Danger's Kiss (11 page)

T
he trek home took longer than Nicholas expected.  He supposed he shouldn’t have been so demanding about the pallet he was buying for his new servant, but it didn’t sit well with him to luxuriate on a great downy mattress while Desirée shivered in the straw.  Even if the irksome wench
had
intentionally burned his supper.

After all, what the constable had blurted out was true.  Not every maid would take up residence with a shire-reeve.  The least he could do was give her a decent place to sleep.

So after a savory meal of two pork tartees and a cup of mulled perry, he’d stopped by the pallet merchant.  None of the straw-stuffed pallets had seemed soft enough to him, but he wasn’t about to splurge on goose down.  In the end, he compromised on chicken feathers and had to wait while the grumbling merchant hand-stuffed the mattress to his specifications.

It was dark by the time he paid the merchant, hefted the mattress on one shoulder, and headed for home.

Shuffling awkwardly through the cottage door with his burden, he saw that no candles were lit and the fire had gone out.  He wondered if Desirée had actually eaten the slop she’d cooked for supper.  He felt half sorry for the scrawny wench.  She could ill afford to do without a meal.  But she’d only brought the punishment upon herself.  In the morn, he’d make certain she ate a generous bowl of frumenty.

Where was the lass, anyway?  Surely she hadn’t been so foolish as to run away.

He slipped the pallet off his shoulder, shoving it alongside the hearth, and removed his cloak.  He peered around the shadowy room.  There was something on the table, a piece of parchment.  Opening the shutter, he held the page up to the moonlight.

It was a list.  Apparently, Desirée could read and write, which surprised him immensely.  It was a rare skill among women, even rarer among peasants.  As he scanned the items, he smirked and shook his head.  She also knew how to spend coin.  Extravagantly.

He replaced the parchment, then crept toward his bedchamber.  Perhaps the maid had taken her responsibilities to heart and was already hard at work, polishing his furnishings.

Aye, he thought, and perhaps Mary Magdalene was a virgin.

He spotted Desirée at once, by the light of a moonbeam filtering through the shutters.  She was asleep, luxuriously sprawled across the coverlet like a cat with a belly full of cream, commandeering his pallet as if her spindly frame required every inch of it.

“Oh, nay, you don’t,” he murmured.  He might feel sorry for the orphaned lass, but he wasn’t about to let her usurp his bed.  “Desirée,” he called.

She didn’t move.

“Desirée.”

Still no reply.

He drew closer, not close enough that she could swing out with a stray fist and clip him on the jaw, but close enough to be heard.

“Desirée.”

She still didn’t stir, but Azrael, tucked behind one of her knees, lifted his head.

Nicholas frowned.  There was something tied around the cat’s neck.  Something distinctly feminine.

“God’s eyes!  What have you done to my cat?”

That woke her.  She rose on her elbows, her eyes glazed, her mouth making sleepy smacks.  “What?”

“What did you do to Azrael?”

She glanced down at the cat, as if trying to recall.  Then her lips curved up in a smile that was pure mischief.  “He thinks it’s pretty,” she said, crooning, “doesn’t he, Snowflake?”

Nicholas seized Azrael, who yowled once in complaint, and immediately untied the silly bow, dropping it atop the coverlet.

Desirée shrugged off his actions and snuggled back down under the blankets.  “Did you get my list?” she murmured.

He gave Azrael a consoling pat and set him down again on the pallet.  “Your list?  You mean that nonsense about lavender and beeswax candles?  Do you know how much saffron costs?”

“Come, Nicky, you can’t expect me to keep your house properly if I don’t have the required supplies.”

“I seem to have done fine before without them.  And stop calling me Nicky.”

“What would you prefer?  Your Majesty?”

Nicholas exhaled on a growl, trying to recall why he’d felt sorry for the pesky imp.  “I’ve bought another pallet.  I’ve placed it beside the fire.”

“Mm, good,” she purred.  “I’d hate to think of you getting cold in the night.”

He blinked.  The audacity of the naughty wench was amazing.  Unable to think of a fitting verbal response, he decided to let his actions speak for him.  He threw back the covers and, ignoring her indignant shrieks, scooped her up into his arms.

“Unhand me, sirrah!”

“You’re not sleeping in my bed.”  He started toward the door.

“But I was there first!”

“’Tis
my
bed.”

“You weren’t using it.”  She actually wedged her limbs in the doorway, trying to prevent his exit.

“Well, I’m going to use it now.”

“’Tisn’t fair!”

He didn’t feel like arguing the absurdity of a tiny lass expropriating his huge bed while he lay cramped on a small pallet by the fire.

“The only way you’re sleeping in that bed,” he whispered wickedly, “is if you’re sharing it with me.”

With a gasp of disgust, she tucked in her arms and legs so he could carry her through the doorway.

But when they reached the hearth, she eyed the pallet, muttering, “I’ll wager it’s hard as a rock and full of burrs.”

His patience at an end, he abruptly dropped her onto the mattress, eliciting from her a squeak of shock.  Then he shrugged.  “Seems soft enough.”  While she sputtered in outrage, he gave her a smirk and a gentlemanly salute.  “Good night.”

The pallet was more comfortable than Desirée expected.  Indeed, aside from his own goose-down mattress, it was more comfortable than anything she’d slept on her entire life.  She fell soundly asleep in moments, and when she woke the next morn, she was startled to realize she’d slept through Nicholas’s departure.

She wondered where he’d gone.  Probably off to a neighboring village to torture some unfortunate soul.  She hoped he’d remember to purchase the things on her list before he returned.  Since she didn’t intend to burn her own supper again, she’d need a few spices to make the fare palatable.

