Moonglow (13 page)

A
nd here Daisy thought Billy stank. The streets were worse. Daisy burrowed deeper into the scarf around her neck and inhaled. Alas, even her perfume could not completely dampen the stench. Rotting water, rotting food, rotting bodies. It was a potpourri of rot, as if the city were slowly dying from the inside out. Perhaps it was. Old Nichol, Billy called this place. The people here appeared forlorn, the light in their eyes dimmed by a hard life, worn out by hunger and pain.

They walked slowly, yet with purpose. Billy had warned her not to meet anyone’s eye but to move as though she owned the world. She could do that. But inside, her heart pounded. Her escort kept one ropey arm slung about her shoulders, his large hand dangling irritatingly close to her breast. They were to look like a couple off in search of fun. Every so often, he’d lean in and whisper something naughty in her ear, and she’d laugh accordingly.

Thankfully, the warmer weather had burned off much of the fog, leaving only a muddy layer to hover a foot or
so off the ground. People walked as if without feet, phantoms that seemed to float along the ether. The street was narrow here, sad little houses sagging against crumbling buildings that had once been grand homes. And leaning against them, the men and women who lived in this hovel.

Beneath lowered lids, Daisy watched these people as she passed, saw the gap-toothed smiles of strutting men who wanted to be cock of the walk and the hunched, thin shoulders of women scuttling by. A few brazen women loitered about on corners, their bosoms all but hanging out like Monday washing.

Not, Daisy rectified, that she was in a position to throw stones. Daisy glanced down at her own rather abundant display of flesh spilling from the top of her low-cut bodice. She’d dressed the part, donning an old evening gown of brilliant green satin. While perfectly respectable in a ballroom, out here, with her hair loosely knotted and naught but a thin scarf for covering, she might as well be another moll hanging on the arm of her man.

“I’m goin’ in first,” Billy said at her ear. “He’s not particularly keen on visitors, right? So’s let me do the talkin’.” The arm about her gave an unnecessary squeeze. “You just stand back lookin’ lovely an’ agreeable.”

She gave his ribs a jab with her elbow, and he grunted. “You get me in, and I’ll talk,” she countered. If this so-called perfumer was purchasing stolen formulas, she doubted he’d be inclined to confess. He might, however, hold a passion for perfume and find himself unable to refrain from discussing the art of developing a scent. She was banking on that small hope. “Just remember who is paying whom.”

Billy looked at her sidelong. “I’d rather you’d pay for a bit of hide the pickle,” he muttered.

Daisy snorted lightly. “I bet you do. Just keep that pickle of yours in its jar and your mind alert.”

Billy muttered a bit more about iron-hearted
buors
—which she presumed meant women—and pains in his arse, but he led her down a dark alleyway where the general smell grew to a nearly overwhelming stench, so rank that even he couldn’t help but comment upon it.

“Sweet aunt fanny,” he said, pulling out a ratty, scarlet satin neckcloth from his pocket to press against his nose. “Smells fouler than a dock whore’s twat down here.”

She bit her lip. No, she would
not
laugh. Not when her eyes were watering and her stomach was in danger of voiding. Despite herself, she leaned closer to Billy. The offensive smell touched something inside of her that called forth a desperate need to flee.

Billy’s grip tightened as well. “Something’s off, chips. Let’s come back in the daytime at least.”

Fat, gray clouds scuttled over the bright moon, whose rays cast the alleyway in a palette of blues and blacks. Nothing stirred here. It was as if the fetid air had chased all life away.

“Nonsense,” she said past the lump of fear in her throat. “We’ve come this far.”

Above them, a timber creaked, and her heart jumped. But there was nothing to see, just the settling of an old building.

Billy heaved a sigh and then made a gagging sound as if the action had let in an unwanted mouthful of the stench. “Gor, that’s ripe.” He pointed to the end of the alleyway where a dilapidated building listed sadly to one side. “His spot is there.”

She was strangely hesitant to take another step. “Doesn’t look like the home of a successful perfumer.”

“Mayhaps he has posh digs elsewheres,” Billy drawled. “But that’s where he works his capers so’s that’s where I’m taking you.” His brown eyes softened with surprising gentleness as he glanced down at her. “Come on then, luv, Old Burnt Bill will protect you against what beasties might hide in the night.” He pulled a wicked-looking hunting knife out from behind his back, where it had been hidden beneath his coat, and held it up as if to reassure her.

