Guardian Angel Read Online Free Page A

trunks of gold and jewels next to the collection plates in their vestibules, topped by a white rose, of course, so the leaders would know whose soul they were supposed to pray for. The bishop was hard put to condemn the pirate. He knew better than to saint him, though, for to do so would incur the wrath of some of the most influential members of society, and therefore settled on calling Pagan rogue instead. The nickname, it was noted, was always said with a quick grin and a slow wink.
    The War Department held no such reservations. They’d set their own bounty on the pirate’s head. Caine had doubled that amount. His reason for hunting down the bastard was a personal one, and he believed the end would justify whatever foul means he employed.
    It was going to be an eye for an eye. He would kill the pirate.
    Ironically, the two adversaries were equally matched. The Marquess was feared by ordinary men. His work for his government had earned him his own dark legend. If the circumstances had been different, if Pagan hadn’t dared to prod Caine’s wrath, he might have continued to leave him alone. Pagan’s mortal sin changed that determination, however; changed it with a vengeance.
    Night after night Caine went to the tavern called the Ne’er Do Well, situated in the heart of London’s slums. The tavern was frequented by the more seasoned dock workers. Caine always took the corner table, his broad back protected by the stone wall from sneak attack, and patiently waited for Pagan to come to him.
    The Marquess moved in and out of such seedy circles with the ease befitting a man with a dark past. In this section of the city, a man’s title meant nothing. His survival was dependent upon his size, his ability to inflict pain while defending himself, and his indifference to the violence and crudity surrounding him.
    Caine made the tavern his home in less than one night. He was a big man, with muscular shoulders and thighs. His size alone could intimidate most would-be challengers. Caine was dark haired, bronze skinned, and had eyes the color of a dark gray sky. There’d been a time when those eyes had had the power to spark a rush of flutters in the ladies of the ton . Now, however, those same ladies recoiled from the coldness lurking there, and the flat, emotionless expression. They whispered that the Marquess of Cainewood had been turned into stone by his hatred. Caine agreed.
    Once he’d decided to play the role of Pagan, his pretense hadn’t been difficult to maintain. The storytellers all agreed on the fanciful notion that Pagan was actually a titled gentleman who took to pirating as a means of keeping up with his lavish lifestyle. Caine simply used that bit of gossip to his advantage. When he first entered the tavern, he’d worn his most expensive clothing. He’d added his own personal touch by pinning a small white rose to the lapel of his dinner jacket. It was an outrageous, silently boastful addition, of course, and gained him just the right amount of notice.
    Immediately, he’d had to cut a few men with his sharp knife to secure his place in their group. Caine was dressed like a gentleman, yes, but he fought without honor or dignity. The men loved him. In bare minutes, he’d earned their respect and their fear. His Herculean size and strength gained him immediate loyalty, too. One of the more fearless asked him in a stammer if the talk was true. Was he Pagan then? Caine didn’t answer that question, but his quick grin told the seaman his question had pleased him. And when he remarked to the tavernkeeper that the seaman had a very cunning mind, he forced the inevitable conclusion. By week’s end, the rumor of Pagan’s nightly visitations to the Ne’er Do Well had spread like free gin.
    Monk, the bald-headed Irishman who’d won the tavern in a crooked game of cards, usually sat beside Caine at the close of each evening. Monk was the only one who knew