The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

The next day at the shop was filled with stolen glances and hardly hidden smiles. Now and then, when Brogan slipped past Vera, he would take her hand and lightly kiss her fingers. She loved it, but she also deeply hoped to be kissed again like she had been the night before. Her wary heart had melted in that moment, choosing to believe in this man who rescued children, fed the poor, and saved working people from certain misery.

As closing time approached, she thought perhaps she would get her wish. But Móirín arrived just before Vera meant to lock the door.

“Don’t hold supper for me,” Brogan said to his sister. “I’ve a few bits of business to see to, and I’m likely to be back late.” He turned to Vera. “I’ll be quick as I can be, so I can see you before you settle in for the night.”

She raised a shoulder in a half-shrug. “You’re assuming I want to see you.”

Brogan slipped close enough to pull her to him, though only his arm and her waist touched. “Don’t you?”

Vera held his gaze. She didn’t answer beyond a slow-spreading smile.

“What if I vow to bring you a bag of hot chestnuts?”

She let her smile grow to a grin, even laughed a little. She’d done that more often since she’d met him.

With his free hand, he took hers and raised it to his lips. He kissed the back of her hand, her knuckles, the tips of her fingers. A breath quivered from her. He turned her hand over and brushed the lightest of kisses on the inside of her wrist.

“Blessed fields, you two,” Móirín’s voice interrupted. “You’re fit to make me vomit, you are.”

Brogan kept Vera’s hand in his but ceased his attentions. “Sisters are the worst,” he muttered with a laugh.

“This sister’s doing you a favor, lad, so you’d best not get on m’bad side.”

He met Vera’s eyes. “Don’t let her boss you about.”

“I won’t.”

He gave her hand one more quick kiss. “I’ll try not to be back too late.”

On that, he slipped from the shop. The moment he was gone, Móirín sat at the table and motioned for Vera to do the same.

“I need to close up,” Vera said.

“We need to talk first.”

No one could ever accuse Móirín of being weak-willed. Little wonder she’d so bravely assisted her brother in hiding from the Peelers.

Móirín didn’t keep her waiting. “My brother’s in love with you.” The bold declaration came without any hint of blush or hesitation. “And, having watched you watch him, I know ’tis a mutual feeling. I also know you’ve a few concerns due to m’brother’s often maddening sense of loyalty and infuriating selflessness.”

Vera didn’t know whether to laugh or be shocked.

“Let me see if I can’t sum up a conversation you’ve likely had with him recently.” She folded her hands on the tabletop. “He told you we grew up in a rough area of Dublin, that I was employed at Guinness. He explained that a man began causing problems and that same man was killed. A murder charge was levied along with a helping-a-murderer charge, and he and I fled to London.”

“Not quite word for word,” Vera said, “but that’s the bits and baubles of it.”

“And, while you’ve come to realize what a good heart he has and have found in your own heart a willingness to forgive him for having given you a false name, you’re still struggling with his having killed someone.”

She sighed. “It is a difficult thing to have rattling about in my chest. Came as a surprise.”

“Then allow me to surprise you further.” Móirín’s expression remained stoic. “Brogan didn’t kill anyone.”

“But the man in Dublin who was causing you so much grief—”

Móirín held up a hand to cut off the objection. “Brogan is not the one who is wanted for murder,” she said. “I am.”

A million questions flew through her mind. “I am almost certain he told me he was—” But suddenly she wasn’t certain. Perhaps he’d implied it. Or perhaps she’d inferred it.

“He lets people believe he killed my assailant. I think if he could manage it, he would try to convince the Peelers that he was the one who did it. Brogan protects people; it’s what he does, even at great cost to himself.”

“I know.” She spoke the realization as she had it. Brogan helped people. She’d seen it time and again. “It’s one of the things I—”

She stopped the words before they emerged.

Móirín finished for her. “One of the things you love about him.”

Heat crept over Vera’s face, putting truth to Móirín’s assumptions.

“You’ll find that helping people is a Donnelly trait.” Móirín lifted the edge of her dress enough to reach into her boot and pull out a knife. She set it on the table next to her.

“Are you expecting trouble?” Vera eyed the weapon.

“Always.” Móirín bent her arm and slipped her hand beneath the back collar of her dress. She pulled out a thick, black rod, roughly eight inches long. She held it out to Vera. “A fighting stick, you’ll find, is a useful thing.”

“I’d always imagined a shillelagh being longer.”

Móirín smiled. “’Tisn’t an ordinary shillelagh. I made this one m’self.” She placed one hand on each end of the stick and gave a firm outward tug. The stick pulled long, like a telescope. She twisted each end until a click sounded. Móirín tossed it in the air and caught it.

“There you are. An extremely portable and fighting-ready shillelagh.” She spun it about and handed it to her. “Safer than a gun for one who’s not experienced with a firearm, and better suited to you than a knife.”

Vera accepted the fighting stick, curious about Móirín’s invention. “Do you spend a lot of time twiggin’ which weapon is best suited to a person?”

“More than you might think.” In one fluid movement, Móirín snatched up her knife and stood. In that same instant, the door flew open and a large man with an inarguably angry expression stormed inside.

Surprise touched the ruffian’s face when he spotted Móirín.

“Oh, dear.” Móirín shook her head in a dramatic show of pity. “You were planning on attacking a woman entirely on her own, weren’t you? It’s right sorry I am to upend your odds.”

The man gave the smallest of smug shrugs. “Odds still ain’t bad.”

Three men stepped inside. Three large, sinister-looking men. Three equally sinister weapons.

