Lois Greiman (9 page)

S
handria carried the scarred, wooden tray as if it were a crown. Her slippered feet were silent against the floor, and her expression was absolutely serene.

Frustration growled like a demon in Will’s churning gut. He’d had a full day to ruminate on the scene with Ox. A full day to grind his teeth and swear to God he’d never do something so idiotic again. But then he would see her face in his mind, and his thoughts tangled like fishing lines. Even now, remembering the feel of her knife against his throat, knowing the lunacy of trying to save her, he couldn’t help wanting, aching, to do just that. The idea made him as cranky as a cat in a bag.

“I already ate,” he said, and, sitting up, swung his feet to the floor. Once again, pain skittered through his torso and down his legs, but pain was his friend, making him remember, helping him focus.

She tilted a glance at him. “Unaided?” she asked as if hugely impressed. “Congratulations are certainly in order then.”

“Tell me, Princess,” he said, gritting his teeth against the screeching agony. “Do you hate everyone, or is it just me?”

“’Tis everyone. But you especially,” she said, and, placing the tray on the chair beside the bed, slowly
lifted a four-inch razor from the wooden surface.

He resisted the temptation to pass out and eyed the blade with what he hoped was casual disdain. But it might have been wide-eyed panic. “What are you planning to do with that?”

She smiled. “Surely the man who killed Vic isn’t afraid of a harmless lass like meself,” she said, employing an innocent brogue entirely at odds with her demeanor.

He watched her narrowly. She knew he hadn’t killed Vic. He was certain of that much, though he couldn’t guess how she’d come to that conclusion, and that knowledge grated at his frazzled nerves. But she was watching him, her brows raised, and he jolted himself back to the present.

“Not afraid,” he scoffed, and hoped his voice didn’t quiver. “I’d simply prefer not to die with my throat cut.”

“Really?” she said, and, glancing down, stepped up close beside his shoulder. Her arm inadvertently brushed his bare skin, causing gooseflesh to course up his spine. Fear or desire—he didn’t know—but one was as despicable as the other.

“How
would
you like to die, Dancer?” she asked, and set the sharp edge of the blade against his neck.

“Old,” he said.

She chuckled and scraped the blade upward.

Wincing at the scratch of discomfort, he shifted his gaze up to hers. “If you plan to decapitate me, you could, at least, use a bit of soap.”

She paused, saying nothing for several moments, and he glanced up. Her hair was loose this morning and hung in gentle waves about her face, making her look young and strangely vulnerable.

“Gem said you’d already washed.” Did he hear nervousness in her voice? Uncertainty? From the Den’s noble
lady? The idea intrigued him, and he scowled, glancing sideways as an idea struck him.

“Are you afraid you’ll have to bathe me, Princess?”

She tilted the razor slightly so that he felt the blade clearly against his skin. “Do I seem afraid, Dancer?”

She had a point.

“Soap,” he said. “And a little water. For shaving.”

She scowled and eased the razor away a fraction of an inch as she looked at the bowl that remained on the tray. Apparently she hadn’t been the one who had filled it with soapy water.

“Shall I assume you don’t shave Poke or that he enjoys being scraped to death?”

Lifting the tray, she set it beside his hip and seated herself on the chair. Once there, she plucked the grainy bar from the water. “Assume whatever you like.”

Her voice was cool, and there was something about that insouciance that made his hackles rise. He watched her hands as they dunked the soap into the water and rubbed, then dunked and rubbed again.

“Are you going to put that on my face or worry it to death?”

Her eyes came up. Anger was evident, but there was something more, a spark of uncertainty that fascinated him.

“For a man dependent on the good graces of others, you are quite an irritating man, Dancer.”

“Oh, and whose good graces are those?”

“Master Poke, of course.” She said the name almost dreamily as she smoothed the soap onto his cheek. Her hand felt warm and gentle as it skimmed his beard. “’Twas he who took you in. Saved your life.”

Poke
had
taken him in, and Poke could destroy him just as easily. Will would be a fool to cross him.

“He would have let the Irishman have you,” he gritted.

She stopped the razor halfway to his face, caught his gaze, then silently scraped the blade up his cheek.

Every emotion was hidden carefully away again. She was like glass, as cool and hard as marble. But two could play that game. He was the baron of Landow for God’s sake. Reserve was his stock-in-trade. Lack of emotion was—“Dammit all!” he snarled. “Is that what you wanted? To bed the Ox?”

