Beloved Beast (2 page)

“I’ll do it,” said the shorter of the two, and snatching the hat from her hand, slammed it onto his head. She handed over the watch with barely a shiver of regret, and then he was gone, leaping from the alcove toward Charlotte’s Square.

Swift hid in the deepest shadows, but even from there she could see Knobby dodge past, skirting skirts and careening after her straw chapeau.

She almost smiled as she watched him go, but just then she noticed a baby-faced constable scowling in the direction of the rapidly retreating Knobby. Chances were good the authorities would never connect her with the criminal element dressed as she was, but there seemed little reason to take chances. She’d had a fine, relaxing morning thus far and had no wish to ruin it now. So, flitting her eyes right and left, she stepped from the alcove and strode to the end of the street. Ducking her head in silent reverence, she opened the arched, iron-bound door of a small, stone kirk. Inside, it was cool and dim. A dozen stout candles flickered near the chancel.

She paused momentarily, admiring the stain glass windows, the vaulted ceiling, the trio of wooden confessionals.

She’d always appreciated churches. They were fine places to hide. Quiet and dark, they more often than not had a mite box set out to collect alms for the poor.

She was poor.

Bowing her head, she made the sign of the cross against her chest as she’d seen others do. Kneeling on a padded plank, she glanced surreptitiously from side to side. No one seemed to be minding the store. And, thank the good and gracious Lord, there was the collection box. Iron bound, it was cylindrical in shape and crafted of dark wood. A small slit had been cut into the top and it was kept by a rusty metal hasp.

God was with her.

Opening her reticule, she rose to her feet and stepped forward. To an observer, it may well have seemed as if she was fetching a coin. Instead, a small copper pin came away in her hand.

Head bowed again, she sheltered the wooden box with her body while fiddling soundlessly with the lock. In less than ten full seconds it made a rusty creak as it popped open. One more glance to the rear assured her she was alone. The top rose almost soundlessly.

Her fingers were as quick as minnows as she fished out the coins and dropped them into her reticule. One more. Just one more and--

“Might I help ye, child?”

Her breath froze in her throat. The voice came from behind her, cutting off her exit. But surely there was another door. Without moving her head, she glanced right and left. No hope on either side. Easing the mite box closed, she prayed the man behind her was short, ponderously fat and older than black pepper. The lock clicked quietly as it sank home. She gritted her teeth, then fixed a humble expression on her bonny face and turned slowly, eyes lowered.

“Father.” She said the word reverently and raised her gaze to meet his. Her eyes traveled up a goodly distance, but they did not encounter the woolen robes she’d expected. Instead, he was dressed in a simple tunic and dark tartan. Belted at his lean waist with a broad strap of leather, the plaid was pinned at his brawny shoulder with a brooch the size of her fist. Beneath the plaid, his thighs bunched with strength. Every shifting muscle spoke of power. His hair, however, was laced with gray. A small indication, perhaps, that the Lord did, indeed, have a rare sense of irony.

“Oh…” She smiled shyly. “I assumed you were a priest.”

He remained absolutely silent, neither confirming nor denying. If intimidation was his intent, he had a fine start; muscles roiled like mooring lines beneath the turned up sleeves of his tunic. She swallowed but refused to fidget. “Well, I’d best be off. I but came to leave a wee contribution for the city’s poor,” she said, and making sure her little purse was well hidden in the folds of her voluminous skirt, glided toward the door.

He said nothing. She could feel the tension build in the soles of her feet and creep up the back of her legs, but she held steady. Many had fallen from weak nerves. She would not be amongst them. Not Swift Torree of Canongate. Instead, she let her reticule fall gently against the slope of her gown and tumble noiselessly behind the solid leg of a pew meant for a parishioner not important enough to obtain one of the private boxes. Though she was loathe to leave it, ‘twas far better to be parted from it for a time than to be caught red-handed with the alms in her possession.

“’Tis very generous of ye lass,” he said finally. His Highlander’s burr seemed to rumble from the very earth beneath them, but she managed to inhale and lower her gaze modestly. Even staring at the floor, however, she could tell he was already stepping forward, stealing the air from her lungs. And though she told herself to remain calm, she couldn’t help but snap her attention to his stern countenance.

“No!” she blurted, but caught herself and lowered her lashes carefully. Who the hell was he? A priest in plain clothing? A parishioner? A guard? A braw Highlander meant to test the fortitude of frail maids? The last seemed most likely, for though his face was stern and unyielding, it spoke volumes of strength and self control. If a body needed protecting, he’d be just the sort for the task. Luckily for Swift, she was not the needy kind. Nor was she the type to dwell on girlish dreams, though there was that about him that prompted them. “Well, yes. Yes, there is something,” she admitted. “I fear I have sinned.”

“Have ye now?”

“Might I…” She glanced at the narrow trio of rooms set aside for sinners. Had her luck held, the damned boxes would have been adjacent to the door, but anywhere was better than near the alms box. “Might I make an admittance?”

He studied her. He was close now, within four strides. If she bolted would he catch her? He was not a young man, probably past five and thirty years, but judging by the size of his thighs she rather doubted another fifty would make him slow enough to best.

