Danger's Kiss (30 page)

“And she’s the granddaughter of a murderer,” the other John whispered.

The calming qualities of a bath were only so effective.  Her temper at its limit, Philomena wadded up the wet rag and threw it at Odger.  It landed with a smack in the middle of his chest, making him yelp.

“I don’t care if she’s the mistress of Lucifer himself!” she shrieked.  “Bring her to me!”

For a moment the men were too petrified to move.  Then, like beetles scurrying from a candle, they rushed from the solar all at once, muttering unintelligible assurances that they would do her bidding.

Once she was alone, she shut her eyes and sank back into the scalding water.

How the dullards would manage to pull off an abduction she didn’t know, but among the four of them, they should be able to subdue one scrawny wench.

Meanwhile, she’d make plans for the woman’s interrogation.

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made that the wench knew the whereabouts of the key.  Hubert Kabayn had come to Torteval not as a murderer, but as a thief.  He’d had time to skulk through the hall and rifle through her things.  He’d probably found the key, assumed it opened a chest of valuables, and tucked it onto his person.

Before Kabayn was hanged, the shire-reeve would have confiscated all of his possessions, including that key.  That would explain why the granddaughter was working in league with Nicholas Grimshaw.  The girl suspected that learning the whereabouts of Hubert Kabayn at the time of the murder would lead her to the location of the treasure the key unlocked.

She tipped her head back and let out a throaty chuckle.  She was almost inclined to let the silly wench sneak into Torteval to search fruitlessly for the elusive prize.  But Philomena didn’t have the luxury of time for such amusements.  She’d already spent far more time on this nonsense than she intended, and her treasure wouldn’t last forever.

Desirée swept a loose tendril back from her forehead and surveyed her work so far this morn.  The counters gleamed, the cupboards shone softly, and the stool by the hearth looked new again, thanks to a soft ball of beeswax and a determined arm.

Nicholas couldn’t possibly send her away now, not after last night.  After all, if he sent her away, he’d have no one to keep his house in order, no one to cook him supper, no one to feed his cat, and no one to...  She grinned.  Polish his dagger.  He’d be alone and miserable the rest of his life.

As for Desirée, it didn’t matter to her that lawmen lived apart from polite society.  She’d never really belonged to society.  Eventually, if she got very ambitious, she’d persuade Nicholas to give up his role as shire-reeve, since he didn’t much like his work, anyway.

In the meantime, she could do far worse than Nicholas Grimshaw for company.  Indeed, she thought as a warm blush rose to her cheeks, she
loved
his company...his arms around her...his lips pressed to hers...his hot, velvety...

Snowflake brushed against her leg, startling her from her thoughts, almost making her drop the ball of beeswax.

“
You
won’t mind if I stay, will you, Snowflake?  I’ll feed you scraps from the table every night, and scratch you behind the ears, and you can have my nice pallet by the fire all for yourself.”

As if in answer, the cat swept past her leg again, his tail quivering.

Desirée resumed rubbing wax on the table, buffing it with the rag till it shone like a moonlit pond.

Nicholas had left early this morn for Faversham, but she couldn’t forget the wistful look on his face as he bade her farewell.  Nor the pleased surprise in his eyes when she rose on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss.

That kiss had turned into something far less innocuous, a deep, soulful joining of their lips that made her pulse race, her heart sing, and her body crave more.

But any more would have delayed him on his journey.  And so he’d left with a final, searching look of regret that sent warm shivers along her skin.

Even now, the memory made her glow.

Softly singing
Tempus es iocundum
, this time fully embracing the lusty lyrics of burning love, she finished polishing the furniture and added another log to the fire.

Just as she was settling down to a cup of watered wine, Snowflake came trotting out from the bedchamber, his teeth clamped around a dead mouse.

“Oh!”  She winced in disgust but knew better than to discourage the cat’s useful hunting instincts.  “Good cat.  Why don’t you sit by the fire, way over there, and have yourself a nice feast?”

Unfortunately, it seemed this prize he’d caught for
her
.  He proudly dropped the limp gray carcass at her feet.

“Oh.”

He sniffed at it as if to make sure it was dead, and then strutted proudly off.

“How kind.”

She couldn’t just leave it there, as much as she didn’t want to touch the grisly thing.  The last thing Nicholas needed in his cottage was a grim reminder of death.  She had to dispose of it before he got home.

So swilling the cup of wine all at once to steel her nerves, she used the polishing rag to pick up the tiny beast by the tip of its tail.  With a moue of disgust, she crept across the room, intending to fling the carcass into the yard.

Holding the mouse aloft, she swung open the door.

And almost tossed the rodent into the ruddy face of a piggish little man.

She gasped.

He recoiled.

She recovered before he did.  “Who are you?  What do you want?”

Eyeing the mouse mistrustfully, he ignored her questions.  “Is Grimshaw at home?”

She frowned.  The man looked like he’d had some kind of altercation recently.  His lip was split, his brow was bruised, and there were scratches on his cheek.  She didn’t trust him.  And she didn’t like his imperious tone.

“He’s not here, is he?” the man guessed, a telltale gleam of hope in his beady eyes.

