Danger's Kiss (37 page)

He further advised her to stay away from the site, as it was dangerous.  She assured him she had no intention of going there, adding a shiver of revulsion at the thought.  Then, smiling sweetly and bidding him good day, she immediately headed off in the direction of the place.

As the constable had indicated, the moss-covered gaol slouched in the middle of a deserted boggy patch at the edge of town.  One of the stone walls had crumbled, and long vines of ivy climbed over the top and reached into the sunken doorway.  A wattle fence surrounded the area, preventing children and livestock from wandering too near and perhaps falling into the ruins.

Desirée skirted the fence in the mist, looking for a good place to make entry.  Halfway around, she found a low spot in the wattle crossbars and, beyond that, a path of hardened ground leading to the gaol.

She frowned.  Someone had been using this trail regularly, for the grass was worn away in the middle and bent flat at the edges.

Glancing quickly about for witnesses, she hoisted up her gown and climbed over the fence.  Then she retrieved the key from her bodice and crept toward the gaol, hoping a family of wolves hadn’t decided to take up residence in the sunken den.

Sweeping aside the ivy curtaining the entrance, she peered in.  It was as black as coal inside, and she hesitated, worrying the iron key between her thumb and finger, wondering if the treasure was worth the possibility that wild animals or unsavory men might lurk in the dark.

As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, she noticed a set of wooden steps had been placed at the entrance, leading from the ground above to the submerged floor below.  At least she’d not have to clamber down to the lower level.

Gripping the key, she carefully stepped down the five stairs and onto a stone floor, slick with mud.  It was still as dark as night, but to her right, the wall began to grow less and less dim, until she saw the widening flicker of reflected flame illuminating the stones.

Someone was coming!  Her heart tripped at the sound of footfalls scraping from within the gaol.  She swung around, ready to mount the steps and flee.

“Is that you, m’lady?” a gruff voice called from within the passageway.

Desirée froze.

She heard the man grumble as the pool of light grew larger upon the wall.

“Lady Philomena?” he asked, rounding the corner.

Desirée glanced down at the key in her hand.  Perhaps this
was
where Philomena kept her treasure.  Improvising quickly, she whirled back toward the man’s voice and straightened with authority.

“Ye’re not...” the man growled, coming to an abrupt halt.  “Who are ye?”

Desirée lifted her nose.  “I’m Lady Philomena’s maidservant.”

The man looked like a burly old bear, stirred from his winter’s sleep.  But then, Desirée supposed, dwelling in this crypt of a gaol,
anyone
would be filthy and irritable.

He studied her twice from head to toe, then muttered, “She sent ye?”

“Aye.”

“I s’pose ye’ve got the key?”

She dangled it before her.

“Come along, then,” he said on a sigh, hobbling back around the corner.

She followed him into what was more like a tunnel than a hallway.  Moisture seeped in at the low ceiling and narrow walls, and the dank odor of earth and rotting food and rat droppings swirled around her in a fetid cloud.

Stopping at a heavy iron door on the right, he waved his torch close, indicating the lock.

“’E’s in there.”

He?  Misgiving fluttered in Desirée’s breast.  She’d expected the locked cell to contain a cask of gems or stacks of coins or some other form of wealth.  She hadn’t expected a “he.”  What...or who...waited behind the door?

She had to find out.  It was too late to change her mind.  She thrust the key into the lock.  It fit perfectly.

“May I?” she said, indicating the torch.

He frowned but surrendered it to her.  At her nod of dismissal, he retreated to his well-stocked lair at the end of the passageway, where he slumped down onto a three-legged stool, picked up a foaming flagon, and took a bite of something he’d left on the small table beside him.

Desirée turned the key carefully, ready with the torch should the occupant of the chamber be less than hospitable.  The door made a dreadful creak as she pushed it slowly inward, and there was a scuffling within as someone or something sensed her presence.

Leaving one hand on the door, she swept the torch forward, illuminating the small cell.

“’Mena?” someone croaked.

She gasped.  In the corner stood a man, or what was left of a man.  Though his clothing was that of a noble
—
a surcoat of richly embroidered tawny wool with a fine linen shirt beneath—it
was filthy and shredded to dirty rags.  His hair was matted, and he had a beard that reached to the middle of his chest.  There were holes in the pointed toes of his leather shoes, and his face and hands looked as if he hadn’t bathed in months.

“You’re not Philomena,” he said, shielding his eyes from the unaccustomed light.  “Who are you, my lady?”

Desirée doubted she had much to fear from the man.  Despite his unkempt appearance, he possessed the attire and manner of a gentleman.  But of what value to Lady Philomena was he?

She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

“Did my wife send you?” he asked tightly.

Wife?  Was Lady Philomena this man’s wife?  Desirée answered with caution.  “Aye.”

He raked her once with a glare, and then bit the words out between his teeth.  “You can tell her I won’t be persuaded, no matter what form of temptation she dangles before me.”

Desirée had learned that sometimes the best strategy was the truth.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m not interested in your...charms.”

“Ah.”  The man thought her a hired harlot.

“And I won’t be a party to murder.”

Desirée blinked.  “Murder?”

He emitted a dry, bitter bark.  “She didn’t tell you?  My dear Philomena didn’t tell you why she locked her husband in this godforsaken tomb?”

