The Crimson Lady (2 page)

“I didn’t break in. The door was open.”

She choked back humorless laughter. “Even if that was true—”

“You know it is.”

Now she glared. “Even if it
is
, it will not matter. I will tell the justices that you entered here against my wishes. They will believe me over you; they’ve known me for over three years, while you are a stranger to them.”

“Do they know you’re the Crimson Lady?” he countered dryly, the last of his nobler instincts cringing just a bit at her stricken expression. When she remained silent, he added, “As you’ve said, de Cantors are known throughout the land as keepers of justice. None will believe you if you claim me a fugitive. I will deny it, and tell them I’ve tracked you to this city to arrest you after three long years of searching for you—a former common woman who became a notorious outlaw, wanted for theft and the kidnapping of good citizens as they traveled the roads near London.”

“You would lie, then, about your purposes?” she demanded, her face stony.

“No more than
you
would, lady,” Braedan retorted. “Know this: I will do what I must to make you listen to
me. I’ve told you already, I’ve come on a matter of life and death.”

“Ah, I see…not only are you a de Cantor on the opposite side of the law, but one with tarnished morals as well. Quite a rarity,” she gibed, folding her arms in front of her and leaning into the table at her back—a fine worktable, from the looks of it, with lengths of embroidered ribbon and colorful thread piled neatly at one end. “I suppose I should feel honored to meet you.”

Braedan resisted the urge to cross the room and shake her into listening to him. “Enough of this,” he muttered. “Will you help me, or not?”

“That depends,” she answered with equally annoying coolness, “on what exactly it is that you want of me.”

“I need you to teach me how to live as an outlaw. I require coin to resolve the difficult matter I spoke of, and yet in order to gain it I must first learn to navigate the underworld and mingle with other fugitives without losing my life for my pains.”

“Ah—it is death you fear, then, at the hands of the evil masses you and your kind have spent your lives hunting down,” she said, her expression mocking.

“Death holds no dread for me,” Braedan said huskily. “I just cannot fall beneath the stroke of his blade yet.”

Fiona looked at him, silent, as if measuring the truth of his answer.

“And yet training me as an outlaw will not be the limit of what I ask of you.”

Again she did not respond, only lifting her brows in question.

He paused and glanced away from her as the second part of his mission here—the most important part, and the reason he’d come seeking her above all others—
gnawed at him, twisting his insides. “I need you to lead me into the deeper workings of the
stewes
across the Thames at Southwark,” he finished, the words thick in his throat. “Not as a buyer, but to gather information. I must get beneath the surface in a way that one like me could never hope to do on my own. I need your knowledge of those places in order to find the right people to question about a woman—”

“Nay,” she broke in, her face ashen. “Teaching you how to thieve is one thing; going back to the
stewes
is another entirely. I won’t do it.”

“You must. A life is at stake.”

“Aye—mine!” she retorted. “I’ve come too far, and I will not risk losing everything to go back there again.”

“But you
will
lose all you’ve worked to build if you do not go back,” Braedan countered harshly. “I have no choice in this. I must find my foster sister. She was brought to one of those hellish places; it is all I know of her whereabouts. I must remove her from that disgrace, but I have no coin to do it, not to mention the fact that I cannot very well walk in freely and announce myself as I look for her. Not now, as a fugitive—which is what the man who betrayed both me and Elizabeth knew when he declared me an outlaw.”

“Appeal to the king, then,” Fiona answered, her desperation almost palpable. “Your family has lived only to please the crown for generations. Surely he would not deny you in favor of a stranger’s charge against you?”

“It is not so simple as that.”

“Why not?”

“Because the one who charged me is
not
a stranger—he is my uncle through marriage, an appointed justice and man of law in his own right.”

Braedan pushed back his hair from his forehead again, weary, and drained—feeling every muscle in his body strung tight enough to snap from his bones. “Christ’s Blood, woman, don’t you see? As unsavory as I find all this, I cannot falter. I require what you alone can give me if I am to be successful. If you will not aid me freely, then I must force you to it. And I will do whatever is necessary, do not mistake me.”

“Then you are a bastard,” Fiona whispered in a raw voice.

