The Unicorn's Tail (The Artifact Hunters) Page 4

  "Don't be stupid. Make yourself scarce." Jackson gave Hunter a shove toward his mount.

  "You don't scare me, none of you do." He stabbed the air with his finger.

  "Then you're a fuckin' idiot." The men ranged out behind him, blocking the way back to the bonfire. At least one of the three had a brain cell and realised there wouldn't be a party for them.

  He climbed back on his horse. "C'mon," said the mounted man. "Save it for later."

  Hunter gave a grunt, and for a moment Jackson thought the fool would have a go at making his point. Then he tossed the beer to the ground and snatched his reins. He pulled the horse around tight as he mounted and put his boot to its side.

  "Think he'll be back?" one of his men asked.

  "Not tonight, but keep your eyes peeled for him." He waited until he no longer heard the pounding hooves before returning to the bonfire.

  Loki approached as he stared into flames. "Do you know how I intend to start the New Year?"

  "How?" he grunted out the syllable without turning.

  "Watching a very large chicken run around the back lawn." He gave a soft laugh and scanned the surrounding throng of people before his gaze rested on one in particular, wearing deep red and laughing with the house maids.

  Pirate had some plan up his sleeve if he thought he'd win the bet tonight.

  Loki slapped him on the back. "Not long now. I need to go limber up my lips." He disappeared from his side.

  Thoughts ran through Jackson's brain before he smacked himself. New Year's, of course. The traditional kiss on the stroke of midnight. "Where are they?" He spun away from the heat and flame. The crowd got louder as the excitement level rose. Men eyed the women with open speculation, lining up their choice for the impending kiss. Women grouped together and giggled, because it wasn't the man's choice at all.

  Cara gave Nate a promising smile and headed toward the edge of the ring of light. Her body drifted to the dark side as he prowled behind her.

  "One minute," someone screamed over all the laughter and chatter. The music died down as the impromptu orchestra put down their instruments and rose to join the festive atmosphere.

  He swung his head back and forth, the bloodhound trying to catch a scent. Then he caught a glimpse of them over the other side and shouldered his way through people. "It ain't gonna be so easy," he muttered as he kept his gaze fixed on Loki lining himself up behind Amy.

  He reached out and tapped the pirate on the shoulder. He spun and his black eyes widened. "You're too late." He gave a laugh.

  The hand on the huge clock edged closer to the twelve and the crowd began counting.

  "Ten… nine…"

  Loki turned his back on Jackson and stepped closer to Amy. He breathed into his hand and sniffed his breath. His hand reached out for the noble girl. There was no way he would win this bet, not right in front of him.

  "Eight…. seven…"

  Jackson gave the other man a shove to one side before he could touch their target. Well aware of the game they played, he positioned himself to be the only face Amy saw at midnight. At the moment the roaring flames captured her attention but in a few seconds she would turn, looking for someone to kiss.

  "Six… five…"

  Loki shoved back, but Jackson stood his ground. Years of boxing taught him to take a hit but hold his position.

  "Suck this." He grinned at the pirate and gave him the finger.

  "Four… three…"

  Rage crossed the other man's face. Unused to losing, he didn't intend to start now. One arm swung back then struck, hitting Jackson's jaw. His head recoiled. Damn pirate had a good arm for a flyboy. He couldn't let that go unanswered.

  "Two…"

  He struck his own blow, but his opponent dodged. Loki caught his arm on the downswing and pulled him into a headlock. The two men fell to the ground and the fist fight turned into a wrestling match. They grappled, each trying to gain the superior position and pin the other to the ground. Jackson had weight and sheer physical strength on his side, Loki had agility and speed.

  *

  "One!" The assembled masses cheered. Amy looked around as Nate caught Cara from behind and the two of them disappeared into the shadows. She had, foolishly, hoped to catch Loki. The charming devil probably found a more willing and experienced woman to help him celebrate. An image of lonely Jackson came to mind and she shoved it down.