“I ain’t personally pleased with those odds,” Vera said out the side of her mouth.

Móirín was unshaken. “We can hold our own.”

Vera grasped the shillelagh in as firm a grip as possible, eyeing the arrivals with growing uncertainty. She hadn’t Móirín’s confidence. Or apparent ability.

“Finesse, Vera,” Móirín said. “The shillelagh isn’t your enemy. Throttling it won’t help. Throttling them, however”—she pointed her knife at the huffs—“would help tremendously.”

Móirín’s calm tenacity was boosting Vera’s.

“I’ll do my best.” Vera adjusted her grip.

“Why is it women can’t stop chattering, even long enough to die with some dignity?” the leader of the group grumbled. “Cain’t even follow simple instructions in a note.”

Ah. “I suspect you’re the one who calls himself ‘the Protector,’” Vera said.

A satisfied smile slid over the man’s hardened features.

Móirín tossed back, “Some protector, coming after a woman thought to be alone but needing to have your wee friends along to protect you?”

His eyes darted to the dark-whiskered ruffian at his left, who shook his head.

“We ain’t here for jawing,” the Protector said. “We’re here to do what we came to do.”

All eyes turned to Vera.

She borrowed a page from Móirín and made a show of being entirely unconcerned while her racing heart desperately clawed at her frozen lungs. She held the shillelagh firm but not white-knuckled. She’d fight back, however imperfectly.

“Our goal,” Móirín whispered out the side of her mouth, “is escape.” Three men stepped closer. “Hold ’em off. Turn ’em ’round.” Three weapons flashed ominously. “Then, by all that’s holy, get out the door.”

“I can manage a bit of walloping until we’ve a clear path.”

“On with us, then.” Móirín brandished her knife and took a single step closer to their assailants.

Vera followed her lead.

One of the brigands sliced at Móirín. Vera beat back his arm with her shillelagh. The near miss lit a fire under the Irishwoman. The fierceness with which she fought spoke of a lifetime of struggle. Vera took strength from Móirín’s determination.

Large-armed men were coming from all directions. Clubs and knives flew and landed and dealt glancing blows. The desperation of the moment, the pulse of survival numbed her to the pain she knew she’d feel later, but only if they escaped.

Get out the door. That was their goal.

She matched Móirín’s maneuvering. Fighting off the onslaught just enough in the right direction to switch spots with their would-be assassins. One blow, one step, one moment at a time, they danced this sinister dance. The door was now behind Vera and her partner in struggle, the roughers in front of them.

“Out we go, mate.” Móirín tugged her through the door and into the street.

The night was dark. Though the lamplighters had been by, Vera’s eyes would need time to adjust. That would make defending herself more difficult. She could only hope the brutes had the same difficulty.

She and Móirín had only just turned to face the shop front when four shadows passed through the door.

“What do we do now?” Vera asked. “I don’t have experience with this sort of thing.”

“On the surface, ’twould seem best to run.”

“But we ain’t meaning to?” Vera guessed.

“We aren’t needing to.”

From the street behind, two men stepped to their side. Vera recognized one of them as Stone. The other, Vera didn’t know.

“Bang-up timing,” Móirín said.

“What of my timing?” That question was tossed out by Brogan. He’d only just stepped up on Móirín’s other side.

Next to him, Fletcher brandished a cudgel. He pointed the short, thick fighting stick at the Protector. “This is getting to be a habit with you lot.”

The Protector snapped a wire cord, the sort used for efficient and gruesome strangling. “That habit ends here. As do you.”

“Leadership at its most cowardly,” Brogan said, eyeing the man.

“He ain’t the leader,” Vera said. “He looks to Whiskers for direction.”

The true head of the gang slipped back, allowing his flunkies to tackle the task.

“We’ve more weapons than you,” the Protector said. “It’d be wise to hand over the woman we want and be on your way.”

“We won’t be doing anything of the sort,” Brogan said. “Even if we were as feckless as you, they wouldn’t hear of it.”

He motioned to a crowd Vera hadn’t noticed gathering around them.

Peter stood at the head of the group. “It’s time we end this.” He motioned the crowd forward.

In a rush of angry people, the roughs were forced from the shop front and out into the street. Others, apparently on the side of the Protector and his partners, took up the cause.

A melee took over the street. Utter chaos.

Vera tried directing away any children wandering into the fray. She couldn’t bear for Burnt Ricky or Bob’s Your Knuckle to be hurt.

Then someone she didn’t know, who sounded far finer than anyone from this corner of London, said something that stopped her in her tracks.

“That’s the Mastiff.”

Brogan turned. “Who is?”

The man motioned toward the shop overhang. The one Vera had named “Whiskers” stood there.

The Mastiff. The criminal mastermind. The one behind all their troubles. A man even the police feared.

“He’s the key,” Vera said to Brogan. “Clare and Four-Finger Mike said it’s bigger than the trouble we know of. If we nab him, that stops so much more suffering.”

They moved toward him.

“I’d advise you stay put,” the Mastiff said. “For your own safety.”

“We know who you are,” Brogan said.

“Of course you do.” The Mastiff smiled like a lion spotting his prey. “The problem is, there ain’t nothing you can do about it.”

Vera took a single step closer. “We can make certain you don’t get away.”

“The Irishman’s bleeding heart will make certain I do.” He casually moved past Peter’s replacement cart. He raised his left hand and, slowly, pointed at the print shop.

He snapped his fingers.

A blast of hot orange flames burst from the shop. The front windows blew out, sending shards of glass through the air.

Pain seared through Vera.

And the world went black.