Prologue
James Garahan sat at a table in back of one of the filthiest taverns in the underbelly of London…waiting for his quarry.
Attuned, and observant, to his surroundings, he watched the serving lass approach. Something was off. His instincts on high alert, he noticed her limp was more pronounced. As she set the tankard of ale on his table, her sleeve shifted slightly, revealing a ring of dark purple circling her wrist.
Until that moment, he had not realized how strong the need to protect her had become. He would get to the bottom of why she was being abused, and by whom and when—but had to tread carefully. He could not compromise his assignment. “Thank ye, lass.”
She nodded and quickly looked away. He reached for her arm, and she flinched. Even a blind man could see the signs. He had not been to the tavern in a few weeks, and in that time her situation had changed—it worsened.
That changed everything. He would need to push harder this time. “Have ye thought about me offer?”
She lifted the corner of her apron to wipe a splash of ale from the table. With a quick glance over her shoulder at the tavern keep, she answered, “Aye.”
“On me honor, I want to help—not harm—ye, lass. I know of a position offering a fair wage for an honest day’s work.”
“Melinda!” the owner yelled.
The fear in her eyes scraped Garahan’s gut raw. “Did ye pack yer bag like I asked ye to?”
“I can’t leave.”
The owner called her name a second time, and she stumbled, but righted herself, in her bid to answer the summons.
Garahan had taken the man’s measure the first time he entered the tavern—an overweight man with soulless dark eyes that only brightened if a coin was waved beneath his nose. He did not trust the owner.
Concern for the lass filled him. He would make a point to return in two days’ time instead of five. He drained his tankard and left a coin on the table for the lass. He needed to speak to her, but it would draw unwanted attention to her—and to him. If he were to continue to utilize this establishment to gain the information he needed, he would have to be patient.
Mayhap the lass would change her mind.
As he made his way through the darkened alleyways toward Grosvenor Square, the lass lingered on his mind. The alleyways had brightened, and the cobblestones were no longer littered with refuse, by the time he realized he wanted more than to make a difference in her life—he wanted her to trust him so that she would be a part of his life.
Convincing her to trust him, and take that chance, would be difficult enough. To open her eyes to the possibility of letting him into her heart would take a miracle.
Garahan rubbed at the scar around his throat. The good Lord owed him a miracle.
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