My Darling Gunslinger Read Free Page B

the man a run for his money. At nearly seventy years of age, with a leg that had been mangled two years previously and the tip of a steel blade permanently imbedded between two of his ribs, Magnus McDonough would not stand a chance against the younger, leaner man.
    “He looks awfully mean,” Sebastian whispered.
    “You saying I dun look mean?” Magnus barked.
    Sebastian laughed, his blue eyes alive with affection for the old man who’d treated him like a cherished grandson since the day he was born.
    “What of the Pleasure Palace?” Charlotte asked.
    “The railway man said they’re on a tight schedule. It’ll have to wait until they come through again next week.”
    “Oh, but—”
    “Leave be, Countess,” Magnus growled. “There’s nothing can be done for it but to wait. You’re not on the Continent. You won’t get your way battin’ your lashes at these lads.”
    “I do not bat my lashes,” Charlotte replied with a grin, batting her lashes for all she was worth.
    “Bloody hell,” Magnus grumbled. “You likely would get your way with the lads.”
    When they reached the other side of the street and began to weave their way through hurrying ladies and idling men, Charlotte peered back over her shoulder.
    The dark angel had turned to watch their journey down the walkway, one lean hip resting on the rail of the hitching post, his right arm cradled against his chest. He lifted his left hand to the brim of his hat as if saluting her retreating figure. With a flick of his bare fingers, he tipped the hat back and Charlotte saw his eyes.
    Not dark at all, but rather shockingly pale in his bronzed and whiskered face. She was too far away to see their color, perhaps palest blue or green. His lips tilted up at the corners into…well, not quite a smile. More of a smirk.
    It was a look so at odds with her instantaneous evaluation of the man as a dark devil, that Charlotte found herself grinning at him for a moment before she resolutely turned her head forward and put the man from her mind.
    Mystic was a small town by anyone’s standards, but most especially by the standards of the Countess of Westlockhart who’d spent most of her youth shuttling between her mother’s family in Berlin and her father’s in London, and nearly her entire adulthood traveling the world.
    Mr. Chang and Ethel caught up with Charlotte, Sebastian, and Magnus at the improbably named Grand Hotel. It was a two story building with a set of boarded-up glass doors opening into a spacious lobby decorated more like a brothel than a hotel. Faded red velvet furniture was situated in small, intimate groupings amid gilded tables whose sheen had long since worn away. The crimson and emerald carpets were threadbare, the gold velvet drapes moth-eaten. Dull brass spittoons and planters with dead and dying palms littered the room.
    “How do, weary travelers!”
    Charlotte turned to find a short woman with an enormous bosom swathed in yards of purple silk bearing down on them from across the room.
    “Mrs. Grand at your service!” she bellowed, coming to a sudden stop in front of Mr. Chang. “Well, land sakes. We’ve a true Chinaman in our midst!”
    Her blue eyes traveled over Ken Chang, taking in his small, black, boxy hat, the long, equally black braid trailing over his shoulder and down his chest to his waist, his high-necked, fitted scarlet silk shirt and tight black trousers. Her gaze came to rest on his remarkably small feet encased in red satin slippers.
    Mr. Chang brought his hands together before his chest and bowed to the woman, his black eyes twinkling. “A pweasure to meet a twue wady of da west.”
    Mrs. Grand preened, her dimpled hands waving about her pinkening chest and neck.
    “Chang,” Magnus murmured in warning as two gentlemen seated on one of the battered settees shifted for a better view of their group.
    “Good afternoon, Mrs. Grand,” Charlotte greeted in hopes of dragging the woman’s attention away from Mr. Chang before