

  Satisfied he understood how thoroughly she’d investigated him, she nodded firmly. “I confess I was using that time to rifle through your things, but I needed to know more about you. Your debts, your hobbies, that sort of thing. Your mother had hired me to find you, but…”

  “But what?” he finally prompted.

  “But,” she said with a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the bandage in her hand, “I needed to see if you were worth being found. If you would help her.”

  When he stepped toward her, the taut bandage went slack, but she couldn’t make herself care.

  “And what did you find?” he whispered.

  She’d found a tortured man. One who murmured and cried out in his sleep. One who frequently left bloody clothes for the maids to clean up, and who rarely drank to excess. She’d found a man who seemed at ease with princes and servants and courtiers alike.

  “I don’t know,” she finally confessed with a shrug, unable to drop her gaze from his. “You were a conundrum. I likely would’ve left and alerted your mother to your whereabouts, had…”

  “Had I not discovered you?”

  Discovered. What a simple way to refer to that kiss. That kiss, which had affected her the way no other kiss had. That kiss, which had reached deep inside her stomach and into her very core, and made her hot and wet and oh-so-ready. That kiss, which had caused her to melt for the first time in—

  In ever.

  So she ducked her chin and focused on wrapping the bandage once more. “Yes,” she whispered.

  He was silent and still as she teased the end of the bandage out from near his wound, then reached around his back to pass the free end around once more. That’s when he struck, pinning her arms around him with his own, as he cupped her upper arms.

  Surprised, her gaze darted back to his.

  “You would’ve left me there, without exploring this—this this between us?”

  “There’s—” She cleared her throat, but made no effort to pull free. “There’s no this between us.”

  And that’s when he tilted his hips eve
r so slightly, pushing their pelvises together, so she could feel the long ridge of his erection.

  Her eyes widened, just as his grin grew.

  “This,” he said firmly. When she tugged away from him, he let her go, but his shrug looked much too nonchalant. “I’m just wondering why you won’t let me kiss you again.”

  Flushing, she focused on tying the bandage under his arm. “I won’t kiss you, because that’s not who I am.”

  Just as she was straightening from her task, he reached out and tugged one of her dark curls, which had come lose from her coiffure and was hanging near her ear. The gesture was so intimate—half-teasing, half-sweet—that she froze in place.

  “Not who you are, hmm? I know you’re not this drab mouse of a chambermaid you pretend to be in town. Dressing all in browns so no one will notice you, keeping your chin tucked so no one meets those glorious hazel eyes of yours. It’s stupid.”

  Scowling, trying hard to ignore the way his compliment made her stomach clench, she pulled out of his reach. “There’s a part of me in every role I play, Jack. That’s what makes the disguise so convincing.”

  To her surprise, a lazy grin stretched across his face at her claim. He rolled his shoulders and crossed his arms in front of his bandaged chest, barely wincing at the tug.

  “Then the barmaid, who kissed me back so thoroughly...she’s a part of you too.”

  Dammit.

  Flustered, and irritated she was flustered, Tavie stumbled away from him. She blew out a breath and scrubbed her hand over her face. “What happened tonight, Jack?” she asked wearily. “What the hell were you up to?”

  He must’ve taken the hint she was done talking about kissing—kissing him at least—because he crossed to the small liquor cabinet which stood under one of the dark windows.

  She watched the muscles on his back move under the bandage as he poured himself something. His lovely, naked back—

  Stop it, girl.

  “I went to King’s house,” he finally said, his back still to her. “He wasn’t there, and I couldn’t find the deed.”