Girl of Shadows (25 page)

Molly nodded; it was her preferred tipple.

The drinks were served in tankards and were cheap; the barman must be confusing them with the whores working the room, Friday
thought, but didn’t bother to put him right. She gave Molly hers and they found two stools and an upturned barrel in a corner, out of the way of rough elbows and heavy boots. Friday very deliberately set her tankard on the barrel, backed up to a stool, missed it and crashed to the floor. Stunned, she sat there, her skirts up around her thighs, and burst into hysterical giggles. Shrieking with laughter herself, Molly hauled her up by the arm and, with her foot, edged the stool under Friday’s backside.

‘There y’are. Have another go.’

Very carefully Friday sat, making sure her arse connected this time. She stared hard into her tankard, checking its contents were still there, and took a long swig.

‘Look,’ Molly said, waving at one of the whores. ‘There’s Susannah Moffat from Mrs McShera’s house.’ She let out an enormous burp. ‘Mrs M’ll be pleased when she finds out she’s been trawling this shithole.’

Friday squinted, seeing two Susannahs. ‘How’ll she find out?’

‘I’ll tell her. ’Less Susannah pays back the money she owes me.’

‘But that’s blackmail.’

Molly shrugged. ‘So?’

Friday’s view was suddenly blocked by a burly man standing immediately in front of her.

‘How much?’ he demanded in a heavy French accent.

‘What?’ Friday was annoyed. She didn’t like the French. The men always stank.

The man produced his purse. ‘How much? For the fuck?’

‘I’m not for sale,’ Friday snapped.

‘How
much
!?’ The man insisted. ‘I will double.’

‘Are you deaf? Fuck
off
.’ Friday aimed a kick at him.

He dodged her boot easily and called her a
chatte
, but he went, melting back into the crowd.

‘Arsehole frog,’ Friday muttered.

‘Christ, here we go,’ Molly said.

Friday followed her line of sight: three women were advancing on them, barging their way through the throng, not caring whose ale or rum they spilt. They were whores, the brightly dyed feathers in their hair bobbing angrily and their white breasts wobbling above daringly low necklines.

Excellent, Friday thought; she could do with a bloody good scrap. She knocked back the rest of her gin, gagged slightly and pushed herself unsteadily to her feet.

‘Piss off,’ the first woman to arrive said. She’d seen quite a number of better days. ‘You’re queering our pitch. Go on, sling your ’ook, the pair of yis.’

‘Might have, if you’d asked nicely,’ Friday replied. ‘But did you? Nope. So piss off your own self, you dried-up old fus … fustilugs.’

The tart gaped at her, took a moment to collect herself, grabbed Friday’s neck scarf with one hand and threw a punch with the other. Friday ducked and dodged sideways, almost garrotting herself, knocked over the barrel and fell, but recovered and swung wildly back. Beside her Molly stepped in and hit out at one of the woman’s companions. Then all five were at it, throwing punches, pulling hair and dislodging wigs, slapping, scratching and kicking. The crowd gathered like flies on fresh horseshit, lustily cheering the combatants on as lace, beads and bits of fabric came loose from dresses, and feathers drifted to the stained wooden floor. But the Black Rat’s owner, envisaging at least a temporary dip in his profits if his pet whores were injured so they couldn’t work, alerted his cellarman and his doorkeeper and, with some difficulty, pulled the women away from one another.

Friday and Molly were thrown out, but not before Friday had blearily spied Amos Furniss slouched against a wall near the door, tankard in hand, grinning nastily at her.

And the dark-haired girl with him, her face concealed by shadow — had that been Loulou?

Adam brought Sarah a pot of tea and she drank two cups one after the other, she was that thirsty. And hot. She’d left her boots and socks by the back door as they’d come in, and her jacket over the back of a chair. She’d already told him on the walk back everything had gone well, so there wasn’t much left to say. The ring and the bracelet were on the dining table, sparkling in the lamplight. Now that she was safely home she felt exhausted and wrung out, but still uncomfortably, expectantly on edge: she knew the night wasn’t yet over.

‘As far as I could see, the house girl doesn’t know where the safe is,’ she said. ‘Mrs Tregoweth put the jewellery in it herself. So the girl can’t reasonably be blamed for the theft.’

