Danger's Kiss (28 page)

He caught her wrist in one hand and carefully took the cup from her with the other, setting it down on the table.  Mistaking her distraction for fright, he spoke in soothing tones.  “Listen, lass.  You needn’t fear me.  I’ve changed my shirt.  I’m no longer the shire-reeve, just Nicholas.”

She blinked in surprise.  “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You’re not?”

She smirked.  “Hardly.”  Even if he
had
shed blood today
—
and she didn’t intend to ask him about it
—
she was sure it had been only as a last resort.  He’d already proved to her he was a man of kindness, patience, and mercy.  “How could I be afraid of someone I can beat at draughts?”

His face bloomed slowly into a relieved smile.  “Is that a challenge?”

Lord, his eyes sparkled like jewels when he looked at her like that.  “Indeed.”  Afraid that if she lingered she might succumb to the wild desire to run her fingers beneath the laces of his shirt, she returned to the hearth to tend to supper.

“What is it you wished to tell me?” he said, hefting up the cup of wine and taking a sip.

It took her a moment to recall.  “Oh.  ‘Twas the most wondrous thing.  While I was shopping for the pike at the market today, I lifted coins from a woman’s purse.”

He nearly choked on the wine.  “What?”

“Oh, I gave them back,” she assured him, adding in a mutter, “though I didn’t get so much as a nod of thanks from the old trot.”  She ladled galentyne sauce over the platter of fish.  “Then I saw the fellow in front of the arkwright’s shop.  His silver was practically begging to be stolen.”

“You didn’t.”

“Nay, I didn’t,” she said proudly.  “And then, as if Lucifer himself placed them in my path, two drunken dullards came strolling by, coins jangling from their belts, perfect targets, ripe to be robbed.”

“And did you rob them?”

She turned to him, her brow creased.  “Nay.  Don’t you see?  That’s my point.  I didn’t.”
“Thank God.”

“And ‘twasn’t even the Sabbath.  I believe, Nicholas Grimshaw, your decency is rubbing off on me.  You may make an honest wench of me yet.”

Desirée expected some word of praise or congratulations for her triumphs.  She did
not
expect the slow laughter that began to bubble out of him.

She frowned.  “What?”

He shook his head in rueful amusement.  “I fear, my lady, you’re making a
dis
honest man out of
me
.”

"
I
ndeed?  You?  The right arm of the law?”  Desirée’s voice was laced with sarcasm as she brought supper to the table.  But at his silence, she realized he was serious.  She set the platter down and cocked a suspicious eye at him.  “Nicholas, what have you done?”

He couldn’t tell her.  Not when she’d just been boasting about her own reformation.  He shrugged.  “’Tis nothing, really.”

She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “You didn’t steal something, did you?”

He frowned.  “Nay.”

“Did you cheat at a gaming table?”

“Nay!”

The pesky lass wasn’t going to give up.  She skewered him with a glare.  “I’ll find out sooner or later, Nicholas.  You know I will.”

“’Tisn’t proper conversation for the supper table.”

She sank down onto the bench, her eyes wide.  “You didn’t...murder someone, did you?  I mean...other than the usual...”

He scowled.  “Nay.”  He lifted his dagger, intending to slice off a generous portion of pike.  “Not exactly.”

She suddenly pulled the platter out of his reach.  “Not exactly?  What does that mean?”

Against his will, his mouth twitched with amusement as he recalled his clever ruse.

She arched a warning brow at him.  “You’re not getting any supper until you tell me.  Everything.”

More hungry than remorseful, he acquiesced.  As he related the details, her eyes twinkled with mischief, amusement, and
—
God save both their sinful souls
—
admiration.

“Let me get this aright,” she said.  “You pummeled a pork roast to death?”

“Aye.”

“And told them ‘twas the lad?”

“Aye.”

“And they believed you?”

“Aye.”

“But that’s brilliant!” she crowed, moving the platter back to the middle of the table.

“’Tis unlawful,” he argued, shaking his head in self-reproof, though he was sure the pleased glint in his own eyes sent a completely different message.

“’Tis
just
,” she countered, laughing in delight.  “Admit it.  Didn’t the deception give you the tiniest bit of pleasure?”

He shrugged, helping himself to pike.

She leaned close.  “Come on.  Confess it.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed.

She grinned.  “You outwitted a villain and saved the life of an innocent lad.”

“But one can’t ride about taking the law into one’s own hands, even if ‘tis for good.”

“Why not?”

“Tis...”  He frowned.  “Wrong.”

She arched a brow.  “You said yourself, ‘twas the right thing to do.”

He sighed.  Desirée was confounding his thoughts, not only by the way she twisted his words, but by the way she was looking at him, her eyes all a-sparkle, her smile delightfully wicked.  “You
are
a bad influence on me.”

She gave him a sly grin, whispering, “I’ll make an outlaw out of you yet.”

He scowled.  That was just what he feared.

“Let’s have our supper,” she suggested.  “Then if you like, I’ll teach you the finer points of picking pockets.”

“I do
not
wish to learn how to rob men of their coin.”

“What about gluttonous arse-wisps of barons who’ve plucked that coin out of the hands of their starving crofters?”

He growled at her.

She looked at him, all innocence.  “For instance.”

