A Rebel Without a Rogue by Bliss Bennet Read Free Book Online Page B

glances, shuffling papers, a quick hand smoothing over an unruly head of hair. And even Sam, usually indifferent to the attractions of the fairer sex, kept turning his head in her direction before jerking it back to the conversation of the men.
    But none had the effrontery to stare at her the way this O’Hamill did.
    Oddly, though, nothing of lust, nor even of admiration, warmed his eyes. His workingman’s clothes, his grim, creased face, both said here was a man inured not just to want, but to the deadening certainty of want ever unsatisfied. But still he stared at her, his eyes narrowed, considering. What could he mean by it?
    With a frown, Kit made the introductions. Neither Miss Cameron nor Mr. O’Hamill gave any indication that they knew one another, but tension still charged the air. Kit made sure to keep himself between the burly man and the far smaller woman. To reassure her? Or to warn O’Hamill off? He wasn’t quite certain.
    “I’ve no knowledge of the Gaelic, alas,” Miss Cameron said, eyes downcast. “Mr. Pennington had hoped these kind gentlemen might be able to aid him.”
    “But your antiquarians, even the Anglo-Irish ones, rarely have much facility with the language, do they?” the man answered, his smile edged more with contempt than collegiality.
    “But they’ve been kind enough to recommend your skills,” Kit replied before any of the antiquarians could take offense. “Might you be able to oblige?” Kit gestured to a table apart from the others.
    “Your servant, sir.” Turning to Callendar, O’Hamill added, “Please, do not hold off on your meeting for my sake. I’ll join you presently.”
    “Mr. Pennington, do not hesitate to call on us if you find you need the advice of an educated man,” Callendar called before turning back to his group. Miss Cameron’s mouth tightened, but O’Hamill’s steps did not even pause. Had the Irishman become so used to such casual slights as to render them insignificant?
    Kit reached to pull out a chair for Miss Cameron, but O’Hamill was quicker. Kit’s jaw clenched at the sight of the Irishman’s hands as they remained on the back of her chair, even after she’d taken her seat. It would hardly be gentlemanlike to point out the impropriety of how close they were to her person. Especially if Miss Cameron did not object. Kit scraped his own chair across the floor and sat down opposite her.
    Sam hovered beside the table. “Is this a private matter, Kit? Uncle’s asked me to write an article for the paper about Mr. O’Hamill’s efforts on behalf of Ireland’s poor, but I’ve no need to intrude upon your concerns.”
    “Please, Sam, sit down. You may be of as much help as either Miss Cameron or Mr. O’Hamill, as you were actually there when the shooting took place.”
    “Shooting?” O’Hamill’s work-roughened hands flattened on the table. “You begin to interest me, sir. Come, tell me all about it.”
    Between them, Kit and Sam related the events that had occurred at the Crown and Anchor a week earlier. O’Hamill listened intently, his occasional interruptions to clarify a point or to draw out a pertinent detail demonstrating a quick, analytical turn of mind. Miss Cameron remained silent.
    “And the inscription on the pistol is the only clue you have? Might I see it?” O’Hamill asked when Kit reached the end of the embarrassing tale.
    “You will understand my reluctance to tote the firearm about London, I’m certain.” Kit grimaced as he pushed a paper across the table. “But I’ve written down the words from the engraving. I believe they’re Gaelic, but whether Scots or Irish, I’ve no idea.”
    O’Hamill glanced down at the paper, then frowned. “Irish Gaelic, it is, not Scots—see, no grave accents, only acutes. Agus means ‘and,’ and this, here, the Tá and curtha together make ‘has been.’ Something about strings, here, and hearing—a reference to a harp, perhaps?”
    “A harp?” Kit’s forehead