She touched the blade to his throat. For a moment he thought he felt her hand bobble, but her eyes remained absolutely steady as she swathed the blade upward again.

“’Tis none of your concern who I bed, Dancer.”

She was right. He would stay out of her affairs before Poke took offense. His own survival was everything. Nothing else mattered. Surely not hers. He didn’t care who she lay with.

“But you prefer Poke.” He almost gritted his teeth against the words, but they were already out, spilled like poison into the room.

“Who would not?” she said, and sighed dramatically.

His fist shook against his thigh. “So it’s true. You love him.”

She watched his eyes in silence for a moment, then she laughed.

The muscles in his arms and chest cranked up tight. “Something amuses you?”

She touched his lower lip with her damp fingertips. The razor eased upward, over his clenched jaw. “Aye, Dancer,” she said. “’Tis your naïveté.”

“Oh?” His stomach knotted up hard and fast. “And how, pray tell, am I naive?”

“Do you truly think that only those in love share a
bed?” She smiled into his eyes. “Share their bodies.”

Unwanted images stormed through his mind. Images of her, naked, with another.

“You’re right,” he agreed, and carefully splayed his fingers against his thigh, trying desperately to disavow the tension, to refuse the deadly emotions. “Why not spread your legs for every madman—”

She whipped the knife downward. It skimmed his blanket and sank, reverberating, into the wooden tray. “Cease!”

His heart pounded in his chest, and the hairs along his arms stood upright.

“What is it you think, Dancer?” she snarled, and, gripping his bandage in her fist, dragged them together, face-to-face. “Might you believe this is some fine game we play for your amusement?”

Anger and frustration swirled like blind bats in his mind, but he steadied his nerves, marshaled his senses. “Believe this,” he said. “I am not so easily amused.”

“Then why are you here?”

An image of Elli flashed through his mind. He had come to learn the truth about her death. To unravel the mysteries. To seek vengeance. But so much had happened since he’d staggered from Malkan Palace. He’d learned much—about himself. About the world. But so little about the enigma called Princess, for she kept her secrets close, and he must do the same. “Is it so difficult to believe that I am what I say I am?”

She laughed, low and quiet. “I am poor,” she said. “Not demented.”

He lowered his gaze to the razor. It had sliced a swath through his blanket and still vibrated busily in the wooden tray. “Perhaps you can be both,” he said.

She scowled. “Use your head. Or lose it. There is no other choice. Not here. You’re not in your grand house anymore.”

So she still believed he was wealthy, and yet she did not trust him. No more than she trusted Poke, or the devil himself. “Tell me,” he said, holding her gaze, “what is it you think you know about me?”

She stared at him for an eternity. “I think you’re a fool if you believe you can best Poke,” she whispered finally. “And I’ve no wish to die because of that foolishness.”

What did that mean? Did she know he’d come for revenge? Had she known about Elli’s flight from the highwaymen? Did she know why they’d left his wife’s jewelry after running her aground? And worse still, had Princess somehow had a hand in Elli’s death? His stomach knotted painfully. “But you’ve no objections to others’ deaths. Is that the way of it, lass?”

She lifted her chin slightly. “That’s right, Dancer. Feel free to get yourself killed. Challenge Ox. Cross Poke. Drink yourself to death if you like.”

But he’d barely had more than a toothful of spirits since he’d arrived in Darktowne. He scowled at her. Memories buzzed like hornets in his head. Conversations, circumstances. She’d tried to be rid of him from the first. To convince Poke to throw him out in the cold, to keep him away from Jack, to poison him with whisky.

And each act had kept him safe, kept him quiet, kept him sober. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

“Are you…” He scowled against the baffling thought. “…protecting me?”

She stared at him, her eyes earnest; and then she laughed.

“And I thought you were slow of wit, Dancer. Silly me.
It looks as if you’ve worked it all out. I’m your guardian angel,” she hissed, and turned away, but he caught her arm. And in that instant she yanked the knife from the board and held it like a spear.

“Let me go, or I’ll kill you myself.”

“So!” Poke stepped into the room.

William jerked as if stabbed. Princess turned slowly, razor in hand.

Poke raised his brows, glancing from the impromptu weapon to William to his lady. “Ahhh,” he chuckled, “my two scrappers. I don’t believe I’ve thanked you properly for your performance last night, Mr. Slate.”

