The Unicorn's Tail (The Artifact Hunters) (13 page)

He ran his gaze over the two-storeyed structure. "He'll be upstairs, in one of the rooms. I'll find her and signal which one."

"Then what?" Davie asked, a frown on his brow.

Jackson gave Tor a pat. "Flag down flyboy if you see him buzzing around. And aim the barrel at the window. Give me a minute from when you see the signal, then send them a special Lyons message."

The pub had seen better days; the door sat uneven on its hinges and scraped over the floor before yielding to his shoulder. Light struggled to make it through dirt-encrusted windows, which was just as well, as it hid some of the myriad of stains covering the floor. Some of the chairs were broken, and at least one table wobbled on three and a half legs. The patrons looked no better. A small huddle sat in front of the fire, each staring into their beers. Another collapsed half over the bar.

He cast a glance around. The place was a complete tip, and he didn't want to touch anything. Which was saying something, given he grew up in the St Giles Rookery and was no stranger to dirt. He strode to the counter, rifle slung over his back and coat unbuttoned to access the pistol on his hip. The barman didn't even raise an eyebrow, but mopped the bar with a filthy rag.

"Where's Hunter?"

The barman ignored him and the slumped patron slid along the bar to nudge his arm.

"Who wants to know?" he slurred out the vowels around several pints of lager.

Jackson didn't even bother to look — he struck out with his elbow, waited for the thump of the drunk hitting the ground and kept his gaze fixed on the owner. "Hunter. Or are you trading sides and no longer want Lyons patronage?"

The man paused in his efforts to spread disease all over the counter top. "I don't want no trouble," he muttered.

"Then figure out which side of your bread you wanted buttered and which side burnt to hell."

Bugger this. The bastard had his princess. He reached out for the man and grabbed the front of his grubby shirt and hauled him over the counter. He drew his pistol with his other hand and shoved the butt hard against a bulbous nose. Amazing how chatty the man suddenly became.

"Upstairs." He jabbed with his finger, his gaze going cross-eyed to stay focused on the pistol about to play rough with his face. "Last door on the left."

He gave a grunt, pushed the man away and then holstered his weapon. He trod on the drunk and headed up the stairs. For a large man he knew how to walk on the balls of his feet, even in steel-capped boots, and he crept along the hallway. His ears pricked for any sound of Amy, his gaze intent on the door at the end of the hall. Hunter was so arrogant he wouldn't be found he didn't even bother to have a man standing watch.

A woman cried
no
, feet scuffled and then came a thud. His heart dropped in his chest and he abandoned his quiet plan. He ran down the hallway, kicked the door open, and then grabbed the rifle from his back.

He only needed a split second to see the bastard wrestling Amy to the ground, and a second later he put a bullet in his side. The man spun, but kept hold of the struggling woman with rope looped around her arms. Hunter rose from the table and drew two pistols. One aimed at Jackson, the other aimed at Amy.

From the corner of his eye another man on the bed lurched for a pistol and wavered it at him.

"Well, well," Hunter said. "Look who dropped in for a wee visit."

The wounded man tightened his grip on the rope around Amy's wrists and she struck out backwards to kick him hard in the shins. He pulled the rope up her back, contorting her arms. She cried and dropped to her knees. He gave a grin at Jackson.

"You all right, princess?" He kept the rifle aimed at the walking dead man who dared touch her, his pistol on Hunter, and tried to ignore the man behind him who didn't seem to know what the hell he was aiming at. He hoped none of the upstarts were trigger-happy.

The stupid corpse had left his weapons draped over his chair, and his hands were full keeping hold of Amy while blood spread over his stomach. That just left Hunter and the sick fella.

"You came," she blurted out with a frown on her face as if he was the last person she expected to see.

"Of course I bleedin' came. I came to take you back to the cottage." He hoped she caught his meaning; he wanted to bolster her spirits without making a display Hunter would use against them.

"How touching," Hunter said. "You okay, Jones?"

The man have a grunt. "Winged me, nothing major."

Hunter nodded. "Now, unless you want to see her bleed all over the floor I suggest you tell us what Lyons is offering."

"Yeah, Lyons has a deal all right. How about everyone relaxes, we put down the guns and talk it out?" He gave his crooked grin and shoved down his worry for Amy. She had that tilt to her chin, even from her spot on the floor. His princess had guts, and he just prayed she would follow his lead.

"You're out-numbered; why don't you toss the rifle and we'll talk." Hunter leaned back in his chair and gestured with his weapon.

"Fine. Stop waving a pistol at her, and I'll throw my rifle out the window."

Hunter gave a smirk. "Deal."

Both men lowered their arms in time with each other. Jackson shoved the pistol back at his side and strode over to the window. With a grin he tossed his rifle out. He started a mental countdown. The boy was an idiot; he much preferred using his fists over a gun any day.

The walking corpse grabbed his arms from behind. The slightly warmer corpse had risen off the bed and now wavered his pistol at Amy. Fingers tried to dig into his biceps as Hunter approached.

"The offer?" Hunter stopped in front of him.

One more step, you git.

"Boss wants to see you promoted." From the corner of his eye, Amy's fingertips reached for the poker laying by the fire. He shuffled to one side to block her from Hunter's view, and tested the grip of the man behind.

"Really?" He took one more step, his interest drawing him closer. "That might be acceptable. Promoted to what?"

Jackson grinned. "The devil's bitch." He struck hard and fast with his head, smashing the other man in the nose. Cartilage splintered against his forehead. Hunter fired his pistol as he staggered back, but missed and took out part of the ceiling plaster instead.

Then he spun in the other man's grip, smashed his fist into his face, and then pressed a finger deep into the bullet hole, sending the man to his knees.