He wanted to tell her that she was an evil wench, that she’d been raised with flawed morals and she was going to wager her way into hell with that line of reasoning.  But the truth was, she had a point.  What was justice, after all?  Was it what the crown claimed was right?  Or what God decreed was fair and merciful?

He gave her a grudging smile.  “
’Twas
rather satisfying, seeing the look of shock on the miller’s face.”

She slipped a few bites of pike to Azrael, who was pacing at her feet.  “You fret too much over the letter of the law.  Your heart knows what is right.  Just as I knew ‘twasn’t right to take that silver today.”

Nicholas nodded, then chuckled in self-mockery.  Was he actually listening to the advice of a thief? 
Reformed
thief, he corrected.

Still, he couldn’t completely trust his heart.  After all, his heart had told him some crackbrained things lately.  Things like he should settle down.  Take a wife.  Raise a family.

It was all Desirée’s fault.  Having her in his household showed him clearly what had been missing from it.  The irreverent vixen was a perfect companion for him.  Her bright spark countered his black smolder.  Her laughter countered his scowl.  She brought candlelight into his darkness, life into his domain of death.

How would he ever let her go?

Yet how could he hold her prisoner in his grim world?

Desirée jiggled the frayed ribbon above Snowflake’s head as she and Nicholas sat cross-legged before the fire.  The cat took a few lazy swipes at it, then collapsed onto his side, too stuffed from supper to play.

She laughed.  “He’s tired of being a cat.”  She swept the ribbon behind her neck to tie up her hair.  “What about you, Nicholas?  Are you tired of being a lawman?”

“What do you mean?”  He reached out to scratch Snowflake’s belly.

“I mean, you don’t truly enjoy your work, do you?”

He frowned.  “’Tis not meant to be enjoyed.”

“Well, then,” she said, finishing off the bow, “why not let someone
else
not enjoy it?”

“’Tisn’t that simple.”  Snowflake took a swipe at his hand.  “Ow!”

“Oh, aye, ‘tis.  I’ve done it.  I’ve changed.  In the span of a fortnight, I’ve gone from vagabond outlaw to invaluable maidservant.”  She winked at him.

He shook his head.  “You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

He sighed.  “I have a reputation.  I’m Nicholas Grimshaw, the shire-reeve of Kent.”

She snorted.  “Snowflake doesn’t know you’re a shire-reeve.  He thinks you’re the king of cats.”  As if to prove his devotion, the cat rolled onto his feet and padded over to Nicholas to rub against his thigh.  “I don’t think of you as the shire-reeve, either.  I think of you as...the man I beat at draughts every night.”

“The man you
cheat
at draughts every night.”

She scooted closer to him until they were almost knee to knee.  “You know, if you changed your profession,” she said, reaching forward with the intent of tying up his loose shirt laces, “you might get that wife fate promised you.”

He threw up a defensive hand, blocking her.

She scolded him with a glare, batting his hand away.  But as she lifted the ties to make a bow, a completely different idea came into her head.  She’d been tempted by that delicious triangle of skin all night long.  Instead of crossing the ties, she pulled them apart, baring his chest.

She glanced down just long enough for a shiver of desire to course through her.  But when she looked into his eyes again, something powerful and dangerous burned there, something as potent as hot coals waiting for the nudge of a poker to be stirred to life.

Nicholas wanted her.

That knowledge shot a pang of longing into her breast, like an arrow piercing her heart, a longing that spread as rapidly as a field fire through her body, sizzling in her ears, searing her breasts, burning between her thighs.

She should have been afraid.  He stared at her as if he might brand her with his eyes.  It was doubtless the same kind of silent, threatening glare he made to force confessions from outlaws.

But instead of fear, she felt a curious exhilaration.  Her heart quickened, and a queer tingling began in the pit of her stomach.

Nicholas wanted her.  And, by all the saints, she wanted him.

She released one of the ties to rest her hand flat upon his chest.  His skin was even more warmly seductive than she’d imagined, and she could feel his trembling breath beneath her palm.  His nostrils flared as if in anger, and a muscle flexed in his jaw.

But she wasn’t afraid.  She was excited.

Holding his gaze, she slipped her hand slowly but brazenly inside his shirt.

His eyes widened, but she continued, sliding her palm over the smooth, supple expanse.  Holding her breath, she brushed her fingers over his nipple, and his eyes darkened in response.  She emitted a soft moan as it stiffened beneath her touch.

He sucked a breath through his teeth and seized her trespassing wrist.

It was a warning.  But Desirée seldom heeded warnings.

Her heart pounding at her own boldness, she slowly drew her captured wrist back, bringing his hand along.  She pried his grip loose, then opened his palm.

He glowered at her, choking out, “You shouldn’t...”

She returned his intense stare with a gaze of unabashed lust.  “I know.”

Then she turned his palm and lay it flat upon her own bosom.

A sound came from him, almost like a grunt of pain, and he glared at his hand, as if he couldn’t quite understand how it had come to be there.

After one delicious moment, he tried to pull back, but she wouldn’t allow it.  She covered his hand with both her own.  A woman bent on having her way, she stared boldly into his eyes and slowly forced his hand farther and farther under the neckline of her kirtle, until he fully cupped her breast.