Danger's Kiss (25 page)

The lass was dangerous.  She was far too beautiful and tempting for her own good.  She invited trouble with her coy glances and sly smiles.  If she weren’t careful, she’d seduce her way into a situation beyond the realm of play, a situation beyond her control.  Perhaps beyond his.

Though Nicholas prided himself on his self-restraint when it came to violence
—
it was a necessary skill when one applied physical coercions
—
he was out of practice at tempering his lust.

The sooner he got her out of his household, the safer it would be for the both of them.  Yet the thought of her going away left a hollow spot in his heart.  Life would be lonely without her.

He glanced again at Azrael marching proudly beside the dead mouse.  Maybe he’d get a second cat.  Or a hound.  Or that wife she’d predicted for him.

He frowned.  No maid, no matter how desperate, would agree to live with the shire-reeve of Kent.  No maid but intrepid Desirée.

With a heavy sigh, he rose, skirting around Azrael’s offering.  The lass was likely still abed.  He’d have to remove the carcass before she woke and discovered the grisly thing.

He pulled on his braies and selected the eye gouger from the wall to scoop up the limp rodent.  Carrying the spoon carefully so as not to spill its burden, he crept toward the cottage door.  Opening the door a crack, he reversed the spoon and catapulted the dead beast across the yard, carrion for the crows.

When he closed the door again, he saw Desirée, perched on her elbows in her pallet, looking at him, her hair messy from sleep, her eyes half-lidded.

“What are you doing?” she mumbled.

Lord, she looked adorable.  No longer a calculating vixen, she seemed childlike, vulnerable, innocent, harmless.

“Shh.  Go back to sleep.”

She yawned and scrubbed at one eye with her fist, and it was all Nicholas could do to resist crossing the room to sweep her up and carry her into his own still-warm bed.

He dared not stand before her long, clad only in his braies, for already his loins stirred with yearning.  Soon he’d display his lust for all the world to see.

“Are you leaving now?” she murmured.

One corner of his mouth drifted up.  “I’m not dressed yet.”

She blinked to clear her vision.  “Oh.”

An awkward span of silence passed while they stared at each other.  Desirée’s gaze roamed over his half-naked body, and he felt it like the touch of flame.  There was no hiding his desire now.  His cock strained with blatant need at his linen braies.

“Go back to sleep,” he croaked.

“I’m awake,” she said, rubbing sleepily at her cheek.  “I should make you some breakfast.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.  I have to be on my way.”  He ducked into his bedchamber, calling out, “I’ll pick up a cocket in town.”

“Where are you going?”

Safe in his bedchamber, he adjusted his braies to better accommodate his state of arousal.  “Sturry.”  He took his tunic off its hook and shook out the wrinkles.  “Someone absconded with the miller’s daughter yesterday.  I have to find out where she is.”

“When will you be home?”  Her voice came from the doorway this time, startling him.

He swiftly thrust his arms through the shirt and pulled it over his head.  It was one thing for Desirée to gaze at him from her spot at the hearth, across the room, another for her to watch him dress in his own bedchamber.  Even more disconcerting, she was standing there, clad in nothing more than a fur coverlet.

She looked at him expectantly.

Suddenly he couldn’t remember her question.  “What?”

“When will you be home?”

“I’m not sure.”  He turned away from her to buckle his belt.  “It depends on how long the abductor holds out.”

She crossed the room in front of him, and he caught the scent of sleep and flowers and spice coming off of her, a tantalizing scent unique to Desirée.  She picked up his boots and returned, handing them to him.

“I hope you’re home in time for supper.”  She gave him a seductive smile, wriggling her brows.  “I’m making pike with galentyne.”

Sweet saints.  Did the lass not know
she
was far more tempting than anything she could whip up over the hearth?  If Nicholas came home early, it would be for her, not for pike with galentyne.  “I’ll do my best.”

She thankfully left him alone then, so he could concentrate on which tools to pack.

Most he tossed into the bag for their menace value, instruments with jagged teeth and rust-stained edges.  Victims might not be able to guess their purpose—indeed, Nicholas wasn’t always sure himself—but their gruesome appearance alone served as an effective tongue loosener.

Just for good measure, he threw in rope and shackles and the eye gouger he’d just used to catapult the mouse, mostly so Desirée wouldn’t try to use the thing to stir supper.  By the time he emerged to wash his face, the lass was snoring softly by the hearth again.  Finishing his ablutions quietly, he donned his hood and cloak.  He shouldered the large satchel of clanking tools and crept out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Sturry was only a few miles away.  Thankfully, the road wasn’t the muddy mire it had been in the last two days.  There was no rain this morn, only a thick fog that softened the stark silhouettes of the bare trees.  With any luck, he’d have the abductor singing like a sparrow before noon, rescue the victim, and be on his way home to Desirée in plenty of time for supper...and draughts...and whatever other pleasantries the evening held.

A gray shroud of mist draped Canterbury a few hours later, dampening spirits and giving the streets a gloomy cast.  Still Desirée couldn’t help but smile as she made her way through the somber crowd.  She felt beautiful in her new kirtle, even if it was mostly covered by her old cloak.  And the vision of Nicholas this morn, standing by the door in next to nothing, his formidable chest deliciously bare and his nether parts straining at his braies, remained clear in her mind’s eye, keeping her at the edge of yearning all day.

She stopped first at the fishmonger’s stall for the pike she’d promised him.  While she was inspecting the fish to see if the eyes were clear or cloudy, a sumptuously dressed woman sidled up, clad in enough layers of clothing to give her face an overheated red cast, despite the chill.

