Danger's Kiss (32 page)

She’d been left alone here until now.

“Desirée?  The granddaughter of Hubert Kabayn?” the woman asked.  She dropped the half-full bucket of water onto the floor with a thud.

Desirée licked the droplets from her lips.  It was the only drink she’d been given since they’d abandoned her.  Her belly growled with hunger.  Her chafed wrists stung from struggling against her rope bonds.  And her voice was hoarse from yelling for help.

Without warning, the woman stepped forward and gave her a jolting slap across the cheek.  “I asked you a question.”

Desirée fought back the urge to spit in the woman’s face.  But though she was a stubborn lass, she wasn’t stupid.  With her legs bound together and her arms tied tightly behind her, she was nearly helpless.  Clenching her jaw, she nodded.

“Well, Desirée, I’m Lady Philomena.  Of Torteval?” the lady continued silkily, bracing one hand on the broken grinding stone as she hunkered down to look her in the eye.  “You seem like an intelligent woman.  I think you can guess why you’re here.”

By the light flooding in through the torn sheepskin window, Desirée could see the woman clearly now.  She was coldly beautiful, clad in skirts of gold-embroidered blood-red silk that currently swept through the mouse droppings strewn across the floor.  She had sleek auburn hair, alabaster skin, and a shapely mouth.  But when she leered as she did now, her dark lips looked like a bloody slash across her pale face, and what Desirée detected in the glittering depths of Philomena’s gaze chilled her to the bone.

It wasn’t madness exactly.  It was more akin to icy, reptilian hunger.  And if there was one thing Hubert had taught her, it was never to rile a person with the eyes of a snake.

Desirée carefully shook her head.

The woman clucked her tongue.  “Think, poppet, think,” she urged, her honey voice at odds with her intense gaze.

Desirée croaked, “I don’t know what you
—
”

“Indeed?”  The lady reached out a finger to lift Desirée’s chin, studying her face carefully.  “And I’d have thought a day without food or water would jar your memory.”

Then, without even a blink to signal her intent, the woman scraped her nail suddenly sideways across Desirée’s throat, leaving a searing gash that made Desirée gasp in pain.

Philomena’s beautiful face was suddenly disfigured by a sneer of impatience.  “Where is it, you filthy whelp?”

Desirée’s mind raced, but she couldn’t figure out what the woman was talking about.  “Where is what?”

Her question earned her another vicious slap, and Desirée kept her head lowered this time, stifling an oath as her fingers twitched with the urge to return the blow.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know, wench,” Philomena snarled.  “I want my key, and I want it now.”

“What?”

“My key!”

Suddenly Desirée remembered something she’d put to the back of her thoughts, it had seemed so insignificant at the time.  When she’d first visited Hubert in the Canterbury gaol, he’d boasted that he hadn’t left Torteval completely empty-handed.  Then he’d slipped her a useless old iron key, the only thing he’d managed to hide on his person.  He’d jested with her, saying it was likely the key to some noblewoman’s chastity belt.  She’d laughed and tucked it into her purse without another thought.

Now she wondered if it did indeed belong to something important.  Perhaps it was the key to the Torteval treasury.  Maybe it unlocked a chest of gold coins or deeds to estates or

valuable jewels.

Whatever the key opened, it was vital enough to warrant the risky abduction of a woman from the home of a notorious lawman.

Desirée made up her mind then and there.  No matter what coercions the Lady of Torteval intended, she was not going to surrender.

Indeed, using that key might be her way to exact one final bit of vengeance upon Torteval for the unjust death of Hubert, just one robbery to put her old friend’s soul to rest before she abandoned her life of crime forever.  It was too tempting an opportunity to pass up.

But first she had to escape her captor.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told Philomena.  “What key?”

The next blow came from her closed fist, bruising Desirée’s jaw and knocking her sideways, and she had to shake her head to clear the ringing in her ears.

“I know you have it, wench,” Philomena hissed.  “Your grandfather took it when he murdered the lawyer.”

Desirée instinctively blurted out, “He didn’t murder anyone.”

“Don’t be a crackpate.  Of course he did.”  She allowed a cruel smile to blossom on her face.  “Indeed, ’twas your good friend Nicholas Grimshaw who dispatched him to hell for the crime, wasn’t it?”

Desirée bit back a curse.  It would be unwise to speak her mind while she was at the mercy of a madwoman.

“That’s why you’re living with him now, isn’t it?” she guessed.  “Because he has the key.”

Philomena seized her by her throbbing jaw, demanding her gaze.  More angry than afraid, it was all Desirée could do to resist whipping her head around to bite the woman’s fingers.

“Give me what I want,” Philomena purred, “and perhaps I won’t leave you with scars.”

“I don’t know what you want,” Desirée insisted.

“The key!” Philomena shrieked.  This time she caught Desirée completely off guard, kicking her in the belly and robbing her of breath.  “The key!”

Desirée couldn’t suck in even a wisp of air, let alone speak.  Her stomach ached with a dull throbbing, and her lungs seemed to have collapsed against her spine.  She wondered if she’d overestimated her capacity to endure Philomena’s abuse.

“Don’t be stupid!” Philomena cried, pacing back and forth before Desirée in the small space between the moss-covered wall and the millstone.  She gave a mirthless chuckle.  “You don’t even know what it goes to.  It will do you no good.”

Desirée finally managed to rasp in a painful breath.  “I don’t have...your bloody key.”

Philomena’s eyes narrowed to fuming slits, and she suddenly turned on Desirée like a wild beast, seizing her by the hair.  Desirée gasped as the woman’s fists coiled tightly in her tresses, threatening to tear the hair from her scalp.