  A roar came from behind her, where a loose circle of men appeared to be betting on a wrestling match. A tug came at her sleeve. Glancing down she found Stefan, the house boy. All of six years old, he gave her an enormous and gappy (he had just lost his front teeth) grin.

  "Kiss, miss?" he lisped between the space in his teeth.

  She laughed and bent down to kiss his cheek. He reddened, gave her a quick bob and ran into the crowd yelling

  "She kissed me! She kissed me!"

  Chapter Five

  2nd January 1862

  Jackson found Amy sewing curtains for the study. She kept her hands busy and he wondered what flitted through her mind as she worked. Did she think of clothes and fripperies like other women, or deeper things? His gut told him far more went on in that head than she let on.

  He coughed to attract her attention and she gave a start.

  "Oh." She jumped and then stared at her finger where she'd jabbed the needle.

  "Sorry," he muttered. "Dollface said you would look at the cottage, see what you can do."

  She popped the bleeding finger in to her mouth and he watched those pink lips suck the digit. He looked away and shifted from foot to foot, his pants feeling a fraction too tight. No man could watch that and not imagine something other than a finger being caressed by a woman's tongue.

  Her gaze darted from him back to the fabric in her lap. She pulled the finger out with a pop. "Yes, all right. A walk would be nice." She parked the needle and slid the curtain off her knee to the sofa.

  Bloody hell. Why did life keep throwing women at him who wanted to walk everywhere?

  She trotted a few paces behind as he headed to the sunroom at the back of the house, which became a wet room in winter. He cast a glance to make sure she followed, but even in the wide corridor she kept her distance. Bloody stupid bet, he couldn't get within three paces of the chit, how the hell was he ever going to kiss her? Lips on a stick?

  He grabbed his overcoat and woollen hat and watched her don a pale lilac coat.

  "If you insist on walking through the snow you'd be better off with pants and boots."

  Her head shot up and a look of horror crept into her brown eyes as though he'd just suggested to walk around naked for the health benefits. "Cara might wear pants but I shall not do anything of the sort."

  He gave a huff. "Your choice." He held the door open and they stepped out into the frigid winter air. The wide stone steps became close-cropped lawn until the edge of the trees and the path that was little more than a sheep track. A worn space that ambled among the trees with no apparent direction, except it was the same path all the animals trod, including the men who walked this way.

  He shook his head, watching her skirts soak up the moisture and become heavier with each stride. The snow piled higher around the trees and wood where the watery sunlight couldn't reach. With each water-logged step she became slower and fell farther behind. He stopped and leaned against a rough trunk, waiting for her to catch up.

  Her eyes remained downcast the whole time, intent on the placement of each foot. She stopped with a start when she saw his boots jutting into her line of sight. Her gaze moved upward. "Sorry," she muttered and blushed as she realised he waited for her. "The pavements are swept in London. I didn't realise snow was so…wet." She screwed up her eyes and took a couple of short breaths.

  Hells bells, was she going to cry? Over a damp skirt?

  "If you're gonna wear skirts get some hikes for rough ground."

  Those mournful eyes flew open. A man could get lost in those warm depths, if he ever got close enough.

>   "Hikes?" she asked.

  "Skirt hikes, lifts the front so you don't end up dragging a bucket of water along with you." He patted down his pockets and then flicked open the pouch on his belt. He rummaged around and came up with two split rings and some string. "Not perfect, but this might work."

  He slid the knife out of its sheath and cut the string in two. Then tied a piece to each ring and handed them to Amy. "Have you got something at your waist to tie one on each side?"

  She took the makeshift hikes and turned her back. He watched her unbutton her coat and lift her jacket, fiddling with something he wasn't allowed to see. Probably using the bottom eyelets on her corset. An image flashed through his brain; Amy in corset, under-chemise, stockings, and nothing else, and most definitely not shying from his gaze. The sight of her sucking her finger had got jammed in his brain and messed up his thought processes. He buried the unwelcome images under a ton of cold snow. His dick straining in his pants wouldn't help the situation or put her at ease.

