Danger's Kiss (23 page)

Desirée continued to grumble as she turned the partridge on its makeshift spit.  “After that remark, I’m inclined to eat it all myself.”

“Nay!”

“Well, perhaps I’ll share a bit with Snowflake.”

He set Azrael down on the floor again and approached the hearth, his mouth watering at the sight of the partridge, golden and gleaming and dripping with luscious juices.  “Is there nothing I can do to regain your favor?”  He rubbed at his chin.  “I’d do nearly anything for a bite of that partridge.”

She arched a brow and gazed up at him.  “Anything?”

He nodded.  After all, what could she ask of him that he wouldn’t gladly give?  He’d already provided her a roof over her head, honest employment, and, as of today, a new kirtle he’d picked out himself, one in her favorite color.

Desirée grinned.  “I’d never realized the bargaining power of partridges before.”

“Oh, aye,” he said with mock gravity.  “Men will lay down their lives for a partridge.”

A chuckle escaped her.  “I don’t think I’ll ask you to lay down your life.”

“What then, my lady?  Shall I slay a dragon for you?  Bring you the Holy Grail?  Capture the moon and the stars for your crown?”

She giggled.  “All that for a partridge?”

He glanced at the fire.  “As long as ‘tisn’t burnt.”

She gave him the sultry gaze of a temptress, murmuring, “Don’t fret.  ’Twill be roasted to perfection.”

“In that case, name your price, my lady.”

“Hmm.”  She crossed her arms, considering her options.  “Ah,” she decided.  “Let me cut your hair.”

“My hair?”

“Aye.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”  He pinched a lock between his fingers.

“’Tis ragged, and it hangs upon your shoulders.  When was the last time you cut it?”

He shrugged.

She smirked.  “’Tisn’t as if you’ve a shortage of scissors.”

He arched a chiding brow.  “Those scissors aren’t meant for cutting hair.”

“Well, they might as well serve
some
useful purpose.”

“All right,” he conceded with a grumble.  “But see you don’t forget what you’re about and lop off my head.”

Desirée grinned, turning the spit while Nicholas sharpened the carving knife on a whetstone.

“So how was your day, my lady?”

“Uneventful.  Just the usual haggling with shopkeepers and dodging raindrops.  And yours?”

“Put a woman in the stocks for an hour.”

“For?”

“Cursing in church.”

“Ah.  She should do as I do and stay out of churches.”

Nicholas smiled.  They understood each other now.  An outlaw was as unwelcome in church as the lawman who enforced attendance.

She stirred the vegetables.  “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for cabbage and onions.  On the way home, I tossed the neeps to some starving children.”

He shook his head.  “Poor souls.  England’s full of them.  And full of unscrupulous merchants, as well.  I marched a baker through the streets of Chartham today with one of his short-weight loaves about his neck.”

She clucked her tongue.

What a curious conversation, Desirée thought.  Though their tone was familiar and nonchalant, she was lying through her teeth about an attack that might have killed her, and he was speaking casually about his occupation of inflicting punishments.  They were an odd pair indeed.

Snowflake hovered close, licking his whiskers, and Desirée took mercy on him, setting the bowl of partridge offal on the floor for him before serving up supper.

Nicholas ate with as much relish as his cat, smacking his lips and lapping at his fingers, and Desirée decided her coin had been well spent indeed, even if she’d had to make do without the neeps and wine.

“Divine,” he told her around his last bite of partridge.

She smiled as she rose from the table.  “I hope you’ve left room for custard.”

“Custard?”  His eyes lit up like a child’s.

She lifted the pot from its water bath, setting it on the counter, then topping it with a thick slab of butter, which began to melt at once atop the warm custard.

“You’ll spoil me, wench,” he told her.

“Are you complaining?” she asked, drizzling honey over the top of the melting butter to make a sweet, golden glaze.

“Indeed,” he told her.  “I shall grow accustomed to playing draughts and eating partridge and having company by the fire.”  She glanced at him.  He was staring into his ale.  “How will I manage without you?”

“Without me?”

Her heart stuttered in her breast.  She’d prayed he might have forgotten about her leaving.

Aye, he’d specifically said theirs was a temporary arrangement.  Aye, he’d hired her only out of pity and honor in the first place.  And aye, since her business in Canterbury was concluded, he’d expect her to move on.

But she’d hoped all that had slipped his mind.

She bit at her lip, watching the honey pool atop the custard, sweet and warm and tempting.

Damn it all,
she
could be sweet and warm and tempting.  She wasn’t going to give up that easily.  She’d change his mind, if it took every last ounce of her charm.  In fact, she’d have him
begging
her to stay.  Forcing a bright smile to her face, she carried the custard to the table.

“Silly milksop,” she chided.  “Quit sobbing in your ale.  You’ll be glad to be rid of me, and you know it.”

“Glad?”

“Aye.”  She gave him a wink.  “You’ll tire of me constantly outwitting you at Fast and Loose.”

Nicholas gave her a rueful smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.  By the saints, he’d gladly let the lass win every game if only she were there to play him each night.

It wasn’t fair, of course.  Desirée had come into his household out of desperation, not choice.  Given the choice, she’d certainly never have picked a lawman for company.