They’d taken two steps when something large and hulking dropped in front of them in a blur of movement. Daisy screamed as it slammed Billy into the side of the alleyway and forced Billy’s wrist high above his head in one deft move. The hunting knife fell to the ground with a clatter.

“That’s some pigsticker,” came the silk and sand voice of Ian Ranulf, Marquis of Northrup. Moonlight hit the hard curves of his face, highlighting the cruel smile that curled his mouth. “Save it will do you no good if you’re dead.”

Daisy snapped out of her shock and strode forward. “Let him go, Northrup!” Heedless, she slapped Northrup’s shoulder with her reticule. “Get off him, you big beast.”

Northrup released his prize. Billy slumped down the wall as Northrup turned to glare at her. “Ye gods, woman, what do you have in that wee bag of yours? Rocks?” He rubbed his shoulder irritably.

“A handgun,” she retorted, fumbling to get said gun free.

Billy, who was rising on unsteady feet, spat on the ground before glaring at her as well. “Well, that’s a fine place to keep your iron. Might have been a bit more helpful in yer hand, eh?”

Northrup grunted. His gaze alighted on the swells of her bosom, and his nostrils flared. A wicked light came into his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. She’d probably shoot off her own…
foot
at that.”

Daisy refused to dignify their remarks. Instead, she shoved the gun back into her reticule; it was useless now at any rate. “What the bloody hell are you doing jumping off rooftops anyway? Trying to scare the life out of people?”

Northrup’s brows slanted. “I had to jump off the roof to get down here, aye?”

“Is there something untoward about walking along the street as normal people do?” She hit his shoulder with her bag again. The brute had scared her witless, and no doubt had taken pleasure in doing so.

“Ow! And no, I cannot,” he said. “Not when I am in a hurry to chase down one fool woman.” He snorted in disgust. “I’m of a mind to take ye over me knee for sheer stupidity, never mind insulting me to the core. Ye gods, I should have known you’d get up to something, as single-minded as you are. But I never fathomed this depth of idiocy.”

Daisy muttered the vilest oath she could think of and he rolled his eyes. “I’ll consider that one day. Until then, why don’t you tell me whom it is you’re after.”

“The perfumer,” she said. “Apparently, my legitimate perfumer sold the formula to my perfume to a man who then concocts a cheaper version and sells to other stores or private buyers.”

Northrup turned to scowl at the perfumer’s hovel. “Of course. I hadn’t thought to go right to the source,” he mused and then glared at her. “Might have saved me an evening’s worth of trouble had you mentioned that little tidbit.”

Daisy swallowed the niggling feeling of guilt down.

“Lookit,” said a voice. “Seems to me you two are cozy like. Why don’t I leave you alone?”

Billy, she thought dimly. She’d almost forgotten him. She glanced his way to find him edging back from them. “Oh no, you don’t.” Daisy pushed away from Northrup and stalked Billy. “I paid good money, you.” She pointed a finger at Billy. “That includes not fobbing me off on the first man who gets in your way.”

In truth, the idea of being alone with Northrup unsettled her in more ways than one. She ought to have included him in her plans. She ought to have trusted him, for she could see that he cared about her welfare despite his rather snide comments. The idea of facing him with that knowledge made her insides writhe with shame.

Northrup caught her arm and wrenched her back. “Fob you off?” His dark brows lifted in outrage. “Have ye gone daft?” He glowered at Billy, and the poor man twitched. “She stays with me. Go on before I lose my temper with ye.”

“I’m not staying with you if it means being sent home, Northrup!” Daisy wriggled to get free, but Northrup only tucked her more securely at his side.

“Call me Ian,” he snapped. “And ye surely are goin’ home.”

“Don’t go playing the Scottish lord with me.” She kicked at his foot, only to miss. “I decide where I go and with whom, not you.”

Northrup’s nose bunted against hers. “What in the devil’s name are ye talkin’ about, ye dafty wee besom?”

“You know very well.” Daisy ignored the way her breath hitched when he got too near. “You get riled up and off you go, throwing that Highland accent about as if to
intimidate.” She dropped her voice in an imitation of his. “Ye will do as I say or I will take ye overrr me knee an’ stroop yer backside!’ ”

Utter silence fell between them, punctuated by Billy’s mutterings about insane women. Northrup’s eyes narrowed, his lips a thin line that twitched at the corners. Then like a thunderclap, his laughter broke free, rolling over her rich and full. The corners of his eyes creased as he bowed and let his brogue roll to full effect. “Aye weel, lassy, ye canna blame a man fer wantin’ ta get his ’ands on such a fine, plump arse such as yers, now can ye?”