  She turned back, string and rings dangling from under her jacket. "Now what?"

  He showed her how to thread the fabric through the ring to lift her skirt. Now the hem sat six inches from the ground, but her ankles were demurely hidden in her leather boots.

  "Oh how ingenious. Thank you." She gave him a smile and cocked her head to one side, as though seeing him for the first time.

  *

  Amy stopped at the end of the path and looked out over the still water. "It's beautiful," she said. "Like something from a fairy tale." Skeletal willows reached out over the water, their branches shades of silver against the pale sky. Snow lay at the edges, and the first foot or two of the water was frozen over. A little jetty ran out over the lake; frost dusted it with sparkles and the sun lit the damp timber like a dark exotic jewel.

  "You really think it's pretty?" He stood behind her.

  "Yes." The entire landscape had an ethereal quality and a quietness that soothed her soul. You could hide from the world here, suspended in your own time and reality. Her hand dropped to the bracelet around her wrist and a movement on the distant shore caught her eye. The snow and ice particles reformed in the shape of a unicorn, looking out over the lake. Sparkling fragments danced around its edges, blurring the outline. She caught her breath at the luminous image and her fingers tightened on the bracelet. The unicorn turned and looked at her; he dipped his head in acknowledgment and then melted back into the surrounding snow.

  "The cottage needs work." Jackson's voice broke the magical spell.

  She dragged her gaze from where she'd sighted the mythical creature and turned to survey the honey-coloured building. Wide, tall windows gave it an open expression and naked ivy and roses clamoured up the brick. Even winter could not chill the warmth of the façade. Paint the house in sunshine and a riot of fresh flowers and it would be gorgeous, welcoming. A home.

  She gave a sigh. What a fantastic place to raise children, with all of the surrounding wood to explore, the perfect setting for all sorts of adventures. There would be fishing and swimming in the lake in the warmer weather. She would never forbid her children from swimming or make them stick to the shallows. She would raise guppies if she could, or mermaids to frolic with the unicorn.

  She trod the crushed-shell path with slow steps, peering at the dormant garden. She tried to identify the slumbering plants, but managed only a few. Spring would erupt in a few months, and nature's gifts would reveal themselves.

  A rusty iron ring hung in the middle of the enormous door. It looked like a solid piece of oak that, once closed, would protect the occupants from the rage of any storm.

  Jackson shouldered the door and it gave on protesting hinges. "It ain't much," he said, stepping inside the dim interior. "Just four rooms down and four above."

  "Lordy." She wandered into the first leaf-strewn room. "For a man who runs an efficient business empire, Nathaniel's not big on home maintenance."

  "Lot of memories out here, some best left undisturbed." He stood at the door and watched her move about the space.

  "So why clean this house out now?" Why should ghosts be left to wander on their own? She moved to the window with its lone chair. She ran a finger along the back. The spot had a clear view of the lake and the small jetty running out to the water. A perfect position to wait and watch the wood for unicorns.

  "I'm going to oversee operations out here. Need my own place." He moved around behind her.

  It wasn't a huge project, not like the crypt Cara now called home. That would take months to redecorate from top to toe. The cottage just needed some love to give it a new life.

  "The lads and I checked the roof over Christmas and only a few tiles were loose. We're setting up a boiler out back and just need to run the steam pipes. Won't be too long and the old girl will be water-tight and warm." He patted a wall. "She might look rough, but it's just on the surface."

  His words echoed her thoughts. The old house needed a chance for the walls within to start over and be something else. Although how did one decorate for a henchman? Wallpaper patterns that hide blood splatters and hard flooring for ease of spittle clean-up? "If I asked for one word to describe how you see this place, what would your word be?"

  "Family." He spoke so low she strained to catch the word.

  She expected him to say brothel or dockside tavern, although technically that was two words. She turned and found the former pugilist staring off at a ceiling rose. For a moment his features softened as he replayed some memory only he could see. What made him say family? She tried to imagine him sitting in front of a fire, toddlers crawling over him as he carved a small wooden toy.