Amy lashed out with the poker, catching the sick man in the knees.

He grabbed Amy and lifted her to her feet as he drove the point of his elbow into an eye socket. The other two scrabbled for guns.

He didn't have time to explain, or untie her — his mental countdown neared its end. He threw her over his shoulder and ran.

The explosion threw them out into the hall, and they crashed into the opposite wall. He pushed her to the ground as a second and far louder explosion sent timbers and roof tiles raining down around them. He lifted his head and looked back. The two-storey hotel was now mostly one-storeyed. Flames rose in one corner of the room, where the fire broke free of the grate and devoured the loose wood.

He looked up at the
Hellcat
hovering above. Men peered over the side. He recognised one who gave a casual salute.

He patted down Amy to check for injuries and untangled the rope around her arms. "Stay here," he said, as he rose and gave the finger to the bleedin' pirate who nearly killed them both dropping a bomb from above. Then he stepped through the smouldering rubble to check the other men. Hunter slumped below the remains of the window. He had lost his head when the small ball from Tor's canon blasted through the wall, and his surprised face looked back at his body from across the room. The man who'd hurt Amy lay in the middle of the room. A piece of timber impaled him to the floor.

"Help," he moaned and raised a hand.

"Sure." Jackson leaned on the timber and twisted.

Jones screamed, and blood sputtered from between his lips. His limbs flailed for several moments, and then his struggles ceased. The third man now had the collapsed roof on top of him, his protruding limbs still. Satisfied Hunter had received the message, he returned to Amy.

She shivered in the remains of the hall, shock and cold taking their toll. He knelt down and stroked her face. "I protect what's mine, told you."

"Yours?" she asked with tears of relief running down her face.

"I love you, princess, been trying to figure out how to tell you for over a week now. Then the bloody pirate upset everything before I managed to get the words out."

Her teeth began to chatter, but she still managed a smile. "Take me home, please."

He picked her up and she curled into him. Holding her close, they headed down the stairs.

The barman stood below, staring at his missing upper floor. The drunks still stared at their drinks and missed the whole thing.

"Told you it weren't good to side with Hunter."

The
Hellcat
waited outside. He jumped aboard and didn't let go of Amy all the way back to the cottage.

He carried the trembling bundle up the stairs to the bedroom. With quick movements, he stripped the damp clothes from her body and tucked her under the blankets in the large bed. Then he removed his own clothing and climbed in next to her. He drew Amy into his arms, pressing her chilled flesh to his to share his warmth.

Over several long minutes the rattling in her teeth stopped and her breathing returned to normal. She warmed in his arms, which created a secondary problem. The warmer she got, the hotter he got.

Chapter Twelve

Amy lay wrapped in his arms. Warm. Safe. Protected. He'd come for her.

"Well this is a bit of a pickle," she muttered as she further evaluated her current situation. There was a very large, and very naked, man behind her equally bare flesh.
Lord he feels delicious.
Languid waves washed through her limbs. She wriggled her bottom, trying to get closer to the source of her pleasure. Being kidnapped was worth it, if this was the end result.

Jack groaned behind her. "That's not a pickle."

She stilled as something quite large nudged between her buttocks before sliding into the juncture of her thighs. Tingles ran over her skin, spiralling out from her core like ripples on a pond. As an experiment, she squeezed her thighs together and he moaned. The flash of heat up her body left her unable to mutter anything for several long heartbeats.

"Do you want to talk about it?" His lips skated over her neck.

"About the pickle?" It was certainly the main thing on her mind.

"Stop callin' it that," he growled, and rolled her over.

A parade of vegetables flashed through her mind. Courgette? Cucumber?

He hovered above her and dispelled the gardening thoughts as he slid his hips over hers, trapping her beneath him. She laid her palms on his chest. She’d studied anatomy in books, but this was a living, breathing man who sent the equivalent of one hundred proof alcohol coursing through her veins and straight to her brain. She became drunk off the sight, smell, and feel of him. She ran an exploratory hand over one pectoral muscle, his body like stone under skin, with a dusting of tight curls tapering to an enticing path. He even had scars and tattoos. Her fingertips danced over his chest and down his side, tracing a sinuous pattern of ink. She longed to explore every inch of him and marvel in their differences.

He took her hand and pressed her nails into his chest. "Harder, princess. I promise I won't break."

She dug her nails into his skin and scraped along his side. His head tipped back as he groaned, and heat shot through her body with the exhilaration of wielding her own sort of power. The sight of his pleasure edged hers higher.

She gave a gasp as their bodies came together. "Well, I certainly can't return to London now."

"Good," he said, kissing his way up the back of her neck. "Cause you're staying here with me, I ain't letting you go." By using small hip movements, he caressed her intimately.

She bit back another groan. How could he feel so good? She hoped he never stopped. What where they talking about? Vegetables? Oh yes. "Well you will have to let me go at times. I intend to petition the medical schools until one admits me as a student. Unless you couldn't love a woman doctor?"

He stilled and met her gaze. "I love you just the way you are."

Just the way you are.
She sighed and revelled in the moment of hearing those words from his lips. Then she gave a mischievous grin. "Ruined?"

"Naked. Haven't got to the ruinin' bit yet." His lips trailed over her collar bone and down to her breasts while his hands caressed her skin.

"Could you move things along in that direction, now that you've started?" she asked. Her body thrummed and the ache built within her as she tried to arch into his touch.

"Only if you say it." He tortured her, his fingers ran around her breast but didn't satisfy the escalating need.

"Say what?" If he kept stroking her like that she wouldn't be able to say anything except blither or more likely
oh dear God.
The press of him against her centre drove her quite mad. So close, and yet her body wanted him closer. She wiggled trying to move her hips, wanting,
needing
him deep inside.