Danger's Kiss (10 page)

She arched a skeptical brow.  “What kind of proposition?”

Perhaps one day Desirée would recognize him as her savior and be grateful.  But today wasn’t that day.

“You’ll come work for me, and I won’t haul you in for your thievery.”

“What?”

“I require three meals a day, two if I’ve got a full work day.  Laundry once a week.  Floors swept daily.  Furnishings waxed once every
—
“

“What!”

Now they had the attention of the entire lane.  Even the constable, patrolling the shops at the opposite side of the square, paused to see why a crowd was gathering.

“You’ll have room and board,” he murmured, “and I’ll pay you a shilling a week.”

“I told you before,” she said, yanking her arm hard out of his grasp, “I won’t live under the roof of a lawman.”

“Fine.”  He gathered the nape of her gown in a viselike fist and waved across the square.  “Constable!”

She gasped.  “You’re not serious.”

“Here, constable!”

The constable crossed the square as casually as he could, considering the stir caused by the sound of a summons from Nicholas Grimshaw.

“You wouldn’t,” Desirée breathed.

He motioned the constable toward him.

“I don’t even have the coin!” she protested.  “You have no proof!”

“You might get off with a day in the stocks,” he admitted.

“Damn you, Nicholas Grimshaw,” she said between her teeth, wary now of arousing the constable’s suspicions.

“Just say the word and we’ll be on our way.”

“Bastard!” she hissed.

“That’s not the word.”

The constable was but ten yards away when she finally conceded.

“All right, you bloody knave, I’ll clean your damned hovel.”

“And cook?”

“Fine.”

He released her.

“Constable,” he said by way of greeting as the man approached.  “Come meet my new maidservant, Desirée.  Desirée, my constable.”

The last thing Nicholas expected was Desirée’s brilliant smile and extended hand.  “Constable, my pleasure,” she gushed.

And damned if the constable, caught off guard by her disarming greeting, didn’t absently press a kiss to the back of her hand as if she were some titled lady instead of a lowly maid.

“Well,” the constable said, blinking in confusion.  “You’re a...a brave lass.  Not every maid would take up residence with a...with a...with Nicholas Grimshaw.”

To his astonishment, Desirée laughed and gave Nicholas’s cheek a patronizing pat.  “He’s a kitten, really.  Wouldn’t hurt a flea.  Isn’t that right, Nicky?”

Ballocks!  This was
definitely
not the sort of attention he needed.  The conniving wench was going to ruin his fearsome reputation.

He nodded briefly to the astounded constable.  “We’ll be going now.”  He quickly ushered her away, adding loudly for the villagers’ benefit, “Have to show her how to oil my thumbscrews.”

Desirée grinned in satisfaction.  She might not have won the battle, but she wasn’t going down without a fight. She wasn’t about to let the lout believe he could snap his fingers and summon her to his side like a trained hound.

As he took long strides across the square, making her scramble to keep up, he muttered, “Don’t call me that.”

“Call you what?”

She could hear him growling behind his teeth.  “Nicky.”

She smiled again.  Of course, now she’d call him Nicky at every opportunity.  If she proved irritating enough, perhaps her forced residence at the house of the unpleasant Nicholas Grimshaw might be cut short.

As they wound through the streets, she asked sweetly, “How’s Snowflake?”

His annoyed silence was reward enough.

Nicholas Grimshaw might have extorted housekeeping services out of her, but in exchange, she could make his household miserable.

Scarcely had she dropped her satchel onto the floor of the cottage when her new slave master began listing her duties for the evening.  Biting the inside of her cheek to stifle her simmering temper, she remained silent while he dictated his supper requirements and pointed out the various kitchen utensils.

But it didn’t take long, after Nicholas had drawn himself a draught of ale and retired to his bedchamber, for Desirée to begin stirring up mischief to pay the knave back for his extortion.

Several moments later, he emerged again with his face freshly scrubbed, raking back his damp hair and wrinkling his nose.  “What’s that smell?”

“What smell?”  Desirée looked up innocently from her place at the chopping block in the kitchen, where she was slicing bacon for the evening stew.

Nicholas glowered at the hearth.  Smoke was rising from the pot on the fire.  “
That
smell.”

She glanced at the smoking pot, then shrugged.  “Supper.”

“’Tis burning.”

“Is it?”

She could almost see smoke pouring from his ears, as well, as he scowled at the pot of burning neeps and cabbage.  A few meals like this and surely he’d be glad to release her from her servitude.

He said nothing, returning to his bedchamber.

She smiled in satisfaction as she dropped the bacon into the smoldering pot, where it snapped and sizzled.  As soon as it began to blacken sufficiently, she’d add water, stirring the vile mess into a noxious stew.

Nicholas emerged again, this time clad in his cloak.  “I’m going out.”

“But supper’s on the hearth.”

“
Your
supper’s on the hearth,” he said, cocking an amused brow.  “I’m going to find something edible in town.  And don’t even think of running away.  I’ll only hunt you down again.”

Her jaw dropped.  Before she could come up with a scathing retort, he was gone.  In a burst of pique, she took off her shoe and threw it at the closed door.

Sighing, she stared down at the burnt mixture. 
She
wasn’t about to try to choke it down.  Wrapping a bundle of rags around her hand, she took the pot off the fire.

“Kitty-kitty-kitty.  Here, Snowflake.”