Besides, she had a promising future ahead of her.  She was young and beautiful, charming and witty.  What bachelor of honorable means wouldn’t pursue her like a hound after a vixen?

Nay, she
would
leave him.  Maybe not this week, if he were lucky, but soon.  Still, she was right.  There was no point in sobbing in his ale.  He might as well enjoy her company while she was here.

It was pleasant company indeed.

The saucy maid raised an enticing brow and dipped a spoon into the custard.  She lifted it to his lips, and he took a bite, closing his eyes to savor the taste.

“Mmm.”

It was rich and sweet, as smooth as velvet.  He opened his eyes to tell her so, but the words caught in his throat.  Desirée was staring at his mouth, and there was unmistakable hunger in her eyes.  He lowered his gaze to her lips, which were parted in a smile, and for a wicked moment, he wondered if they tasted as sweet as the custard.

Before he could do something he might regret, he took the spoon from her and scooped out a generous portion of custard to share with her, slipping it between her lips.

It was too large a bite, and she laughed as it oozed out between her teeth.  But the taste made her moan softly with pleasure, and that sound, as innocent as it was, sent a rush of desire into his loins.

With a scheming grin, she grabbed the spoon and dished out an enormous bite.  He shook his head, but she advanced anyway.  “Open wide,” she teased.

Unable to resist her wicked challenge, he complied, and she shoved the overloaded spoon into his mouth.  Custard seeped out the sides of his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

She laughed and leaned toward him to scoop the spill from his chin with her finger.  Then she popped her finger in her mouth, sucking off the custard.

He nearly groaned aloud.  Did the naughty lass know what she was doing?  Or was he so starved for a woman’s attentions that he’d melt at the slightest provocation?  He swallowed down the custard, licking a bit of honey from the corner of his mouth.

She must have glimpsed the lust in his gaze, for she suddenly froze with her fingertip still at her lips.

They were so close, inches apart.  He could see the candlelight dancing in her green eyes, smell the subtle fragrance of the rain on her hair, feel her soft breath.  He need only ease forward a little to capture her lips with his own.

It was such a temptation.  Her mouth would be yielding, he knew, and she would taste of honey.  It had been so long since he’d felt the sweet pressure of a woman’s kiss.

But, God help him, he didn’t dare.

Desirée stared at the stray drop of honey on his lower lip.  She felt the most wicked urge, and she’d had just enough ale to bolster her courage.  With a mischievous giggle, she inclined her head toward his and lapped up the drop with her tongue.

His soft groan did something delicious to her insides, and she suddenly felt reckless and playful and impulsive.  Instead of pulling away, she licked his lip again.  And again.

“Mmm,” she purred, rubbing her mouth over his, “you taste like
—
“

He cut off her words, suddenly seizing the back of her head and slanting his mouth over hers, kissing her with a fierce longing that was both tender and powerful.

She gasped in surprise.  For a moment, panic gripped her, as if she’d dived into waters far deeper than she’d expected.  After the first breathless moment, as he continued demanding kisses from her yielding mouth, the panic faded, only to be replaced by an even more dangerous sensation.

Desire.

In Desirée’s line of work, she’d learned early that kissing was one of the most effective forms of distraction.  She’d kissed hundreds of men in the name of profit.

None of them had made her feel like this.

His breath blew hot upon her skin, igniting her senses.  His lips closed over hers as if claiming her, devouring her, and she shivered with the yearning to respond in kind.  Liquid lust filled her veins.

She tangled her hands in his shirt, dragging him closer, deepening the kiss, never wanting it to end.

But with a growl of frustration, he tore his lips from hers and pushed her gently away.  Reeling in surprise, she plopped with bone-jarring force back onto her bench.  Her elbow caught the pot of custard, and it tumbled upside down into her lap.

“Oh!”  She shot to her feet again, watching in horror as the sticky mess oozed down her kirtle.

Nicholas reached across the table to offer his napkin.  “Oh, hell.  I’m sorry.  ‘Tis my fault.”

She glanced up.  His eyes were still glazed with yearning, the same yearning she felt in her breast.  God help her, but she wanted to forget the custard and kiss him again.

“I should never have
—
” he started.

“Nay.  ‘Tis my
—
“

“I had no right to
—
“

“You didn’t
—
“

Their eyes met one last time, uncomfortably, then they both looked away.  Whatever current had passed between them had dimmed, and they were left with only embarrassment and awkward silence.

“Damn,” she said to break the tension as she dabbed at her sticky skirts.  “I just did the laundry.”

“Wait.”  Nicholas scraped his bench back and started toward the door.  “I forgot.  I brought you something from Chartham.  A gift.”

“A gift?”

He unwrapped the bundle he had left by the keg and held up the gift.  It was a kirtle of smoky green, the most beautiful shade Desirée had ever seen, and for a moment, she could only stare in wonder.

“For me?” she asked.

He nodded.  “Your favorite color, aye?”

“Aye.”  She was overwhelmed.  Preparing a savory meal for him was nothing compared to the purchase of a new kirtle.  Surely he didn’t mean to simply give it to her.  “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.  ‘Tis a gift.”  He glanced down at her soiled clothing.  “And a timely one, ‘twould appear.”