“Ale,” he said.
She drew it from a cask and told him the price. He slid the coin onto the bar, and she put the glass in front of him. But as she moved to lift the coin, he put his hand over hers. Violet was no stranger to this trick. She palmed the coin and tried to slide her hand free. The man closed his fingers over her wrist. She looked up at him. “Let go,” she said calmly and quietly.
“I meant what I said about bed. I don’t want to go home alone tonight.”
“Then find a whore. Now let go.”
“I found you. Pretty girl like you must get lonely sometimes.”
Violet’s gaze flicked to the crowbar under the bar. It was out of reach, and the patron had her wrist clasped firmly. She might be able to wrench free, but not without causing a scene. Then she’d have to grasp the crowbar, and enough men were well in their cups and might be spoiling for a fight. That was the last thing she needed on the first night she was open again.
“Sir, I don’t want trouble. Release me, and we’ll talk.” She’d tell him to get the hell out of here.
“I like how we’re talking now,” he said. “Lean forward and give me a little kiss.”
“The lady asked you politely to release her,” came a deep voice from behind her. Violet almost jumped. She whipped herhead to the side and saw King standing, arms folded, and a thunderous look in his eyes. “I’d do as the lady asks.”
“And what if I don’t?” The patron’s fingers tightened on her wrist. Violet looked past him to those men standing nearby. A few sidled away, sensing the tension and wanting no part of it. Others were quiet and moved closer, nudging and elbowing each other in anticipation of violence.
“Then I’ll break your fingers,” King said, voice calm and still low enough not to carry far beyond the bar. Still, did he not see the way those nearby leaned in? They needed only the smallest provocation to start throwing punches and breaking glasses.
“Is she your woman?” the man asked, his fingers loosening slightly.
“As much as she’s any man’s,” King said. It was a pretty play of words, and the patron took it the way King wanted. He loosened his grip, and King lifted Violet’s hand from the bar and kissed it. His gaze never left the crowd. “We’re closing. Come get your last pint or glass. Half price for the last one.”
A cheer went up, and men rushed forward and began to shout their orders. Violet yanked her hand out of King’s and glared at him. “We will talk later, sir,” she threatened.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
*
King closed thedoor and barred it as the last patrons left, singing a bawdy tune. Joshua had wiped their few tables and placed the chairs on them, but Miss Baker told him to leave the sweeping for the morning and sent him to bed. Peggy had left before the incident with Violet, and King dearly hoped she’d be here early in the morning, so he wasn’t forced to sweep.
Now he slipped behind the bar and poured a quarter glass of brandy. He sipped it, wincing at the taste. It was a crime tocall this brandy. He should stick to the beer, though if he never saw another glass of the stuff, he wouldn’t complain. He’d spent enough time in taverns to know what to do, and he’d acquitted himself well. Miss Sunshine wouldn’t give him a compliment if her life depended on it, but he didn’t need her to tell him what he already knew. He was good at the job of publican. He was probably better at it than he was at being a marquess. And since he was almost certainly not a marquess any longer, maybe that was a good thing.
He heard water splashing in the back room and knew Miss Baker was back there washing glasses. King sighed. He owed her an apology. Not for his performance behind the bar tonight, but because the incident with her and the patron had shown him something. When that idiot had put his hand on her and tried to proposition her, King hadn’t thought twice before stepping in. He could see now that had been a dangerous choice. The air had changed as soon as he challenged the man, and the winds of violence had started to blow. A fight or a riot might have easily broken out.
For the first time, King had realized why Miss Baker blamed him for the brawl at the Silver Unicorn the night he and his friends had visited. King might not remember much of the events of the night, but he could see now that it didn’t take much to light a fire in the dry tinder of Seven Dials. He should have been more careful. Then her tavern wouldn’t have been damaged. Archie wouldn’t have been injured.
He owed her an apology—not that he would give her one. Hell could freeze over before he bended a knee. Working in her tavern was apology enough. In fact, she should not only thank him for working here, she should thank him for saving her from that idiot who’d propositioned her. The man had actually touched her. The sight of it had infuriated King. He couldn’t say why. It wasn’t as though she had small, delicate hands. She hadred, callused hands. And yet King didn’t like seeing that man touching them. Looking at her—no,leeringup at her. If he’d been a man of less restraint, he really would have broken the man’s fingers, and his nose as well.
He couldn’t finish the brandy. It was too awful, so he carried the glass to the back to give to Miss Baker to wash with the rest. As soon as he walked in, he realized his mistake and started back out.
“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, grabbing his arm with a wet hand. “We need to have a word.”
“You’ve been back here waiting for me,” he said, giving up on escape. “Seething with anger.” He could see that clearly enough. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her blue eyes dark. Her little bow of a mouth pressed into a thin line as she looked up at him.
“I don’t know who you think you are,” she began, releasing his arm and wiping her red hands on her apron, “but this is my tavern. Not yours. I make the rules.” Using her wrist, she pushed a stray piece of hair off her cheek. At the beginning of the day, her hair had been pinned up, but as the day had worn on, he’d noticed pieces of it escaping and her topknot falling lower and lower. Now her dark hair fell down her back in a long, dark ribbon, secured only by a piece of twine.
“If it wasn’t for me, you might not have a tavern to call your own. Those men were looking for any excuse to start trouble.”
Her glare turned sharper, if that was possible. “Youare lecturing me about brawls in my tavern?”
He shrugged. “Ironic, isn’t it?” He rubbed a hand over his chin, feeling the bristle of stubble. Now would be the time to apologize, if he were to do it.
He kept silent.
“Let me make one thing clear, King,” she said, moving closer. The clean scent of soap clung to her. “I don’t need your help. Idon’t need you to rescue me from grasping men. I don’t need you to give my ale and spirits away—”