She flushed hot. “Ass,” she hissed, which only set him off again.

The crook backed away farther, lifting his hands in the air as if to placate Northrup. “Sorry, luv,” Northrup growled at the endearment, and Billy’s steps quickened, “but might makes right, and all that.” With an apologetic wink, he turned and fled.

“It’s ‘right makes might,’ you little rat,” she yelled after him before turning on Northrup. “Look at what you’ve done. You’ve scared him off.”

Northrup crossed his arms over his chest. “This concerns me how?” The feral look returned to his eyes and sent a chill over her skin. “Does it bother you to lose him? Seemed quite cozy walking at his side. Where did you find him, anyway? Passed out in a gutter?”

She could only laugh in shock. “Are you jealous of Billy Finger?”

His square chin jerked as if hit but he stalked closer. “Answer the question, Daisy.”

“Which one of the four?”

Northrup’s eyes glowed in the moonlight. “Where did you find him?”

“Lord, but you have more curiosity than ten cats—”

“Wolves generally do,” he intoned blandly.

Her heart skipped a light beat but she did not let her haughty expression alter. “He is Miranda’s friend.”

As expected, her sister’s name took the wind out of his sails. He turned to look thoughtfully down the empty alleyway. “I thought he appeared familiar.”

“And just how do you know him?” Daisy countered.

Northrup hesitated for only a moment. “I saw him once, with Miranda in Bethnal Green. She set the street on fire,” he said. “I don’t suppose you possess the same sort of talent? It could come in handy.”

She’d been expecting it, yet his query punched into her with painful force. “No.” She looked away, blinking hard. “Yet another disappointment, I gather.”

Northrup had been in the process of glowering at the distant house, but his head whipped around. “What?” When she said nothing, he stomped to her side and grabbed her hand, forcing her to face him. His expression was fierce, but when he spoke, the words came out surprisingly gentle. “The only thing I find disappointing about you is that you pop up where I least want you to be.”

Emotion lodged in her throat, and she had to fight hard to clear it. “Where is it that you want me to be?”

The soft line of his mouth compressed, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn’t speak. But his tension eased and the pad of his thumb glided over her gloveless fingers. Fast women did not wear gloves. “Not anywhere near here.” He tugged at her hand, pulling her closer. “Let me see you home, Daisy-girl.”

“Look here, Northrup, either we argue for an undue length of time in this foul air and then go into the shack, or we agree now and go into the shack.”

Northrup’s lips twitched as if he were debating whether to laugh or shout, but suddenly, he heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. But I’m going in and you are waiting out here.” He lifted a finger and gave her a look worthy of a governess. “No objections, or I will throw you over me shoulder and march you home, whether ye will it or no.”

“Your Scottish is showing again.” She grinned at his scowl. “All right, all right. You win. Now may we please get on with it?”

His world was pain and darkness. Brilliant flashes of his life shot through his mind. Memories he did not understand. Instinct made him yearn for fresh air and fields of grass and flowers in which he could run free. And the hunt. The taste of blood and meat. How he wanted that most of all. His stomach rumbled, hunger and thirst, an ache that made him howl.

The lycan had captured him. Bastard. His tormentor. The one that kept him in a constant state of agitation.

Pain wracked his body with the force to break bones, making him cower in the dank corner of his cell. Water dripped. Made him thirst. The clatter of horse hooves from beyond made him wince. He sensed the moon’s power. He’d felt her rays warm him the other night. And then they found him again. Imprisoned him again. His teeth gnashed.

Like a balm, the memory came, of bright blue eyes and a smiling mouth. Hair golden as the sun on wheat. He didn’t understand color. Didn’t see it now. Only in memory. He whined, confusion hurting. Deep inside him came a cry. A man’s cry. The man wanted the female. The man ached for her. Her scent was a constant tease and torment.
His woman. The only one who ever cared for him. A flash of memory burned again. His woman lying dead upon a pallet, her body ravaged like his human body had been. Sores and pain. She could not be dead. He scented her still. How could that be?