She scowled a little. “I meant…in the…” She glanced toward the boxes, but when she turned back, he was just lifting his gaze from the floor. Had he noticed her shoes? Tipped onto the edge of panic, she stood very still, not deigning to draw her feet beneath her skirts. Surely that would do nothing but signify guilt. And who was
he
to judge her attire? He was garbed in a wee skirt, for God’s sake. Though, in truth, he wore it well. And the tiny, leather-wrapped braid beside his left ear did even less to decrease his manhood. “I meant in one of them confessional…” She caught herself just before spinning into her native tongue. The inhabitants of Old Town’s Canongate were not known for their elegant speech. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin a tad. “I was hoping to be seated in one of the confessional boxes.”

“But the confessionals are to hide one’s identity,” he said and for an instant something flickered in his eyes. She couldn’t quite make out what it was. “And I’ve already seen your face, lass.”

“Well…” Was there interest in his expression? Was he attracted to her? Because she sure as hell could work with that. “Perhaps you could forget,” she said and glanced coyly through her lashes.

His lips twitched with humor. “I fear the Lord has blessed me with a long and faithful memory, lassie. I shan’t forget features such as yours.”

So he
was
attracted. Praise God! “You’ve a distinctive visage yourself, Father.” She was desperately digging for information regarding his reason for being there. Did priests go about in Highlander garb now and again? She had no way of knowing. It wasn’t as if she spent her days in the company of clergy, but her words concerning his features were true nevertheless. Although he was by no means a pretty man, his jaw was chiseled and broad, his chin well nicked by a scar that ran out of sight toward his throat.

“Distinctive,” he said and chuckled a little.

The sound was deep and soothing. She smiled, allowing herself a moment of pleasure at the sound. “Did I use the wrong term?”

He shrugged his shoulders. Even through the voluminous tunic they looked heavy with muscle. “I suspect distinctive is well suited,” he said. “'Tis the word father that failed the test.”

“You’re not…” She raised her brows, searching for words that wouldn’t make her sound like an uneducated guttersnipe, though the description would be apt. “Not ordained?”

“Nay. I am but a postulant hopeful.”

So he could copulate without guilt. Or at least he could
hope
to copulate with
less
guilt. God was gracious. “Well,” she said, and took a step forward. She wasn’t above using the heady aura of attraction that lay like opium smoke between them. “Humility looks good on you. But surely postulant hopefuls can hear confessions as well as any.”

They were very close now, forcing him to bend his broad neck to look down at her. Just a few more inches and she would be within striking distance.

“And what grievous sins has such a wee lass as ye committed?”

The question caught her off guard, for there was no flirtation in his tone. Indeed there seemed to be earnest concern. Concern she wanted no part of. “I thought all sins equal in the eyes of the Lord.”

His brows rose slightly. “You know the scriptures, lass?”

She shrugged modestly. Blind Pete had taught her to read even before he’d trained her to lift a brooch. Thievery had proven to be the more valuable of the two, but quoting biblical passages had come in handy a time or two. She hadn’t foreseen a use for it on this particular occasion, but she had learned long ago to roll with the punches, literally and otherwise.

He took a seemingly unconscious step closer. Perhaps she would be wise to leap for the door, but she doubted her ability to best him in a footrace. Surely it was not his masculine allure that kept her there. Nay, she stayed only to incapacitate him. And for that she needed proximity, which she now had. They were inches apart, their bodies all but touching.

She gazed up at him. He looked down at her. Neither breathed.

“I know scriptures well enough to realize I’ll sin again,” she said, and gripping the belt that encircled his waist, rose on her toes as if to kiss him. His eyes seemed to darken as she drew nearer.

He watched her, eyes as steady as stone. “Then we’d best check to make certain your donation got safe to its destination,” he said and began tugging her toward the mite box.

“Release me!” she insisted, but the air had all but abandoned her lungs, leaving her voice weak. She drew a deep breath, remembering the image she had so carefully erected. She would play it till the end, professing her innocence. Twas the only way to win the day. “Loose me this instant!” she demanded. “Or I shall scream for the constable.”

He turned toward her, one brow raised over stormy eyes. “That I doubt,” he said.
There was challenge in his face. And try as she might, she had not yet learned to resist a challenge.

“Help. Help me!” she shrieked.

She expected him to release her, or at the least, to jerk in surprise, perhaps allowing her a chance to escape, but he barely shifted a muscle.

“Oh?” He lowered his gaze to hers. Twas the baby-faced constable she’d seen but minutes earlier by the alcove where she’d handed off her chapeau. Her heart was beating like a hammer in her chest. Had he seen her pass her bonnet off to the gawky lad? Had he guessed her intent? “Is something amiss, lass?”

“Yes. This man…” Her mind spun. She hadn’t a leg to stand on. She’d gambled and lost, but surely it was better to deal with a man of the church, no matter how damnably unflappable, than a constable paid to bring in her sort. “This man startled me.”

“Startled you?”

“I shouldn’t be so fidgety. Everett tells me so time out of count. But my mind had wandered. You see, my poor father is so dreadfully ill, and I’ve been caring for him endlessly. I don’t think he’s going to last much…” she began, and sniffling softly, buried her face in her free hand.