“Is the lamprey fresh?” she demanded of the fishmonger.

“O’ course, m’lady.  Caught only this morn.”

Desirée glanced down.  The woman’s purse sagged open, and several silver coins winked from within it.

“What about the oysters?”

“Right here, m’lady,” he said, pointing to a basket, “fresh from Hyrnan Bay.”

Desirée bit the corner of her lip.  The woman was wearing so many layers of wool, she’d hardly feel a person bumping into her.  And if Desirée distracted her, she’d scarcely notice the loss of a few coins from her purse.

“And bream?  Have you bream?”

“Caught last night, just brought in, m’lady.”

Desirée picked up a grayling and sniffed at it.  Then she pretended to lose hold of the slippery fish.

“Oh!”  She let it slither from her grasp, and it slid across the row of pikes toward the woman.  Making a wild grab for it with one hand while the woman jumped back in surprise, Desirée delved with her other hand into the woman’s purse, snatching up a handful of silver.

The woman swatted at Desirée as if she were a pesky fly, and Desirée, carefully concealing the coins, returned the fish to its place.

“I’m sorry, my lady, it slipped from my
—
“

“Oh!” the woman said with an exasperated shiver.  “Just get your fishy hands away from me.”

“Aye, my lady.”  Glancing carefully about for witnesses, Desirée dropped the coins surreptitiously into her own purse and resumed inspecting the pike.

As the woman continued to question the fishmonger, blissfully unaware of the theft, Desirée began to feel a curious discomfort with what she’d done.

A fortnight ago, Hubert would have congratulated Desirée on her cleverness.  They would have celebrated with a cup of ale and laughed over the target’s stupidity.

But today, she was haunted by thoughts of Nicholas.  He would hardly praise her actions.  In fact, the more she thought about the shire-reeve and his unexpected generosity
—
the roof he’d put over her head, the stipend he was paying her, the taxes he paid for the poor, the new kirtle he’d bought for her
—
the heavier the stolen coins in her purse seemed to grow.

Desirée had to face the truth.  She wasn’t a thief anymore.  She didn’t need to steal to survive.  Thieving was only a nasty habit now.  Even if the target was rich and haughty and rude, that was no reason to take what rightfully belonged to her.

Desirée sighed, picking up a pike and staring into its eyes as if to question it.  Now what was she going to do?  Her purse felt like an enormous lead ball against her hip.

The woman seemed to have made her decision at last and began fumbling with her purse.

Desirée put the pike down.  Sneaking coin back into a purse was harder than fishing it out.  The woman was alerted to her, and she was keeping her distance.  So Desirée opened her own purse and picked out the coins she’d stolen.  Then, when the woman finished counting out payment to the fishmonger, Desirée dropped the coins into the dirt beside her.

“My lady,” she said, “I believe you dropped your silver.”

“What?”  The woman’s eyes widened when she saw the coins.  “Oh.”  She bent to pick them up without a word of gratitude.

Still, Desirée felt much better having returned what she’d stolen.  The burden of guilt fell from her shoulders.  After the woman left, she picked out a pike as long as her arm and paid for it...with her own coin.

As she continued down the lane, the parchment-wrapped fish tucked under one arm, she couldn’t help but feel a lightness in her step.

Twice more, the opportunity arose for her to dip her fingers into gaping purses
—
once from the affluent patron of an arkwright and once outside of an inn, where two drunkards staggered into each other, their coins rattling around as loosely as their wits.

Yet she resisted the urge to steal from them.  And by the time she finished up at the pie maker’s shop, purchasing a freshly baked pear pie that steamed when she carried it into the cold outdoors, she felt quite proud of herself.

A fortnight ago, she would have seized the opportunity for easy profit.  Now, each time she fought off the instinct to steal, she felt her willpower grow stronger.  By John the Baptist’s beard, she believed Nicholas Grimshaw was turning her into an honest woman.

Exhausted, Nicholas turned away in frustration from the dismal young man chained to the three-legged stool.  He’d tried everything.  He’d spent hours laboring in this suffocating smokehouse, since the town of Sturry had no gaol, and he’d gotten nowhere.

He’d reasoned with the lad.  He’d explained that the miller was only worried for the safety of his daughter, who was plump with child and due to give birth any day.  Nicholas had assured the abductor that all would be forgiven if he’d only return the maid and leave Sturry.

But the stubborn lad had refused to talk.

Nicholas had tried shame.  He’d scolded the lad for making a father fret over his only daughter.  Then, guessing there might be a personal motive for the abduction, since the young man had demanded no ransom, he’d tried to convince him that the maid would think him a coward for kidnapping her.

But the lad had only sat glumly silent.

Then Nicholas had resorted to fear.  He’d begun dragging out his implements of torture, sighting along the blades, running a thumb over edges to gauge their sharpness, testing them in the flesh of the carcasses suspended on hooks within the smokehouse.  He talked silkily of the various uses of the tools, some of them real, some invented.

But the man had given absolutely no response.  And Nicholas feared for the welfare of the lass and her babe if he didn’t discover her whereabouts soon.

Thus, having tried every other option, he was reduced to using real violence.  Steeling himself for the encounter, he cracked his knuckles once, then turned toward the lad.  With no word of warning, he backhanded him, hard enough to knock the lad over, stool and all.

The lad’s face flushed red from the blow as he groaned in pain on the ground.  Nicholas came to stand over him, sickened by the sight of what he’d wrought, rubbing his bruised knuckles.