18. Chapter 18

Chapter eighteen

September, 1920

Rowland checked his watch. If their calculations were right, the police truck would be passing by in less than two minutes. It carried the man who’d shot him at Iris’s birthday party inside. Declan, whose observations about Rowland and Iris still had Rowland on edge. He lied the best he could that day in the jail, but something told him Declan wasn’t convinced. That he would still tell Bishop about Iris and use her to test Rowland. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Row!” Ezra hissed, ducking between two buildings along the road.

Rowland jolted out of his thoughts of Iris and joined his brother, pulling his flat cap down over his head. It was right on time. He’d barely gotten hidden when the van rumbled up, coming to a stop, as the driver Rowland paid had been instructed. The engine cut to silence. Rowland locked eyes with his brother, nodded, and they each drew their pistols from the holsters under their jackets. Behind the neighboring buildings, the other Crimson Devils were doing the same.

The plan was simple. Rowland paid the driver to stop before the turn to the road that led to the courthouse. He was sure Bishop would have planted his men there to spring Declan free. The Devils would make a show of armed assault on the police van, rough up the officers within, and take Declan themselves. In the alley Rowland and Ezra stood in, they would kill him. Only the driver knew of the plan. Which was why his heart skipped a beat at the quiet. An officer should have been demanding to know why they stopped.

“Row,” Ezra whispered. “Give the signal.”

Rowland shook his head. “Something’s not right.”

“What are you on about?”

“It’s too quiet.”

Ezra rolled his eyes. “Fuck that, we’ve only got one shot. It’s now or never, Row.”

He walked out and pumped his free fist. The rest of the Devils emerged with war cries, guns raised. The citizens of York scattered with screams, clearing the area.

“Fuck!” Rowland cried and jogged out to join his men.

He aimed his pistol at the padlock on the back of the van and shot it. With a clang, it split open and hit the ground with a heavy thud. He and Ezra yanked open the doors, arms raised, but before they could act, two bodies clad in constable uniforms dropped like sandbags from the back, their throats cut. Rowland and Ezra jumped back, letting the slain officers fall.

When Rowland looked up, his heart plummeted at the sight of a dozen men standing in the van, smirks on their faces. The front man was the most striking, with a long face, but wide features and thin lips. His dark eyes hardened as his gaze found Rowland’s, and an impish grin came over his mouth. Dark hair stuck out beneath his cap, and his clothes were in rags.

“Sláinte, wee Devils,” he said with a thick Irish accent and a wicked gleam in his eye.

With a wide toothed smirk, he grabbed hold of the top of the van and swung himself out. His boots caught Rowland square in the chest, putting him flat on his back, the air knocked out of his lungs.

Then all hell broke loose.

The men leapt from the truck, Declan among them, and each of them squared off with a member of the Devils. Guns were cast aside in favor of fists, which flew every which way. The numbers were nearly even, but Rowland knew he had to act quickly.

He tried to catch his breath, but the man from the truck was on him before he could think. The Irishman took hold of Rowland’s lapels and dragged him up.

“I thought it was high time I introduced myself, Mr. Sinclair,” the man said, venom laced in every word. “I’m Bishop Goddard.”

Rowland forced a smirk. “Interesting. I thought you’d be taller.”

Bishop’s face scrunched in anger before he reared back and slammed his head into Rowland’s face. Rowland felt the crack of his nose and the gush of blood that burst from it. He raised his pistol and drove the handle as hard as he could into the side of Bishop’s head. It did the trick, and Bishop rolled off him with a groan.

Rowland wasn’t able to get to his feet before Bishop tackled him again, and they scrambled on the ground, each trying to find purchase to displace the other. Sweat beaded on Rowland’s hairline and down his back. The rush of the fight was overwhelming. It surged through him as he swung out with his fists, meeting whatever bit of flesh they could reach.

Shots rang out, but they did not stop the action. Rowland stole a glance away to see one of the Irishmen fall to the ground and lie still, blood pooling beneath his head. Good , Rowland thought. That’s one less we’ll need to deal with later .

Bishop did not let him get distracted for long. Rowland dodged another punch and brought his knee up into Bishop’s gut. Bishop heaved and fell to his side. Finally, Rowland got the chance to raise his pistol up to take aim at Bishop’s head.

Motion to his right and his brother’s voice crying out made Rowland glance away. Ezra was caught between two of the Goddard boys, on his knees, one holding Ezra’s hair, and the other holding a knife at Ezra’s neck. Rowland turned his aim on the one with the knife and shot him first. He shot the other within a second of the first. Ezra scrambled to his feet.

Bishop let out a roar and swept Rowland’s legs out from under him. Luckily, Ezra arrived to back Rowland up and he punched Bishop in the jaw, giving Rowland time to stand up again. Now, he was finally going to finish it. This was it, and then Liverpool would be safely in his control once more. He raised his gun.