‘Good.’ That had been worrying Adam. He cleared his throat. ‘Sarah?’

He was staring at her. He’d discarded his own coat and sat with his shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows. Unbound, his dark hair fell across his forehead, tendrils sticking damply to his skin. His forearms were pale, and scattered with dark hair. His face was half in shadow, and the eye she could see glittered. A sheen of sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat where his pulse beat. He looked … saturnine, and a thrill rippled up her spine.

He also looked as though he might be about to say something momentous, and she panicked. She tried to think of some comment to deflect him, but her voice failed her utterly.

He pushed back his chair and moved around the table until he stood before her. ‘Sarah,’ he said again. His hands gently grazed her bare arms, and he bent to kiss her.

But then he pulled away from her. ‘Wait there,’ he said, and hurried from the room.

Sarah stared after him, nonplussed. She cupped a hand and breathed into it. No, not her. What was he doing? Brushing his own
teeth? Having a pee? She gave way to a nervous, snorted giggle. This was mad. She shouldn’t be letting him do this. She shouldn’t be letting
herself
do this.

From the shop came the muted sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing, then he was back, in his hands a pool of gleaming gold and sparkling gems.

He scattered the lot on the table, dragged her chair around, and sat down facing her. He fastened a heavy necklace of deep red garnets and pearls around her neck, leaning close enough for her to breathe in his scent, then slid a cobalt-green tourmaline and gold bracelet and a heavy gold bangle up her arms. The hard edges of the pieces were rough against her suddenly very sensitive skin and made her shiver with excitement. On her fingers he placed four of his best rings: diamond; ruby and aquamarine; star sapphire; and chrysolite and diamond. He moved behind her, and she felt him unwind her plait and spread her hair over her shoulders and down her back.

‘There,’ he said, moving to sit before her again. He ran the lightest of fingers across the scar on her face. ‘My girl of shadows. My beautiful girl of shadows.’

Sarah closed her eyes: it was the loveliest thing anyone had ever said to her. She felt a shift of air and his mouth was on hers, gentle at first, polite, then with increasing hunger.

She raised her fists to push him away but Adam’s hands closed around her wrists and held them firm.

‘Please, Sarah,’ he whispered against her face, his stubble scratching her cheek. ‘Please let me.’

She opened her eyes, saw the raw desire in his expression, and her belly did another one of those delicious, lazy flips. And though her instinct still warned her she was about to make a terrible mistake, for once she listened to her heart, and she nodded her assent.

He swept her up, knocking over her chair, and carried her down the hall. As he banged her head against the wall on the landing halfway up the stairs, she giggled again, aware that if he’d dropped
her on her arse she probably wouldn’t have minded. Giggling! For God’s sake, she never giggled! But her face was pressed against the damp skin of his throat, and she could smell him again and she felt intoxicated — silly and wild and utterly careless. She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his face down to meet hers, kissing him hard. They bounced off the frame of his bedroom door and Adam almost did drop her, and then she was sitting on his lap, on his bed.

She had a second to notice he’d already lit the lamps — when had he done that? — before he was kissing her again, his tongue flickering inside her mouth and his hands roving over her shoulders and back and waist.

And then he was at the buttons of her shirt, opening them one by one until her belly and breasts were bare, except for the garnet necklace, glittering drops of blood against her damp white skin. He slid the shirt off her shoulders and down her arms, and tossed it on the floor. She shivered, but from anticipation, not cold.

He stood and lifted her in one fluid movement, and lay her on the bed. She languidly raised an arm to her forehead, and immediately got an articulated gold bracelet caught in her hair.

‘Bugger,’ she murmured.

Adam bent over her and very carefully disentangled it, then removed it from her arm altogether.

‘It looks superb on you,’ he said, ‘but perhaps isn’t very practical for love-making.’

He took off his own shirt then, revealing a pale, elegantly muscled chest and a flat belly with a line of black hair disappearing under the waistband of his trousers.

Sarah stared. He was beautiful.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, and for a confused moment Sarah thought he’d somehow voiced her own thoughts.

He opened the buttons on her trousers and slid them down and over her feet. Fighting an urge to place her hands over her groin, she closed her eyes again — she knew he was gazing at her.

‘
So
beautiful,’ he whispered.

