Danger's Kiss (14 page)

It was late afternoon when Nicholas packed up his unused instruments in his oversized satchel.  He strode with dark menace through the streets of Canterbury, frightening away any daring lads stupid enough to consider throwing stones, and headed for home, eager to drown his fatigue in a cup of ale.

After, he amended,
after
he scolded his maidservant soundly for leaving the cottage.

It still rankled him that she’d come to the flogging.  But it troubled him more that she’d stalked away from it in fury.  Even if he’d given the man a sound whipping instead of merciful strokes that left no mark, Desirée had no right to condemn him for his livelihood, especially considering what
she
did for a living, the little cheat.  His labor put a roof over her head and paid her wage.  How dared she stand in judgment over him?

By the time he arrived home, bursting through the cottage door, tearing the singed cloak from his shoulders, and tossing it down on the table where Desirée sat, slicing a loaf of bread, he no longer felt shame for what she’d caught him doing.  He was primed for a fight.

“You know, ‘twasn’t half as bad as it looked!” he blurted out.  “The lash didn’t even leave a mark.”

Then he scowled.  Why the devil had he said that?  It was a completely defensive statement and not at all what he’d meant to say.  Bloody hell.  He couldn’t tell her the truth.  If she found out he wasn’t as fierce as he pretended to be, it would be the ruin of his reputation.

“Indeed?” she replied coolly, proceeding to cut a thick slice from the crusty maslin.  She shrugged, but her voice was heavy with sarcasm.  “Well, perhaps you can strengthen your arm, so next time the crowd can enjoy his screams.”

“Damn it, wench!” he barked, dropping his heavy satchel to the ground.  “That’s not what I meant.”

What
did
he mean?  Why was he trying to excuse his behavior?  He owed her no explanation.  What did he care that she might think him a villain?  Everyone else did.

“You know what I think?” she bit out nastily, sawing more vigorously at the bread.  “I think you relish every moment of it.  The blood.  The shrieks.  The applau
—
“

“You know nothing!” he bellowed, his frustration flaring like straw on the fire.

The woman should have recoiled in terror.  His roar left grown men quaking in their boots.  But the maid only pierced him with her narrowed green eyes, her fist clenched pointedly around the knife.

He had to admire her.  She was fearless.  But it was a dangerous thing for Nicholas.  Fear had always been his method of control.  If he couldn’t inspire fear in his own maidservant...

“What were you doing in town?” he growled.

She smirked.  “Why?  Am I a prisoner here?”

“I gave you chores to do.“

“Which I’ve done.”

“And so you came into town for what?  To spy upon me?”

She frowned and stabbed the knife hard into the remains of the bread.  “Spy upon you?  Why would I need to spy upon you?  It was a public spectacle.  You were
performing
for all to see.”

The way she said “performing” grated on his ears.

“If you can’t abide the sight of blood,” he bit out, “then you should stay away from my workplace.”

She arched a sardonic brow.  “And how will I do that?  Isn’t your workplace all of Kent?”  She rose and moved to the hearth, where something savory bubbled in a pot.

“I told you I’d be in Canterbury today.”

“Ah.  Then perhaps tomorrow I may venture out?” she said with false deference.  Wrapping a heavy cloth around the bail, she lifted the pot off the fire.  “Unless you conduct your gruesome little displays on the Sabbath, as well.”

Displeasure flared in him.  “Why must you venture out at all?” he demanded, regretting his rash words as soon as he voiced them.  After all, he didn’t intend to make her a prisoner, no matter what she thought.  She could come and go as she pleased...

As long as she returned to fulfill her household obligations.

And as long as she let him know where she was.

And as long as she didn’t get herself into trouble.

Lord, it was a challenging task, watching over a woman with a will of her own.

She set the heavy pot on the counter.  “
Someone
has to keep the larder full.”

“The larder
is
full.”

Desirée nodded toward the corner of the kitchen.  Azrael perched guiltily atop the grisly remains of the fortnight-old bacon that had hung in the kitchen.  The cat’s belly bulged grotesquely, and he licked his chops with unadulterated pleasure.

Nicholas didn’t want to know how his cat had managed to climb up to unhook an entire haunch of meat.

Nor did he want to know how Desirée had paid for the new bacon sitting atop the counter.

He was weary.

His head hurt.

And he wanted a drink.

D
esirée skewered Nicholas with a hate-filled stare as he headed for his keg of ale.  She was furious with him
—furious
!  She detested him for hanging Hubert.  She despised the way he made a cruel spectacle out of a flogging.  And she hated how he pretended to be merciful when it was obvious he didn’t have a morsel of compassion in him.

But damn it all!  Even as she glared at the nefarious brute whom she’d cursed all the way home, the moment he slumped down guiltily onto the bench
—
his shoulders hunched, his head lowered, his brow furrowed
—
she felt her ire start to fade into grudging pity.

Despite her cross words, Desirée had always had a strange capacity for understanding the very worst of humanity.  Perhaps it was because she’d lived among thieves and learned to forgive their foibles and failings.  Indeed, by strict moral standards, she herself was part of the dregs of society.

It must be wretched work, this occupation of his that drove him to drink and lie about the severity of his punishments just to ease his guilty conscience.  She supposed if
she
spent her days applying thumbscrews and scold’s bridles and stocks to outlaws, she’d work up a thirst for oblivion, as well.