Though his voice was full of hatred, she noted that he staggered slightly on his feet, catching his balance against a wall.  For all his show of determination, the poor wretch was as weak as a runt pup.  He probably hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks.

She needed to know more, and the best way to get a man to talk was to convince him she was his ally.

“Are you hungry?”

He swallowed reflexively.

She retreated to the door and opened it a crack.  “Gaoler!  Come here!  And bring me what’s left of your supper.  This man is half-starved.”

“What?” the gaoler whined.  “He ate only yesterday.  I slipped him a crust under the door.  This is mine.  I’m not goin’ to-”

“Shall I tell my lady,” Desirée said, curling her lip, “you’ve been mistreating her husband?”

“Mistreatin’?”  With a loud sigh of exasperation, he did as he was bid, but he grumbled all the way to the cell.

When Desirée confiscated the half-eaten pork tartee and closed the door again, the man eyed the food with keen hunger.  Only his nobility prevented him from snatching it from her.

She stepped closer, reeling from the stench of him.  “What’s your name, my lord?” she murmured, handing him the pastry.

He sank to the floor and fell upon the food with such grateful haste that he couldn’t answer immediately.  When he’d swallowed a bite, he murmured, “George.”

“George.  Well, George,” she said carefully, “‘tis true your wife sent me here to try to change your mind.  But now that I see how you’re suffering...”  She bit her lip.

He forced down a half-chewed bite of tartee.  “Aye?”

“I want to help you.”

“Help me?”  He looked up at her mistrustfully.  “You would do that?”

She nodded.  Then, ignoring the odor of neglect wafting off of him, she crouched beside George, propping the torch upon the floor.  “Tell me everything.”

P
hilomena didn’t like the smug expression on the Kabayn whelp’s face today.  The wench was up to something.  She should never have let the woman return to Nicholas Grimshaw’s cottage with only her miserable pet and the lawman’s livelihood for leverage.  Despite Philomena’s threats, that menacing shire-reeve might be tracking them even now.

But Philomena had no other choice.  She desperately needed that key.  It was the only way to unlock the gaol cell where she’d cached her husband.  If she lost it, if her husband was
not
miraculously returned to Torteval after his father’s death, she risked losing their entire inheritance.  And she’d labored far too long and hard at this scheme to do that.

So as she traipsed through the tall weeds of the fallow field behind Torteval toward the old mill, her slender dagger jabbing at the small of the woman’s back, she scanned the fog-shrouded woods and wondered if the sinister shire-reeve lurked in the shadows.

When she at last shoved Desirée through the mill door, slamming it shut behind them, the wench surprised her by whipping around and stepping back a pace, out of dagger’s reach.

Philomena would have advanced on her, but her nose began to twitch from the presence of that infernal cat, and she was suddenly overcome by the impending urge to sneeze.

She saw through watery eyes that Desirée was retrieving the bagged beast from the hook on the wall.  For one horrible moment as the wench lowered it to the floor and loosened the top of the sack, Philomena suspected the wench might use the beast as a weapon, throwing the wretched thing in her face.  She cocked back her dagger and fired it forward toward the animal, simultaneously emitting a rib-jolting sneeze.

The dagger stuck in the floor, missing the cat, which streaked off to a shadowy corner of the mill.  Only then did Philomena grasp the consequences of her impulsive throw.

The Kabayn woman, realizing her sudden advantage, wrenched the blade loose and, with a grim smile of victory, flashed it before her.

“I believe my terms have changed,” she said, tossing the knife in a casual but threatening manner, back and forth between her hands.

Philomena began to tremble with rage and frustration.  Why did everything have to be so complicated?  Was it too much to ask that people die when they were supposed to, that servants follow her commands without question, that there be no negotiating or nasty surprises...or cats?

“Don’t be a fool!” she snapped.  “You’ve got your bloody cat.  All I want is that key.  If you make trouble
—
“

“I want the gaming box, as well.”

“The what?”

“Nicholas Grimshaw’s gaming box.  Your men stole it.”

Philomena narrowed her eyes.  She remembered that gaming box.  The servants had been playing draughts on it in the great hall.  She’d taken it away from them, because it had been distracting them from their work.  Afterward, she’d decided to keep it herself, for the craftsmanship was too fine for their grimy paws.

She chewed the corner of her lip.  If it were any other circumstance, she’d have told the maid nay, found some way to kill her on the spot, and pried the key from her cold, dead fingers.  But she couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes at this point.

Things had already gone awry.  Too many people knew.  She’d had to kill the damned lawyer with her own hands, for God’s sake.  Now, not only did she have to finish off her father-in-law, but she had to find a way to get rid of the witnesses.  And there was already too much blood on her hands.

Perhaps if she ceded this once, if she gave the wench her wretched gaming box, she’d go away.

“Very well,” she bit out.  “You’ll have your stupid trinket.  But you’ll have to come back to the hall to get it, and if you try any trickery, I swear I’ll put
you
in a sack and throw you into the river.”  She punctuated her threat with a brain-rattling sneeze that at last sent the cat bolting across the mill and squirming out under the door, hopefully fleeing as far away as possible.

Things went smoothly enough on the return to the hall.  The woman tried no tricks, and the shire-reeve didn’t burst out from the woods.  When they entered the solar, Philomena had begun to think she’d overestimated the wench’s wiles.  Perhaps she
did
simply want what was stolen from her.