“I’ve been called by many names in my life, lady, but bastard is not one of them,” Braedan said, struggling to rein in his temper. “It is precisely because I am
not
that I must do this. The last time I saw Elizabeth, she was a child of eight, waving farewell to me at the start of my journeys. That was nearly ten years ago. When I returned home two months past, it was to find most of my family dead or missing; my father and a brother had succumbed to the fever, my mother was secluded behind the walls of an abbey, and my fifteen-year-old brother, Richard, was being kept under lock and key at my uncle’s estate, his ward by decree of the king.

“I was assumed dead in battle, thanks to my long absence without message. When I was finally able to meet with Richard, it was clear that he was living miserably under our uncle’s influence, yet he managed to whisper to me of what had happened to Elizabeth.”

Braedan paused, his gaze sweeping over Fiona, taking in her milky pallor, the emotions that seemed to be at war in her eyes. “My foster sister was sold into ignominy, lady—into the kind of shameful life that I believe you know too well; I must find her and free her from it.”

The silence stretched between them, Fiona’s body taut with whatever emotion she was forcing herself to contain. “You might almost sound like an honorable man, Braedan de Cantor,” she answered at last, her words echoing hollowly. “And I might almost be fooled into believing you, were you not dangling my life before me as the stick with which to beat me to your will.”

Another pang of remorse shot through Braedan, but he smothered it. “I am not heartless, lady. I realize that this may be difficult for you—”

“You know nothing about it.”

“I know that I wish you no harm. In truth, I am prepared to do what I can to help you, once this is over.” He took a step toward her, realizing with a sense of shock that he was himself gripped tight in the clutches of desperation now. “I vow that I will protect your secret in this town and ensure your continued prosperity here once you return. If it is possible I will even try to secure a pardon from the king for all of your past crimes, but I must have your help first. Only after Elizabeth is found and released can I pursue my own case and seek vengeance against my uncle. I will not risk arrest and a long imprisonment awaiting a grand assize while she suffers further. Her freedom must come first.”

“So you say,” Fiona answered at last, her tone, her posture, everything about her sending frigid waves of anger and distrust billowing out toward him. “And now pray tell, Lord Tyrant, is there anything more that I should hear before I make my decision? Any other part to this story that is supposed to help me to forget I’m being threatened with the loss of all that I have if I do not comply with your demands?”

“Nay,” Braedan answered, refusing to be baited. “It
is simple. Teach me to survive as an outlaw—help me to save Elizabeth—and I promise to do everything in my power to ensure your safety and security when it is over.”

“Somehow, I am not overwhelmed with confidence,” she muttered, crumpling her gown with fisted hands.

“And yet it is the truth,” Braedan responded quietly.

“You need not—”

“Mistress Byrne? Are ye all right, mistress?”

The voice that rang through the chamber cracked on the question, and Braedan swung his gaze to its owner, standing, now, in the doorway—a youth of about six-and-ten, he’d guess. Fiona looked at the lanky boy as well, her mouth tightening into that severe line that made Braedan want to kiss it to lush softness again. The jolt of that realization shot through him and rendered him speechless long enough so that the lad, brandishing a broom handle, took a threatening step toward him.

“Stuart,” Fiona chided gently, “what are you doing? It is too late to be about. All is well; go back to bed, now.”

The youth didn’t answer her; instead, he advanced a few more paces toward Braedan, who held his ground, unable to quite smother his grim look of disbelief as he faced down this clearly loyal protector of London’s most tarnished woman; the boy must be daft. Tired as Braedan was, it was still painfully obvious that he could disable the lad with little more than a look if need be.

“It is all right, Stuart,” Fiona said again in a low voice, stepping closer and raising her hand as if to soothe an agitated child. “Everything is fine. But we must keep quiet or we’ll wake your mam; then she’ll be cross, and perhaps there’ll be no sweet buns come morn.”

“No sweet buns?” Stuart croaked, stopping short with a stricken expression. “Oh, I’ll keep quiet, mistress—I promise!” he called, wincing, apparently, when he realized how loudly he’d made the vow. Lowering his voice to an exaggerated whisper, he added, “I won’t wake Mam. Mmmmm, mmmmm, mmmm, I won’t,” he repeated, clamping his lips tight and shaking his head emphatically.

