His Fire Maiden

Chapter 20

Ian Mckinnon entertained his whore for half the night.

Three floors below, in the quiet dark of Mckinnon's library, Reginald pulled his watch from his pocket. Nearly two in the morning. He rolled his eyes and snapped the watch shut. It galled him to wait. In his current mood, he wanted to kill anyone lucky enough to get sexual satisfaction. Most especially McKinnon.

But surprise was key when invading Mckinnon's lair. As it was, Rossberry had slid away upon learning of Reginald's interest. Now the bulk of Mckinnon's staff had disappeared overnight, either having been let go or sent on elsewhere, disbanding with the same ghostly efficiency as Rossberry's staff. Reginald could ill afford to let Mckinnon slip through his fingers. Not after what he'd seen tonight—his golden ring upon the man's finger, glinting in the light. So real it was a shock to see it. It had taken all of his control not to rip it from Mckinnon's hand then and there. But Vivienne would have seen and asked questions.

A loud thump and a disjointed groan came from above, drawing Reginald's gaze to the carved flower medallion upon the ceiling. If the cur didn't finish soon, he'd drag him from his bed. Reginald finished his single malt with an impatient swallow. At least the man stocked a proper bar.

Laughter rang out, the whore's nasal titters tempered by Mckinnon's deep rumble. Reginald suppressed an oath. Even when he'd been whole, he hadn't been able to bring himself to pay for pleasure. The pair scampered drunkenly down the last set of stairs, coming into view as they paused in the hall. Light from the flickering wall sconces fell upon the woman, and the lingering taste of peaty scotch turned sour in Reginald's mouth. Ginger-haired, green-eyed, and uncommonly tall, she possessed nauseatingly obvious qualifications for Mckinnon's selection. Her fine clothes and good skin marked her as quality goods. Reginald repressed a snort. One might as well try to pass off chalk-water for cream.

Reginald waited in silence while Mckinnon paid his doxy and sent her on her way with a loud slap to her rump. Humming a satisfied tune, he sauntered into the library moments later, headed for the drinks table.

"A rather pathetic imitation for the real thing," Reginald said, shattering the peaceful silence.

Mckinnon started, his fine slippers scuffing on the parquet. A low growl sounded in his throat as he whipped around, puzzlement over how he had missed an intruder knitting his brows.

Yellow flashed in Mckinnon's blue eyes as Reginald lit the lamp.

"Even for you, Mckinnon."

Realization came quickly to Mckinnon. "Of course," he said lightly. "You smell like nothing." He straightened his dressing gown and helped himself to a tumbler of scotch. His throat bobbed against his open collar as he swallowed it down in one gulp. The glass landed hard upon the wood. The smoky lamplight cast shadows over Mckinnon's lean features as he glanced at Reginald. "Well, perhaps like frozen death."

Reginald smiled blandly. "And you smell like wet fur."

Mckinnon laughed. "Aye, well." His eyes gleamed in the dull lamplight. "You haven't come for my irresistible charms, I see. Then what? Eavesdropping give you a cheap thrill? I'd have to guess you're still repressed by that juvenile fear of bedding whores."

"Is that what you call it?" Reginald flashed his teeth. "Here I thought it was an aversion to paying someone to want me. I'll get my pleasure for free, thanks."

Mckinnon grinned. "But are you? I suspect your presence here rather screams your fear of where your wife's affections lie."

Reginald smoothed a wrinkle in his trousers, his hand shaking but a little. He was fairly certain where her affections lay. The thought of it coursed hot through his blood.