Not Quite Married by Betina Krahn Read Free Book Online Page A

of consequence had occurred.
    Aaron looked down to find the nattily dressed gent sprawled senseless in the sawdust on the rough stone floor. The gent had swung on the old man, but connected with him instead and met his match.
    “Now look what ye done—” The old man turned on him with a snarl, but stopped dead. He narrowed one eye, recalculating and correcting course as he looked Aaron over. “Well, now. Ain’t you smart. Laid out ol’ Jake Stokley straight enough.”
    Aaron rolled his shoulders in annoyance, straddled his chair, and sat down again to resume his drinking.
    “Yer an’ officer, ain’t ye?” The old man gave a yellowed grin.
    “Navy, mebee.” When Aaron didn’t answer, he continued. “Ye been aboard ships. That much I can tell.”
    “I stood a few watches behind a wheel,” Aaron finally answered, mostly because general civility was a damned hard habit to break.
    He scowled, determined that his breeding and privileged upbringing would not interfere further with the rip-roaring bender he was embarking upon. “Shove off.”
    “The way I see it, ye owes me . . . seein’s ’ow ye coldcocked my partner an’ rendered ’im useless.”
    “Owe you? Your losses are none of my concern, old man.”
    Aaron looked up with a glint of warning in his eye. “Unless you’d prefer to join your ‘partner’ on the floor.”
    The old fellow glanced at the dandified Jake Stokley, who was even now being dragged toward the rear door of the Aces & Arms and the alley beyond. Not the slightest bit intimidated, the old salt began to look him over and then stopped to look him square in the face and stare into his mouth.
    “Got most o’ yer teeth, ’ave ye?”
    “What the devil? Get away from me before I lose what’s left of my temper!” Yet, as he poured and drank, the buzzing sea-gnat refused to leave.
    “Ye got a wife?”
    Aaron blinked, surprised by the old man’s nerve, then turned aside with a snort of irritation and poured himself another whiskey.
    The old man regarded both him and his response for a moment.

    “A single man, eh? Then how’d ye like to make a fair bit o’
    scratch? One night’s work. Ye’d make enough silver to keep ye in whiskey for years.”
    “Go away. Leave me be.”
    Instead, the old man leaned closer and whispered. “A thousand quid. Mebee more.”
    A thousand pounds. Sure. And then he’d be invited to tea with the queen. But he found himself staring at the old man. The old salt’s gaze was steady and his chin was firm with resolve. Every muscle in Aaron’s body began to tighten with attention. He had to be out of his mind—his gaze fell to the amber liquid hovering near his lips—or drunk. He lowered the glass without sipping.
    “One night’s work, eh?” He searched the old man’s face, intrigued by the determined gleam in those age-faded eyes. “Got to be something illegal to net you that kind of blunt. Who are you going to rob?”
    The old man leaned still closer, a grin spreading over his wily face. “No thievin’, old son. Not for old Billy Rye. That’s me.
    Billy Rye.” He jerked a thumb at his chest. “Nothin’ dangerous neither.”
    “Yeah? What would I have to do?”
    “Marry up, old son. Ye just git ’itched, sign th’ papers, an’ then walk away.”
    THE SOOT-BLACKENED BRICK church was small and looked all but abandoned by the light of the streetlamps. Located on the edge of Whitechapel, the Church of St. Agrippa of the Apostles was considered too gritty and forlorn for the city’s middle-class saints, and too grim and unwelcoming for its lower-class sinners.
    The figure of the church’s namesake, Saint Agrippa, which stood in the niche above the weathered door, appeared to be trying to hide his face among the folds of his robes . . . whether from embarrassment at his namesake or horror at the travesty that was about to take place within its walls, it was hard to say. So it seemed to Brien as she stepped from the carriage onto the rough