Braedan narrowed his gaze, taking a closer look at Stuart. The boy turned his head to glower back at him, and Braedan suddenly understood why Fiona was behaving as she did. Stuart was a simpleton—by accident or birth it was impossible to tell—but it was clear that he possessed the mind of a little child.

Stuart continued to stare at Braedan before noticing, apparently, his sodden, travel-worn condition. “Why, yer all wet!” he blurted, seeming to forget his stick weapon; he let it swing to the side so that one end clattered down to the wooden floor. “And yer drippin’ on Mistress Byrne’s fine oak boards! She don’t like that—no, not one bit, she don’t.”

“It’s all right, Stuart. I can wipe it up later,” Fiona said gently. “Now why don’t you—”

“Who are you—and what are you doin’ in here talkin’ to Mistress Byrne so late in the eve?” Stuart demanded, keeping his scowl fixed firmly on Braedan.

“That is a very good question, Stuart, and one that I’d be happy to answer,” Braedan murmured, glancing at Fiona. “You see, I am a knight, only recently returned from the wars abroad—the son of a king’s justice, who in turn was the son of an appointed sheriff—and I am here because I’m afraid that I have to—”

“Because he has had some unsettling news to tell me,
Stuart,” Fiona broke in, taking a few steps closer and tightening the triangle that had formed between them. She avoided Braedan’s gaze, focusing only on the young man as she added, “It seems that a relation of mine has fallen ill. That is why this knight has come here so late, to tell me so.”

“A relation—fallen sick?” Stuart asked, frowning.

“Aye,” she answered calmly, the lie slipping from her tongue with a skill born of years’ practice, Braedan couldn’t help but think.

“Because of it I may need to take a little journey,” she continued. “To see this…relation and make sure she’s all right.”

Stuart’s face crumpled as the import of her words sank in. “You’re going on a
trip
? Without me and Mam?” He shook his head, the motion reminding Braedan of a bear cub trying to escape a persistent, stinging bee.

She cast a dark look at Braedan. “I’m afraid I must. But it will only be for a short time.”

“Wh-when will you go?” Stuart’s voice cracked again.

“Tomorrow mor—”

“Tonight,” Braedan interrupted firmly. “We will be leaving tonight, just as soon as your mistress can gather her things for the journey.”

She shot him another glare, before gentling her expression for Stuart again. “Aye, perhaps tonight would be better,” she murmured, though Braedan saw the tension in her face and jaw as she spoke. “I think it would be best if you woke your mam after all, Stuart. I’ll need to leave the shop in her care while I’m away.”

Stuart nodded slowly, the broom, forgotten now, clat
tering to the floor as he clenched the fingers of one hand against the other. Turning stiffly, he mumbled to himself and shuffled from the chamber to complete the task assigned him.

Fiona moved crisply away from the portal once he’d left, stalking past Braedan without sparing him a glance; she stopped near a table behind him, rummaging in a drawer until she found a ledger she’d apparently been seeking. Withdrawing it, she slapped it onto the table and split it open, poring over what was written on the pages as if he no longer existed to her.

He stood in silence for a moment, watching her. He was grateful that she’d finally agreed to his plan, yet he still felt a vague sense of unease at the method he’d used to obtain her cooperation. Coercion, even of a woman of such obviously questionable morals as the Crimson Lady, wasn’t his way. Her back remained stiff in her position bent over the papers, and again he was struck by the seeming
sturdiness
of her. No slender-waisted nymph, this lady. Nay, she looked as solid and substantial as the most well fed peasant lass he’d met on any of his journeys.

She had a striking face and eyes, it was true. And who knew what carnal tricks she’d learned after years of trade in the
stewes
. That had to be what accounted for her popularity as a courtesan, he decided. It could be little else. Men hadn’t sought her out for her figure, he’d wager.
Or her light demeanor
. Nay, she seemed far more intelligent and resolute than many of the vacuous beauties whose charms he’d sampled in the past.

Even Julia…

The painful bent of his thoughts was interrupted by the sound of Fiona slamming the ledger shut. She spun
to face him, her expression still cool and calm. All except for her eyes; they glowed with the same golden flames of rage.