  She laughed it off. Then looked again, screwed up her eyes and cocked her head.

  As though he sensed her scrutiny he spun on his heel and met her gaze. "Why are you making a chicken face?"

  "Nothing." She waved the image away but it refused to budge. Ah. A memory wormed its way to the surface of her brain. "Cara said you lost your family," she blurted out, having remembered talk of a wife and child.

  His gaze turned hard and he drew a deep breath through his nose that sounded like a dragon snort. "Not lost, they were taken." His tone was rough. His hands bunched by his sides, fingers fisting and uncurling. Then he grabbed a loose end of wallpaper and ripped the whole strip free.

  "Taken?" An odd way to phrase it — perhaps they died in the typhoid outbreak?

  "My wife and daughter were slaughtered like cattle in my kitchen and their bodies left for me to find as a warning." He balled up the paper with short furious punches and then threw it in a corner.

  "Oh." She paled. Slaughtered like cattle. He once had a daughter. She swayed on her feet and rested one hand on the wall for support. To lose a child like that, amid violence. What a world to live in, where a warning cost a woman and babe their lives. What was Cara involved in? She needed to move her brain away from the horrific scene it conjured of a small broken body. "Would they have liked it out here?"

  He stood silent for a moment, one hand rubbed the back of his neck. "Sarah would have loved it. All them places to explore when she grew big enough. Angelique would have hated the isolation. Too much of a city girl; she needed chatter around her, that one."

  She couldn't imagine hating the quiet spot. She dreaded having to return to London and would gladly trade the shallow conversations for rural solitude.

  "Well, I don't think it will take too much to have this place habitable again. Can I look upstairs?"

  He gave a nod and waved his arm. Amy spent a couple of hours wandering around the rooms, imagining how they would be used and colours would bring out the warmth and magic of the surroundings. Then, with reluctance, she allowed Jackson to guide her back to the main house.

  *

  He prowled his room. Although Lyons gave him a generous suite, it still seemed to hedge him in, his body used to movement and tired muscles. Operations were under control. The cursed artifacts deep under the house didn't exactly demand much of
his time. He did a sweep once a day to make sure they were all where they should be, and dreaded the day something moved. Occasionally dollface dug up a new resident, and he secured it away in the appropriately sized triple-lined cage.

  They converted the huge barn out back into a workshop and now it churned out mechanical creations based on da Vinci's stolen designs, refined by Lyons. They sold for exorbitant amounts to fellows with deep pockets and even deeper secrets. The only fly in his ointment was Jasper Hunter. He knew his type — the local thug would be back, crowing like he was king of everything he surveyed. They just had to be ready for him.

  Lyons maintained a policy of giving the idiots enough rope to hang themselves, letting the pretenders make the first move. Once the fly buzzed into their air space they would smash him, but the waiting made his teeth ache. You never knew when someone would get smart, and not everyone obeyed their rule of never going after women and children. It took all his will not to lash out after finding Angelique and Sarah bled out in his kitchen. Four men had to hold him down until his vision stopped seeing red.

  No one would ever touch what was his again. Lyons made him that promise. He'd be damned if Hunter would hurt anyone at the estate, especially not Amy. The princess didn't need to see the ugly side of life. He would sleep with one eye open until Hunter was put in his place, permanently.

  He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Normally he drifted off to sleep with memories of Angel running through his mind. Tonight it wasn't the foul-mouthed blonde smiling at him, but a timid brunette. He remembered the rapture in her voice on seeing the cottage's location. The longing in her voice as she spoke of children running and playing in the wild landscape.

  At times he glimpsed a keen intelligence peering out from those large brown eyes, but she shut it down if she thought anyone noticed. Like a present, she had layers that needed to be removed. Gut instinct told him if he peeled away enough layers she harboured a sensuous side waiting to be set free. The idea made him groan and his flesh ached at the idea as he remembered her tongue swirling around her bleeding finger.