Ethan’s hand closed in a white-knuckled grip on the glass in front of him and his heart began to thud in his chest. Neither he nor Alex had considered the possibility that Gagnon had been part of the operation in England. They’d assumed he’d worked on the French end, but now Ethan remembered that day in the clearing with Francesca. The smugglers had spoken of a Frenchie.
Ethan struggled to remain calm, composed. If the farmer was Skerrit, then who was the girl? The door to the tavern swung open, admitting more patrons as well as a swirl of snow. He was suddenly very, very cold. “What was the name of the farmer?”
Gagnon opened his mouth, then narrowed his eyes. “I’m not paid for telling you that information.”
“You want more money? I’ll double it if you tell me the name of the farmer and the name of the girl.”
Gagnon’s jaw dropped, and Alex’s expression wasn’t much different. Ethan knew he’d just blown the game, cleared the cards off the table with a sweep of his arm. But he didn’t care. He wasn’t playing anymore.
“Double it?” Gagnon said dubiously. “Do I get it now or—”
Ethan grabbed Gagnon by his filthy collar, hauling the man half-across the table. Impatience, hot and explosive, threatened to boil over. With a flick of his wrist, he withdrew the knife he carried in his boot and pressed it against the Gagnon’s stomach, away from the view of curious eyes.
“Either tell me what I want to know, or you’ll feel my fingers at the other end of this knife tickling your insides.” Ethan pressed the blade harder.
“The farmer’s name was Skerrit.” Gagnon’s words whooshed out. “Will Skerrit. I don’t know the girl’s.”
Ethan saw Alex’s forehead crease as he made the connection, and a razor blade of cold dread scraped its way along Ethan’s gut. “I want the girl’s name,” he said softly.
“I told you, I don’t know,” Gagnon blubbered.
“You’d better tell me something.” He jabbed the knife again. “The name of the man you worked for.”
“I don’t know his name, either—”
Ethan pressed the knife harder. He’d been right all along. The smugglers and the attack on Francesca had been related. But her attacker had been someone she knew, which meant the leader of the smugglers was someone she knew.
Someoneheknew.
“Urg! B-but I can describe him.”
Ethan tamped down his rising panic while Gagnon wet his lips and swallowed nervously. “He dressed real well, like he was a nobleman. Had that kind of speech too.”
“Go on.” Ethan’s voice sounded deceptively calm. He did not like where this was headed. “What did he look like?”
“About your height, a little younger than you, though. Brown hair, blue eyes.”
Ethan seethed, hand tightening on the knife. “More.
Gagnon frowned, seemed to remember something. “Strange eyes too. Real light blue. Gave me the shivers when he looked at me. Looked like he could see through me or something.”
Ethan didn’t breathe. He knew those eyes. “What else?” With formidable power of will, Ethan managed to keep his voice level.
“On more thing. He always wore gloves. Black leather gloves. Never saw him without them.”
“Roxbury.” Ethan thrust Gagnon away, turning to Alex.
“Roxbury?” Alex frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Oh God. Francesca.
He’d thought she’d be safe in Yorkshire, but if Roxbury led the smuggling operation, Ethan had underestimated his cunning and resources.
Heart pounding, vision blurring, Ethan struggled to leash his fury, his terror. “The eyes—”
“A lot of men have blue eyes, Ethan,” Alex argued, but Ethan was already on his feet and striding toward the door.