Will tried to clear his head, to function, to think, but it took several seconds to remember the name he’d given himself. Longer still to remember he absolutely could not pull the girl down beside him just so he could feel her heart beat against his, to ask her again if she felt something for him. He absolutely could not do that, for even if Poke didn’t kill him, she very probably would.

“So I thank you now,” Poke continued. “It was immensely entertaining.”

Will shrugged. Maybe his tension dissipated one small whit. Maybe not. If he couldn’t pull the girl to him, surely he could take her knife and vow to send Poke to hell if he ever touched her again. “I owed you,” he said, and that was the devil’s own truth.

Poke laughed. “Yes, you did that. Indeed, you owe me still. And so…” He rubbed his hands together with brisk happiness. “I’ve a bit of a task for you.”

Premonition rumbled in Will’s gut. He kept his face absolutely immobile, hoping wildly that the traitorous emotions were hidden. “A task?”

“Might you be familiar with Pentmore Hall?”

Pentmore Hall. He’d heard of the estate though he’d never visited the property himself. Nor had he met Lord Ives face-to-face. “No, I don’t believe I am,” he said.

Poke watched him with bright, predatory eyes, but finally he shrugged leisurely. “Well, no matter. I’m certain you’ll find your way. Ives is hosting a bit of entertainment, I believe. The place should be quite lively. A clever chap like you shall have no trouble lifting a few trinkets. Aye?”

Holy hell! Nerves tightened up like leather thongs, constricting his lungs, squeezing his heart. “I fear young Nim was correct,” Will said. “I’m not exceptionally clever at picking pockets.”

“Ahh, but not to worry. There will be no pockets that require picking. ’Tis quite a different sort of larceny I propose.”

“I would like to be of assistance,” Will said, “but I fear I’m not yet up to my usual form. Perhaps you should send another.”

Poke watched him narrowly. “Had I not seen you with Ox just last eve, I might think you frightened, Mr. Slate.”

Will canted his head, hoping to appear casual, though his movements felt leaden and slow. “I would hate to disappoint you with my current ineptitude.”

“Ahh,” Poke said. Crossing the floor, he smoothed the back of his fingers up Princess’s cheek. “And I do so hate to be disappointed.”

The tendons in Will’s wrist twitched, but he kept his body perfectly still. “Why Pentmore’s?”

“There’s a trinket there I covet,” Poke said, and skimmed a finger along Princess’s collarbone as if imagining some sensational jewel resting there. “Several actually. I believe you’ll find them in a small, wooden chest in his library.”

He kept his gaze resolutely pinned on Poke’s face, not allowing himself to watch the progress of his hand against his lady’s satiny skin. Not acknowledging the hot swell of emotions that accompanied it. “If he’s hosting a party, won’t his wife be wearing the jewels?”

Poke turned his eyes toward Will. “He no longer has a wife, Mr. Slate,” he said, and smiled. “Some men lose their beloveds in the most inconvenient ways.”

Anger and fear sluiced through Will’s system like a poisonous tonic. Did Poke know of Elli’s death? Had he caused it? Had he known Will’s identity from the very beginning?

“What say you, Mr. Slate? Can you get it for me?”

Will shoved the shattering thoughts away. Tamped the panic back into darkness. “I fear I’ll need a bit of time.”

“Time? For what?”

To leave. To disappear before his very life was forfeit. He should never have come here, he thought, but he could remember the feel of Shandria’s hand against his skin, the brush of her lips against his. “I fear my talent is quite different from Oxford’s or even Peter’s. I do not lean quite so heavily toward sleight of hand as sleight of eye.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Poke asked.

“I misguide my victim, misdirect them. Thus I’ll need some time to determine how best to retrieve the chest so as not to disappoint you.”

“Well certainly then,” Poke said, and smiled. “Take your time, so long as I have the baubles by tomorrow morning.”

Will felt his hands tremble, but he kept them flat against the blankets.

“If you succeed,” Poke began, “you are welcome to remain in our cozy little den as long as you like, but if you fail…” He shrugged and brushed Princess’s ear ab-
sently with his knuckles. “Someone will have to pay for your shortcomings,” he said, and tucking her hand under his arm, escorted her from the room. The razor, Will noticed, was still in her fist.