She stepped through the doorway, dangling the mouse closer to him, forcing him to retreat.  As far as she knew, the man might be one of Nicholas’s disgruntled victims.  “He’s sleeping.  Shall I wake him?”

He squinted, studying her face.  “You’re lying.  But you’re very good at it.”  With a sudden jerk of his arm, a reflex he must have earned from dodging blows, he knocked the mouse out of her grip, sending it flying into the garden.  “The truth is, we saw him leave an hour ago.”

We?  An alarm sounded at once in her head.  She retreated into the cottage and slammed the door.  But just before it met the jamb, he shoved it inward.  She pushed with all her might, sure she could outmuscle the little man.  But suddenly the door moved toward her with greater force.

When she was shoved back into the room, not one, but
four
men burst into the cottage.  The piggish man.  Odger.  John.  And John.

Nicholas was in no mood to interrogate anyone today, which was terrible for his reputation.  But he couldn’t seem to muster the strength of will to inflict pain on any of the three suspected thieves chained to the wall of the Faversham gaol.

Not only had his heart gone soft, but even his muscles felt weak.  All he could think about was the tantalizing beauty waiting at home for him, the maid who’d wrapped his soul around her finger and would one day leave him with nary a backward glance.  God’s bones, he thought, pacing across the dank mud floor of the gaol, he was as sick with love as a wide-eyed virgin.

Damn it all!  Somehow he had to pull himself together to question the ragged trio before him.  He tugged on his gloves and punched a menacing fist into his palm, making one of the lads jump in trepidation.

“Well, lads, you can make this simple or complicated,” he told them, continuing to walk back and forth before them.  “You can give me a quick answer, the correct answer, and I won’t have to break anyone’s bones.  Or,” he said, pausing to grind his fist into his palm, making the leather squeak ominously, “I can beat the truth out of you.”

To his astonishment, his threat loosened their tongues at once, and they began chattering simultaneously.  He had to hold up his hands to silence them.

“One at a time.  You.”  He pointed to the first, a thin, pale lad with soulful eyes.  “What’s your name?”

The lad gulped.  “Byron.”

“Talk to me, Byron.”

Despite his obvious fear, the lad straightened with all the nobility of a titled baron.  “I did it.”

Nicholas blinked in surprise.  “Well.  That wasn’t so difficult, was
—
“

“Nay!” the second cried.  “’Twas me!  Harry!  I was the one!”

Nicholas scowled at the round-faced lad with the earnest gaze.

“’Tisn’t true!” the third protested, tossing his dark locks with stormy passion.  “I snatched up those pearls.  And I’m glad.  And I’d do it again.”

Nicholas let out a growling sigh as they all started arguing again.  Here was something he’d never had before, too many suspects for the same crime.

“Silence!” he barked.

They became silent.  He looked from one to the other.  These weren’t seasoned outlaws.  They could scarcely grow beards.  But they’d definitely worked in concert to pull off some kind of mischief.

“So it took all three of you to steal one strand of pearls?”

The lads glanced at each other in solemn accord, then all three nodded.

Nicholas ambled over to his satchel of tools.  Their commitment was admirable.  But he didn’t think they fully understood the consequences of false confession.  He dug in his bag and pulled out an enormous chopping knife, sighting along its edge.

“So I should cut off all three of your hands?”

Their gasps were audible, but they made no other reply.  From beneath lowered brows, he peered at the lads.  Byron had gone even paler, Harry looked as if he might cry, and the third’s face seemed made of stone.  But none of them spoke.

It was curious.  They were willing to lose their hands, all three of them, rather than name the guilty one.  Such loyalty was rare.  Such loyalty was absent in the world of outlaws.  Dedicated thieves would betray their own mothers to avoid losing a limb.

What could have made the lads so self-sacrificing?

He resumed pacing before them, casually swinging the knife.  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Nay, there’s not,” Harry blurted out.

Byron said, “We took the pearls.  We told you already.”

The stony lad bit out, “If you’re going to cut off our hands, just get on with it!”

Nicholas hunkered down before them and chopped the knife hard into the dirt between his knees.

“Pearls,” he murmured.  “What would three lads want with pearls?”

“Maybe we were thinking to sell them,” the third lad said in challenge.

Byron added, “They could bring a fine price, pearls.”

Harry, who Nicholas had ascertained was less clever than his fellows, chimed in, “I
like
pearls.”  At the frowns of disapproval from the other two, he muttered defensively, “I do.”

“So where are your precious pearls now?” Nicholas asked.

No one replied.

Nicholas rose and ambled up to the third lad.  “What’s your name?”

The lad glared at him with burning hatred, refusing to answer.

“’Twould be a pity to break that jaw,” Nicholas told him.  “Then you wouldn’t be able to speak at all.”

“For God’s sake, Campbell,” Harry pleaded, “tell him.”

“Harry!” Byron chided.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled.

“Campbell, is it?”  Nicholas drew close, close enough to see his own grim reflection in the lad’s smoldering eyes.  “What have you done with the pearls?”

Campbell clenched his jaw and stared stonily ahead.

Nicholas could have shattered his jaw with a single blow, but there were better ways to get what he wanted.  He backed away from the lad and strolled past the other two.

“You see, if we could
find
the missing item, the punishment might be less severe.”

“Less severe?” Byron said.