But when she sat up and glanced at the table, she saw he’d left the parchment there.  And when she rose with a frown to retrieve it, she discovered he’d scrawled a list of his own on the back side.

“Feed cat.  Dust away cobwebs.  Launder and dry clothing and linens.  Sweep floor.  Scrub walls.  Cook supper.  Home late.”

Ire simmered in her veins.  How dare the brute issue commands as if she were his lowly maidservant!

She pursed her lips.  Damn it all, she
was
his maidservant.

“Piss!”

She crumpled the parchment in her fist and dropped it onto the floor.  Snowflake trotted over to sniff at it, then looked up expectantly, as if alerting her to the “feed cat” on the list.

“Aye.  Aye.  I will.”

She ignored his nagging meows long enough to wash her face and weave her hair into a braid, then sliced off a bit of bacon for the cat and slathered butter on a bit of bread to break her own fast.

And then she sat, drumming her idle fingers on the tabletop.  Nicholas Grimshaw might have blackmailed her into becoming his servant, but that didn’t mean she had to be an
obedient
servant.  She smiled grimly.  She wasn’t about to let His Majesty’s list dictate her life.

In Desirée’s usual line of work, every hour of daylight presented an opportunity to wheedle coin out of some fool’s purse.  Her food and lodging depended upon not wasting a single moment.  But now, free of Hubert’s demands, with a roof over her head, a pallet by the fire, and food in the cupboard, all urgency was gone.  It was a curious feeling to experience leisure for once in her life, and she had every intention of enjoying it to the hilt.

The first hour was pleasant.  She watched the cat eat, gazed into the flickering fire, peered through the shutters at the cold world outside.  She yawned with her mouth wide, stretched her arms over her head, ran a fingertip back and forth over a bump in the worn wood of the table.  When she tired of sitting, she ambled about the room, examining in detail the stones of the hearth, the wood grain of the cutting block, the cracks in the plaster wall.

But by her fifth circuit, she was beginning to be bothered by the dense spiderweb woven between the keg of ale and the wall.  It was interfering with her sense of peace.  Snatching up a linen rag, she swiped away the tangled mess.  With a nod of approval, she sauntered toward the hearth.  Another web draped two stones a few feet from the ceiling.  She wiped that away, as well.  Indeed, she realized that in her circling of the room, she’d memorized the location of several spiderwebs.  It was the work of a few moments to sweep them all away.

Then she could sit back down at the bench and enjoy her leisure.

That lasted another few moments.  Until she realized how grimy the walls were.  Those near the fire were the worst, blackened by soot.  But there were other stains on the plaster, splashes of oil or ale or God knew what else.  She supposed she could scrub them away, since there seemed to be nothing else of interest to do in the cottage.

Soon she found herself scouring the plaster and sweeping the floors, and when she picked up the crumpled list to move it out of the broom’s path, she gave it a casual glance to see what other things she might do to occupy her time.

Leisure, she quickly discovered, was more desirable in theory than in practice.  For a woman accustomed to the rapid pace of picking pockets, outwitting fools, and dodging authorities, sitting alone in a cottage with a cat was deadly dull.  As much as doing chores went against her intent to antagonize her captor, she supposed she owed him something for the night’s lodging.

Besides, she thought, arching a sly brow, just because she was doing his will didn’t mean she couldn’t take the opportunity to add her own personal touches to the chores.

It never occurred to Nicholas as he trudged home from his day in the Canterbury gaol that his new maidservant might not obey his commands.  After all, no one dared gainsay Nicholas Grimshaw.  Indeed, when he swung open the door to his cottage, pausing to stomp his muddy boots on the step, he saw what he expected to see.  The walls were scrubbed clean, the floors were swept, and damp laundry was draped over ropes and poles placed strategically near the crackling fire.

What he didn’t anticipate was the horrible stench.  The steam rising off of the shirts and braies and stockings perfumed the air with the cloying scent of roses.  As he stepped through the door, the heavy perfume irritated his nose and he let out a great sneeze, startling Azrael into a hasty retreat to the bedchamber.

“What the devil?”

“Good evening, Nicky.”

He winced.  She was stirring something over the fire for supper, but all he could smell were overwhelming floral fumes.  She glanced up at his arrival, using her forearm to sweep the stray tendrils from her brow.  She would have looked like the perfect portrait of a hard-working servant, but there was a glint of mischief in her pretty green eyes that gave her away.

“God’s blood.  What have you done?” he demanded, shrugging the cloak from his shoulders.

“What do you mean?”

“Why does my cottage smell like a brothel?”  He left the door open, hoping to disperse the noxious odor, but it didn’t prevent him from sneezing again.

“Bless you!”  She wrinkled her brow in false concern.  “Faith, are you getting a murrain?”

“What is that infernal stench?”

“’Tis only the laundry.”  She left the hearth to cross to the table.  “You commanded me to do it.”  She put a distinct edge on the word “command,” then picked up the parchment he’d left, which had somehow become crumpled.  “Aye, here ‘tis,” she read.  “Launder and dry clothing and linens.”

“What did you launder them in—goat piss?”

“Rosewater.”

“Rose...”  He ran a weary hand over his face.  Surely the maid knew better.  A shire-reeve couldn’t wear clothes reeking of roses.  He grumbled under his breath.

“But if you like,” she added with coy innocence, “I could use goat piss next time.”

He ground his teeth.  God’s eyes.  He hadn’t even known he
owned
rosewater.  Of course, he probably didn’t anymore.  No doubt she’d used the entire bottle to perfume his clothing.