The bed creaked as he lay beside her, and she started as his hands slid over her warm flesh. She opened her eyes and touched him back, tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence. Beneath her palm his skin felt like the finest silk velvet, the contours of his body a gift just for her. When his hand moved down her belly to the place between her legs, she thought she might cry out, the feelings were so extraordinary, so unexpected. So rude, too. Her face flaming, she couldn’t look at him.

‘Sarah,’ he groaned, his voice rough. ‘I don’t think I can wait. Not this time.’

What was he saying? She’d never had a lover before. She gave the tiniest nod, hoping it was the right thing to do, and
very
much hoping she wasn’t going to miss out on anything because of it.

He rolled onto his back, shoved down his trousers and kicked them off, then positioned himself between her legs.

His erection jutted out like … well, she didn’t know what it was like. She’d only seen one before and that had been vile. But this time, though she was nervous, she wasn’t frightened, and she certainly wasn’t angry. She did, however, feel as though she was about to lose control of herself, she wanted Adam so desperately.

He propped himself on his elbows, cupped his hands behind her neck, and kissed her passionately. Then he pushed himself into her, letting out a long, guttural groan.

It hurt, and she didn’t care. She raised her legs, wrapped them around Adam’s waist, drew him in and held on while he drove into her. The pain subsided to a sting that very quickly became something else building inside her. His back became slippery with sweat and then it dripped off his chin as he arched his spine above her, every muscle in his body taut as seconds later he emptied himself into her.

‘Oh good Christ,’ he moaned. His arms shaking, he lowered himself onto her, his hair falling across her face. ‘Bloody hell.’

He lay inert for a moment. She could feel the wild pounding of his heart against her own chest, as though their bodies for a few moments had joined. He rolled off her and stared at the ceiling, panting.

‘I’m really sorry, Sarah. That was ungentlemanly.’

Sarah felt … odd.

Adam said, ‘I need a few minutes, but in the meantime …’

He rolled her onto her side and snuggled behind her, pulling her against his chest and belly, his left arm holding her. His leg snaked between hers to separate them while his other hand crept over her hip and down to the slippery mess he’d left between her legs. Slowly, with his fingers, he began to circle the swollen flesh there. Immediately, the feeling that had been building when he’d been inside her was back, a tingling and a sort of itching that made her toes want to curl. She made a noise and bit her lip, embarrassed, and realised she was wriggling and tried to stop and couldn’t. He increased the pressure of his fingers and the sensation intensified, and she was pushing against his hand and he was pushing against her, erect again, and suddenly there was an incredible, wild burst of sensation down there and she cried out and arched backwards, almost nutting him in the face with the back of her head, and getting the beginnings of terrible cramp in her toes.

And then he was on her again, and it wasn’t until afterwards that he noticed the faint tinge of blood on the bed cover.

He stared at her, his expression shocked and a little bemused. ‘Oh God, Sarah, I’m sorry. I just assumed.’

She put her hand over his mouth. ‘Don’t. Don’t spoil it.’

He moved her hand away. ‘I’m
so
sorry, Sarah. If I’d known —’

‘You’d have what?’

After a moment he touched her face. ‘I still would have asked if I could.’

She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘I’m glad.’

She would tell him one day, but not now. Or maybe she wouldn’t.

Friday awoke with the usual monstrous headache, bilious stomach and feeling of deep, persistent dread.

But at least she was in her own bed.

She rolled onto her back an inch at a time so her brains could keep up and not protest too painfully. A vicious shaft of sunlight stabbed into her room through the gap in her curtains, turning the inside of her closed eyelids a searing orange. The day already felt hot.

Warily opening her eyes she glanced at the clock; it was a quarter to ten. She sat up, holding her pounding head. A towel covered her pillow and a bucket sat on newspaper spread on the floor. How had they got there?

Groaning piteously, she pushed off the bedclothes and eased her legs — covered with fresh bruises — over the side of the bed. She was wearing her shift from last night and her arms were also bruised; her lovely peacock in particular had a big purple and red blotch across its head and some of the scabs had bled. Shit. Her jaw was sore, too. She felt around with her tongue and discovered she’d lost another tooth. Fortunately it was a back one; if it had been from the front Mrs H would’ve had her guts for garters.