This was turning into a disaster, she could feel it.
“Ye can call me Major Mackenzie, and that’s not just a title, it’s a promise.” He cupped himself lewdly as the table erupted with hilarity. “One that will be verified later when ye are unable to walk.”
Imogen’s breath whooshed out of her in a great gasp when she was abruptly seized around the waist. She lost her feet from beneath her and fell backward, panicking as she was pulled down onto Trenwyth’s knee, landing in a heap he controlled with his immense strength.
This seemed to greatly entertain everyone at the table except, of course, for Major Mackenzie, whose features tightened with mutiny.
Instantly she became rigid, preparing to spring back to her feet and retreat to the safety of the bar. She’d done it before, and used a limp, boneless sort of squirming to avoid the grapple of many a drunkard.
But none as big as this, none so intensely solid and unyielding.
“Don’t. Move.” The hard command froze Imogen in place, and she brought her chin to her shoulder, looking up in slack-jawed astonishment to assess just how much danger she was in from Trenwyth.
His eyes lit with perilous fire, the copper glowing in the forge of his temper, but he didn’t spare her a glance, nor did he speak another word. His unflinching stare captured and held that of Major Mackenzie’s with silent dominance. The air thickened, threatening to smother her in masculine challenge. Muscles tensed beneath her, around her, until she feared if he flexed any further, she might be crushed. Imogen held absolutely still, careful not to draw the notice of these two wolves, lest they rip her in half.
Major Mackenzie was the one to break eye contact, glancing down at the table.
Trenwyth’s arm about her waist relaxed, but he didn’t release her. “I’ll have whisky.”
“A whole case ought to do it,” a young lieutenant with a dark but sparse mustache chuckled. “It’ll at least whet our appetites for other pleasures the night may provide.”
Imogen nodded and hurried to stand, finding herself pulled tighter against the duke. Her legs were braced on either side of his knee, her back ramrod straight, straining to keep her body away from his torso.
“In order for me to fetch your drinks,” she began gently, “you’ll have to let me up.”
After a silent pause, he made a derisive sound from behind her, and the sweet-apple smell of brandy drifted to her from his breath.
He’d already been drinking.
Instead of letting her go, he gestured to del Toro who hovered at a discreet distance and hurried over as fast as his short legs could heft the rest of him.
“We’ll have your finest whisky. As many bottles as it takes.” This elicited hearty delight from his men.
Imogen could see del Toro counting his profits in his head. “We’ve just received a case of Ravencroft’s famous Scotch.”
“Make mine gin,” Major Mackenzie snarled. “I’d rather drink fetid water from the Thames than another drop of Ravencroft Scotch.”
“I say, Hamish, old boy.” The mustached lieutenant addressed the major. “Isn’t Ravencroft a Mackenzie?”
The major said nothing, though his knuckles turned white with strain.
“That’s right, Thompson,” another soldier heckled. “Marquess Ravencroft, the Demon Highlander, himself, is Hamish’s younger brother.”
“Younger brother?” Thompson lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “That would mean you’re—”
“A bastard,” Hamish finished darkly. “Want to find out just how much of a bastard I can be?”
“Enough,” Trenwyth clipped quietly, the command effectively ending all conversation. “Scotch for the table, and a gin for my friend the major.”
Hamish threw a grateful, if brooding, glance at Trenwyth from beneath his dark brows. The tension dissipated as Imogen was forgotten by the surly, middle-aged Hamish Mackenzie.
“We can only afford the younger Scotch, mind you, but it’s yours for the taking, as is anything else my establishment can offer you.” Del Toro gestured at the women posing across the bar with far more practiced and inviting smiles than hers aimed at the men.
“Excellent.” Trenwyth’s brusque way of speaking appealed to Imogen, though she couldn’t say why. “It seems the lads are eager for companionship.”
Murmurs of enthusiastic agreement passed around the table as the famous “kittens” of Lower St. James’s Street wound their way to the table with audible purrs. To Imogen’s surprise, Heather gave Major Mackenzie a wide berth and look of reluctance, choosing to lean across a young man on the opposite side of the table. Imogen couldn’t think of a time she’d truly seen the bawdy woman afraid before. Major Mackenzie had spoken of the place as though he’d been here often, though Imogen couldn’t say she recognized him. Perhaps Heather did. Perhaps she’d even had a negative experience with him. Imogen’s own intuition jangled uncomfortably in his presence, alerting her that he was a man capable of the most terrible things.
And yet, so was Trenwyth, of that she was certain.