Even the cat turned up his nose.  She ended up tossing the mixture out into the back yard.  Perhaps some animal with less discriminating tastes would make a feast of it.

Meanwhile, she was reduced to sharing a cold slab of bacon, a stale bannock, and a cup of ale with the cat while she dreamed up other ways to provoke her gaoler.

“Snowflake, my precious,” she said, digging in her purse, “how would you like a pretty ribbon?”  She pulled out a frayed rose-colored strip of velvet she used to tie back her hair.  While the cat finished off his dish of minced bacon, she tied the ribbon about his neck, perching the bow at a jaunty angle above his left ear.

Satisfied with her handiwork, she tapped her fingers on the table, wondering what other subtle havoc she might wreak.

She’d learned that a man’s nature could be quickly judged by his possessions, and that once one knew a man’s nature, it was a simple thing to prey upon his weaknesses.  With Nicholas gone, the cottage was hers to explore.  Perhaps she could find some clue to the man’s frailties.

She started in his bedchamber.  The requisite chest of clothing squatted at the foot of his great bed.  Most of his garb was dark and plain, as befitted the solemn nature of his office.  The few white linen shirts bore faint stains that might or might not have been blood.  The sight chilled her, drawing her gaze to the instruments hanging on the wall.  Swiftly shoving the garments back into the chest, she let the lid drop.

A half-dozen spears of various size leaned against the corner of the wall, and Desirée spied a small, carved wooden box tucked behind them.  Moving the spears carefully aside, she opened the box.  To her amazement, it was full to the brim with silver coins.  It was a veritable treasury, and she wondered, if he had so much wealth, why he lived so modestly.  Surely he could have afforded a stately manor house with that coin.  Desirée could have survived for several years on such an amount.

The temptation to take it was strong.  But if Nicholas had intended to flog her for stealing two shillings, what would he do to her for robbing him of his fortune?

She bit the corner of her lip.  She
could
slip a few coins from the box each day, diminishing his riches a penny at a time.  But something told her he was the sort of man who kept a careful watch on his possessions.  It wouldn’t surprise her to discover he counted his coins every night.

Nay, it was too big a risk.  Later, maybe, when she’d finished her business in Canterbury and intended to flee, she’d consider absconding with his treasure in one bold parting gesture.  But for now it would have to remain an unrequited possibility in the back of her mind.

She closed the lid, moved the box back, and replaced the spears.

Atop his table, beside the usual comb and razor and bowl of soap, were a bottle of ink, parchment, and a quill.  What would a shire-reeve have to record?  Purchases of hanging rope?  Laundry charges for bloodstain removal?  A tally of lopped-off body parts?

Desirée knew how to read and write, though it was a rare skill among women.  Indeed, the only reason she’d learned was that Hubert had been convinced it would profit them.  He’d managed to extort lessons for her from a priest who couldn’t pay off his wagering debts.  Once she’d mastered the skill, Desirée forged letters of introduction to gain access to wealthy households, which, of course, they’d subsequently rob.

Curious, she opened another chest beside the table and found dozens of rolls of parchment, bound with leather ties.  She plucked one out and unrolled it.

Her eyes flattened as she read the words.  It was a warrant of death, charging Nicholas Grimshaw with the execution of one Walter atte Redehulle.  Nicholas’s bold mark was made at the bottom, beside those of the town constable and the executioner.  With a shudder of revulsion, she rolled it back up and glanced at the others in the chest.  No doubt one of them had Hubert Kabayn’s name on it.

She slammed the lid.

She perused the chamber, looking for other clues as to his possible weaknesses.  She’d hoped to find something more interesting, more incriminating among his effects.  Perhaps a favorite book of perverse illuminations.  Or a collection of love letters to some lost sweetheart.

But despite his store of wealth, he had only enough possessions to afford himself the most spartan of existences.  Nicholas Grimshaw was apparently a man of thrift.

And that, she decided with a calculating grin, was the key to how she’d provoke him.  Nicholas didn’t own half the things Desirée would require if she were going to be his cook and housemaid.

Her brain whirring, she sat at his table, drew a piece of parchment out, dipped the quill into the bottle of ink, and began compiling a list of necessities,
expensive
necessities.

Beeswax candles.  Saffron.  Galingale.  Cinnamon.  Cloves.  Good Spanish wine.  A linen apron.  A low stool.  A plunger churn.  Lavender for the bath.

She tapped the quill feather against her lip.  That was enough for now, she supposed.  It would take a good lot of the coin he kept in that box to purchase the goods.  With any luck, he’d decide his servant was too expensive to keep.

For a long while, she waited for him to return, relishing the look of displeasure on his face when he beheld her list.  But after several hours, she decided he must have stopped by an alehouse on the way home.  An alehouse or a whorehouse.  Despite his comely face and brawny form, a man of his villainous reputation likely had to pay for companionship.

Soon the fire died down, and Snowflake started on his hunting rounds.  Before long, as she sat in front of the dwindling flames, Desirée’s eyelids began to droop.

She wasn’t about to make her bed on the hard wooden bench or the stone floor.  If it was Nicholas’s decision to be out until the small hours of the night, then
he
could scrounge for a place to sleep.  That was, if he wasn’t already dozing between some harlot’s legs.  As for Desirée, she was going to take that enormous down-filled pallet.  It would serve him right for tricking her into slavery.