She studied him as he moped over his ale.  How could she stay angry with him, when he kept looking so irresistibly miserable?

Even with shadowed eyes, furrowed brows, and a grim frown, he was handsome, in a pathetic sort of way.  Indeed, it was a pity he was a lawman.  If it weren’t for his hateful profession, he’d likely have the ladies swarming after him like bees after honey.

Maybe then he wouldn’t be so melancholy.

But while her heart softened fractionally toward him, she couldn’t turn off her calculating mind.  She realized she might be able to play upon his guilt to get something she wanted.  As she’d learned from Hubert, one had to look after one’s own interests, because nobody else would.

Sensing she’d have better success with honey than verjuice, Desirée waited till he was on his fourth cup of ale, then filled the trencher of maslin with bacon pottage and set it on the table before him.

Still staring into his cup, he murmured, “I’m a lawman, Desirée.  I do what I have to do.  If you can’t
—
“

“I know.”

She casually swept Snowflake up from where he was licking his paws
—
no easy feat, since he seemed to have gained several pounds.  She cradled the purring beast in her arms.  Surely Nicholas wouldn’t bellow at her now, not while she was holding his beloved pet.

“Nicky,” she ventured softly, then corrected herself.  “Nicholas.  I’m...sorry.  I didn’t come to the town square to spy upon you.  I had no idea there was a flogging today.  I came to purchase a new slab of bacon.  That’s all.  But...there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

He sniffed and stared into his ale.

She began sauntering back and forth before him, scratching Snowflake behind the ears.  “You see, I haven’t lived in a proper house for years.  I’m not accustomed to being closed up behind walls.  I’ve always come and gone as I pleased.”

That wasn’t precisely true.  She’d usually come and gone as
Hubert
pleased.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she continued.  “Perhaps Hubert
did
ask you to see to my welfare because he...he cared about me.”  She pretended to wipe away a tear with the edge of her thumb.  “But I’m certain he didn’t mean for me to be kept like a slave.”

“A slave?”  Nicholas scowled.

She shook her head sadly.  “I might as well be chained to the hearth.”

His eyes closed down to smoldering slits.  He clearly wasn’t moved to pity by her speech.  But he was at least listening.  “What is it you want?”

She gave Snowflake one last pet, then lowered him to the floor.  “I want to go out.  I want to go into town.  I can do the shopping.”  She sat down across from him and continued enthusiastically.  “Surely after a long day of...”  Flogging thieves?  Torturing prisoners?  Cutting off thumbs?  “Work,” she decided, “the last thing you want to do is shop for provender.”

She could see by the pensive twist of his mouth that he was considering her offer.

“I can go while you’re out,” she said, “keep the shelves stocked, learn the latest gossip, breathe a little fresh air
—
“

“Play a few games of chance?”  He stirred idly at his pottage.

She frowned.  “Certainly not!”

Indeed, the idea
had
occurred to her briefly.  She could make double her maidservant’s wage in a few hours at Fast and Loose.  But watching the thief suffer under Nicholas’s whip hand today had convinced her to lie low and make an honest living for a while.

He swirled the contents of his cup.  “How do I know you won’t take my coin and leave Canterbury?”

She shrugged.  “You’ll just have to trust me.”

He chuckled humorlessly into his ale.  “A lot of men have made
that
mistake, I’d wager.”

He was right.  Nonetheless, she chided him with a frown.

“Very well, then,” she proposed, “make it worth my while to return.”

He stopped middrink, peering up at her over the lip of his flagon.  “Worth your while?”  A hint of smoke entered his eyes.  “What did you have in mind?”

What Desirée had in mind completely flew out of her head when his gaze slipped lower, touching her lips, her throat, her bosom with subtle speculation.

She should clout him for his straying eyes.  Desirée never suffered the leering of lechers.  Unless, of course, there was profit to be gained.

But Nicholas’s attention engendered a different response in her altogether.  Her breath caught, her skin tingled where his gaze alit, and suddenly the air grew uncomfortably warm.

At her continued silence, he lowered his cup, running his thumb slowly back and forth across the lip.  She wondered how it would feel brushing over her own lip.

Then she gave her head a shake.  God’s blood!  What was wrong with her?  Was she mad?  This was the man who’d hanged Hubert.  A man who flogged people for a living and flaunted his power before bloodthirsty crowds.

It didn’t matter that he had a handsome face.

And sad eyes.

Unruly hair.

And the body of a god.

Flustered and angry with herself, she snatched the cup from him and marched over to the keg to refill it.

By the time she returned with the brimming flagon, she’d regained most of her composure.  It was time for real bartering.  She might despise what Nicholas Grimshaw did for a living, but it had its uses.

“There
is
something that will make it worth my while to return.”  She took and released a deep breath.  “I’d like your assistance with my investigation.”

His eyes flattened.  It was clearly not the exchange he’d had in mind.

“Your investigation?”  He took the cup from her.  “What investigation?”

“The murder at Torteval Hall.  Hubert didn’t do it.  I
know
he didn’t.  I intend to find the one who did.”

“Ah.”  His tone was predictably patronizing.  “And what do you want from me?”