Three sharp whistles cut through the air, and Rowland glanced over his shoulder. Gus Cropp, one of the original Crimson Devils, with blood streaming from over his eyebrow, had blown the signal.

“Coppers on the way!” he shouted.

Now that the noise had died down, Rowland could hear the sirens in the distance.

He heard shuffling and turned to see Bishop already sprinting down the road, his men hot on his heels. Rowland scanned their forms and to his dismay, saw Declan among them.

“Shoot them!” he bellowed.

The Devils opened fire, catching one of the Goddard boys in the back and another in the leg. Rowland did his best, but his shots sailed over Goddard’s head. He desperately kept pulling the trigger, even after the clip was empty, swearing over and over again as he did.

“Rowland, we’ve got to go,” Ezra warned, taking him by the arm and dragging him away.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Rowland yelled, throwing his gun down as frustration sank its claws into him.

It was too late. The chance to kill Declan and Bishop Goddard were gone, and all he could do was run.

***

Rowland stormed into Buckland Hall, ignoring the servants who greeted him and their concerned gasps. He knew he was covered in blood and bruises. He must have looked crazed. He didn’t care. He was frightened and hurt, and he needed Iris. To see her. To touch her. To know she was safe.

“Where is Lady Iris?” he demanded, rounding on the housekeeper, Mrs. Ward.

She flinched, her eyes flicking over his face. “Sh-she’s in her room, sir.”

Rowland nodded and thundered up the stairs.

“Iris!” he bellowed. “Iris, get out here!”

She appeared in the hallway, fucking stunning in a soft lilac day dress, even with her eyes narrowed. “What the devil is the matter with you?”

He strode toward her, and her expression softened as she took in his appearance. But her stubbornness must have taken over because she continued to berate him.

“You can’t go storming into people’s homes and order them about, you brute. And look at you, covered in muck and blood, and God only knows what else—”

He kissed her. With everything in him, he kissed her. It didn’t matter that he interrupted her or that she was angry, for it melted away. And she melted into him, her body pressed to his and he pushed her into the wall. A whimper escaped her throat. Her arms coiled around his neck. Her hips rocked toward him. But none of that compared to the feeling of her mouth on his. He thought he would never feel it again after that first kiss, and now that she was back in his arms, he was determined to never let go. The world had shrunk down to Iris and her kiss. He didn’t need food or water or air, only her.

She pulled back to catch her breath, her chest heaving as she examined him.

“You’re hurt,” she said quietly.

“I don’t feel it,” he replied. “Not when I’m with you.”

Her eyes shone. “Rowland…”

“Shut up and kiss me again.”

He took another long pull of her mouth, heat churning in his middle and spreading through his chest and to the tips of his fingers. He squeezed her hips to share it with her. A soft moan from her let him know she received it.

“Rowland, please,” she whined, when he moved to trail hot kisses down her neck.

“Please what?” he returned. The sound of her pleading had his trousers getting tight.

“Please, tell me what happened.”

He stopped and lifted his gaze to meet hers. “We failed.”

“You mean…they got away? Even the one who shot you?”

He nodded. Her fingers ran over the cropped hair at the nape of his neck, sending a shiver up his spine. He ached for her touch on every part of him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But…I don’t think you and I doing… this will help you feel better.”

“Wanna bet?” he growled.

The corners of her mouth twitched up. “Rowland, I want you, but…I don’t want another husband.”

“All right, no husband.” He brought his lips to the shell of her ear. “How about a lover?”

She shuddered, and he held her tighter. Her head fell back against the wall and he graced her beautiful neck with kisses, letting his tongue flick out and his teeth nip at the sensitive skin. She gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders.

“Think about it,” he murmured. “If you want me, you can have me, Iris. But I’m done pretending we’re just friends.”

His body screamed at him to press her for an immediate answer, but he knew if anything happened now, in the heat of the moment, she might regret it. It didn’t mean he couldn’t give her a preview of what was in store if she said yes. He slid his hands up her sides, and he let his thumb brush the underside of her breast. Her breath hitched in her throat and her hips rutted into him again.

He had lost today in his fight with Bishop Goddard, but that was fine. Because in his fight for Iris, the tide was turning in his favor. He could feel it in the heat of her body, could see it in the flush of her cheeks.

“I’ll think about it,” she finally said, albeit breathlessly. He swallowed down a triumphant shout. Then she cleared her throat. “Now will you please see someone about those injuries?”

He chuckled. “Were you worried about me today?”

“Don’t be cruel, Rowland,” she said, her earnestness taking him aback. Her hands moved to either side of his face. “I was scared for you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, softening. “I was scared too, you know.”

“You were?”

“Yes. I thought that bastard might kill me and I wouldn’t be able to do this again.”

He kissed her once more, and he remembered what he said after he first met Iris, that she didn’t know the meaning of fear. But now that he knew her, he understood that she was afraid, and he could see it in her eyes at that moment. By her own admission, she had been afraid for him . And that was a very good sign indeed.