“You’re lying, you filthy harlot!” Philomena spat, twisting her fingers mercilessly.

The pain triggered Desirée’s street-fighting instincts, and on impulse, she swept her bound legs violently sideways, catching the front of Philomena’s shins.

Desirée lost a few strands of hair as the woman careened, grasping for purchase, but it was well worth the price to see her stumble and hit the planks on one knee.

Of course, Desirée’s triumph was short-lived.  The fall only agitated Philomena all the more.  As she struggled to her feet, rage turned her fair skin ruddy, and a lock of auburn hair fell like the tail of a dead rat over one vexed eye.

Desirée bent her knees up under her chin, like a crossbow primed to fire.  She might be engaged in an uneven fight, but she meant to leave bruises of her own.

Suddenly, a slice of blinding light fell between them, and both pairs of eyes were drawn to the door.  It had creaked open, and lurking in the doorway, as unexpected as snow in summer, was Nicholas’s cat.

Desirée frowned.  What was he doing here?  Had Philomena’s men abducted him, as well?  Or, she thought with a thrill of hope, did Snowflake’s appearance mean Nicholas had somehow tracked her to this mill?

Philomena suddenly screamed in violent outrage, startling Desirée.  With a determined swish of her scarlet skirts, she marched toward the door, intent on doing the cat some harm.

“Nay!” Desirée cried.  “Don’t hurt him!”

Her words stopped Philomena in her tracks a mere yard from Snowflake, who had unwisely held his ground.

Philomena swung her head around, narrowing her eyes at Desirée.  “You know this beast?”

Desirée hesitated.

If Philomena didn’t recognize Snowflake, then she hadn’t ordered the cat’s abduction.  But Snowflake hadn’t brought Nicholas, either, for the lawman would have instantly burst in the door at the sound of a woman’s scream.  Nay, Snowflake must have followed on his own.

“Do you?” Philomena hissed, rearing back her foot, preparing to kick the hapless cat.

“Nay!  Aye!”  Faith, she couldn’t let the woman hurt Snowflake.

“Well, which is it?”

“Aye, I know him.  But there’s no need to hurt him.  He’s only a harmless...”

Philomena sneezed all at once.  Normally such a loud sound would send the skittish cat fleeing, but for once the stubborn creature lingered in the doorway.

“Shoo!” Desirée shouted, to no avail.  “Go away, Snowflake!  Go!  Shoo!”

Philomena snatched a flour sack from a hook on the wall and approached the cat furtively.  “Come along, Snowflake.”  She sniffled.  “Climb into this nice sack,” she said with false sweetness, “and I’ll drown you in the well.”

“Nay!”

Desirée’s cry distracted the cat for only an instant, but it was long enough for Philomena to throw the sack over him, effectively trapping him within.

Philomena sneezed again but managed to hold the sack down while the cat snarled and flailed inside.

Wise or not, Desirée could no longer bottle her temper.  “Leave him alone, you bloody witch!”

Philomena only laughed and scooped up the sack, holding her thrashing prize up in triumph.  “Maybe now you remember where the key is.”

Desirée trembled with rage and frustration, fatigue and thirst.  She couldn’t let the woman hurt Snowflake.  Revenge wasn’t worth it.  The promise of riches wasn’t worth it.  Even clearing Hubert’s soul of murder wasn’t worth seeing the expression on Nicholas’s face when he learned his precious cat had been harmed.

Her shoulders sank, and she nodded.

Philomena smirked.  “I thought so.”  She twirled the sack to seal it, making Snowflake mew piteously, then plopped it roughly onto the floor and made a knot in the top.

“If you touch one whisker on that cat,” Desirée bit out, “I’ll bury the key where you’ll never find it.”

“Believe me,” Philomena said, picking up the sack and holding it at arm’s length, “I have no desire to touch the wretched beast.”

She sneezed again, then shuddered, hanging the knotted sack back on its hook.  Her eyes were swelling rapidly, turning red, and Desirée realized she must be one of those people who couldn’t abide cats.  She suddenly wished Snowflake had come with all his feline brethren to torment the lady.

Philomena held out her palm.  “Now hand over the key.”

Desirée swallowed.  “I don’t have it.”

“What!”  Philomena doubled her palm into a fist.

Desirée flinched, assuring her quickly, “But I can get it.  Let me go.  Give me till tomorrow, and I’ll bring it to you.”

Desirée could almost see steam huffing from the lady’s ears as she clenched and unclenched her fist.  “Let you go?  Are you addled?”

“’Tis the only way.  ‘Tis hidden in the shire-reeve’s cottage.”

“I’ll send someone else to fetch it.”

Desirée grimaced, remembering how clumsy Philomena’s servants were.  “’Tis a task requiring stealth, not force.”

Displeasure curled Philomena’s lip as she mulled over Desirée’s words, but she knew Desirée was right.  No one forced the formidable Nicholas Grimshaw to do anything.  He’d never allow a stranger to ransack his home.

She narrowed her eyes and bit out a warning.  “Heed me well, wench.  You’ll slip into the house, get the key, and return it to me at Torteval.  Do you understand?  No trickery.  Otherwise, I shall be delighted to kill your cat.”

As if in answer, Snowflake yowled pitifully from inside his cloth prison.  With a peeved growl, Philomena hoisted the half-full bucket at her feet and doused the poor, bagged, scrambling cat with the rest of the water.

Desirée wanted nothing more than to lunge at the barbarous wench and tear her eyes out.

Philomena gave her a nasty sneer.  “And remember, your Nicholas Grimshaw may like to tussle with the likes of you between the sheets, but he knows well who pays his wage.  If you breathe a word of any of this to him, I’ll see that he’s stripped of his position and reduced to carting dung for a living.”