A Most Dangerous Profession(81)
But Robert had his pistol out and ready before the man could swing again. “Don’t even consider it. I’m quite capable of shooting you through the eye.”
The man growled. “What do ye want?”
“My daughter.” Robert pulled a small bag out of his coat pocket and tossed it to the man.
The guard caught the bag without thinking and eyed it suspiciously.
“That’s twenty guineas. More than you make in a year from Mr. Aniston, I’m sure.”
The man tugged open the bag and poured the coins into his hand.
“You are here because you’ve been paid to be here. Now you’ve been paid not to be here. You can either stay and face a bullet, or you can leave with twenty guineas in your pocket and pretend you never saw this place. I don’t care which you choose, but be quick about it. I’ve things to do.”
The man stared at the coins before he raised a bemused gaze to Robert. “And the lass is yer daughter?”
“My only daughter.”
The man poured the money back into the pouch and stuffed it into his pocket, then he lumbered to the door. “I never liked Aniston, no ways.”
“Where is she?”
The man jerked his head to another door by the small coal heater. “She’s in there with her nurse, a mean woman. She’s no’ so good to the lass.”
Robert’s jaw tightened. “Thank you.”
The man nodded and left.
Robert opened the door the giant had indicated. A hard-faced woman stood before the small fireplace. She looked sour even before she spat out, “I heard ye speakin’ in t’other room and I know ye came fer the lass.”
“Where is she?”
A hard line formed on either side of the woman’s mouth. “I’ll have me own coins afore I tell ye tha’.”
Robert had several more pouches of coins in his pockets, but said, “Get out.”
Her lips thinned. “I’ll scream, I will, and raise the household.”
“They’re already raised. I fully expect to see the entire group before I’m done, so scream away.”
A desperate look entered her eyes. “If ye’re the father, ye should know the mither promised me coins fer keepin’ the lass in good health and fer not hittin’ her—though she sorely needs it sometimes.”
Robert’s hand was so tight on his pistol that it shook, his fingers almost white. He lowered the pistol and snapped, “I’ve warned you. Get. Out.”
“I want the coin she promised me or I’m not leavin,’ and not tellin’ ye where the child is, either!”
Robert grasped her thin arm and dragged her from the room, out to the landing, and to the top of the steps.
“I want me money!”
“And I want you to suffer for every moment of fear you gave that child—but neither of us is going to get what we want.” He pointed to the steps.
After a moment, she hunched her shoulders and marched down the stairs.
Robert hurried back to the room. A small bed was in one corner, the sheets awry, as if someone had hurriedly left them. A series of trunks lined one wall.
He softly called, “Rowena?”
No answer was returned. The din outside had quieted, so his time was short. “Rowena, I’ve come from your mother. She’s waiting for you. We have to hur—”
One of the trunks opened and a small, tousled head peeked over the edge. Robert found himself looking down into a small face framed by a wealth of curly dark hair. For an instant he couldn’t think, feel, or breathe—he could only stare. Good God, she looks exactly like me.
The little girl returned his gaze solemnly. She was dressed in a ragged gown of dark blue that matched her eyes, and he knew without hesitation that she was his.
She gulped and he caught panic in her gaze. “Where is my mother?”
Robert found his voice. “She will be along soon, but we must hurry.”
Rowena nodded. “You must be my father, then.”
Robert caught his breath. “How . . . why do you say that?”
“Mother said that if we ever needed you, you would come.” Large blue eyes looked directly into his, so honest they almost pained him. “What took you so long?”
Robert’s heart tightened and he said in a choked voice, “Many problems, but I have come. And I will save you, no matter what.”
In that instant Robert faced a powerful truth: she was his daughter, and he never wanted to be without her again.