Danger's Kiss (18 page)

Someone in the Torteval household.

Someone with keen ears.  Watchful eyes.  And, she decided, a wish for death.

Worse, they might even now be foiling her perfectly laid plans.

She had to assure herself that wasn’t the situation.  She had to be certain nothing had been compromised.  And she had to do it now.

Time was of the essence, forcing her to take matters into her own hands, which struck terror into her soul.  Her plans, after all, required that she remain aloof, discreet, unconnected to anything even remotely nefarious.  It was risky enough that she was slowly poisoning her own father-in-law.  What she was about to do was as treacherous and foolhardy as a fox waving its tail under the noses of a pack of hounds.

Still, what other choice did she have?  She could trust no one else with the task.

Quickly, before anyone could question her purpose, she swirled her maidservant’s drab brown cloak about her shoulders, pulling the hood far forward over her face.  As dawn began to lighten the sky from black to iron gray, she passed through the gates of Torteval, making her way toward the village proper and the dank, foul, hellish place she’d glimpsed only once, half a year ago.

For Nicholas, the day passed in a blur.  After the pleasure of Desirée’s company yesterday, he could hardly keep his mind on his work.  All he could think about was getting home to her as soon as possible.

But at twilight, when Nicholas hurried home and swung open the garden gate, his smile of anticipation faded and his heart lurched with misgiving.

No smoke rose from his chimney.

No welcoming glow emanated from the cottage.

The shutters were tightly closed.

Had Desirée betrayed him?  Had she shown her true colors and turned on him?  Had she run off with the coin he’d given her to go to the market this morn?

It was his own fault.  He knew better than to trust a woman who trafficked in deceit.  Still, he couldn’t help but feel a sharp pang of disappointment.  Curse the wench, in only a few days he’d grown accustomed to coming home to the sight of her pretty face and the smell of something burning on the fire.

There was no question.  The damned imp had definitely stolen a piece of his heart.

Sighing, he closed the gate behind him.  He slipped off the hood of his cloak and raked back his hair, then plodded toward the cottage.  He wondered what else she’d stolen.

The moment he opened the door, he knew he’d been mistaken.  Desirée
was
there.  Her womanly scent lingered in the air, and in the dim light of the cottage, he saw a plucked chicken sitting on the counter, a full sack of flour on the shelf, and new flagons by his keg of ale.

“Nicholas?” she called from his bedchamber.  “I’m in here!”

As ridiculous as it was, his heart actually fluttered at the sound of her voice.  She hadn’t betrayed him, after all.

And as he closed the door behind him, an even more wondrous thought crossed his mind, a thought that fired his blood and roused his loins.  Why was she calling him from his bedchamber?  Was she waiting for him there?  In his
bed
?

Irrational hope quickened his pulse as he stepped into the dark room.  “Desirée?”

A flint sparked as she lit the candle beside his pallet.

She wasn’t in his bed.

But someone
else
was.

N
icholas’s large satchel of tools hit the floor with a heavy thud.  “What the...”

“’Tis the master of the mews from Torteval Hall,” she proudly announced.

Indeed, sprawled across Nicholas’s huge pallet, his arms and legs bound with rope, his mouth gagged, his eyes rolling in fear as he glimpsed first Nicholas and then the wall of torture instruments, was the man Desirée had cheated at dice.

“Lucifer’s ballocks, wench!  Are you mad?”

She frowned, irked by his question.  “Mad?”

“What the devil is he doing here?”

“I brought him here.”

“How?”

She shrugged.  “I may have said something about letting him take a peek under my skirts.”

“What!”

“Well, I didn’t
let
him.”

Nicholas shook his head.  He glanced again at the man bound to the bed.  Desirée couldn’t have overpowered him.  The fool must have willingly let her tie him up.

“
Why
did you bring him here?”

“He’s a witness.  I told you, he’s from Torteval.  He likely knows something about the mur-“

“Don’t!”  He glanced at the master of the mews, who was listening with far too much interest.  “Don’t say another word.”

She crossed her arms and skewered him with a glare.  “You aren’t going to try to slither out of this, are you?  We had a bargain.  You promised me you’d
—
“

“God’s wounds!  I didn’t think you’d actually
—
“

“What?  You didn’t think I’d find any witnesses?”  She narrowed her eyes to slits, then shook her head in slow comprehension.  “You son of a...  You never intended to hold up your end of the bargain, did you...
Nicky
?”

He straightened to his full height, highly offended, and stabbed a finger toward her nose.  “Listen, you impertinent wench, whatever else you may think of me, I am a man of my word.”

She studied him with a sulky gaze.  Behind her, Azrael twitched his tail, as if mirroring her irritation.

Certainly the damsel had no cause to disbelieve him.  He’d kept his word to Hubert Kabayn, after all.

At long last she let out a sigh of reluctant trust.  “You’ll do it, then?  You’ll torture him?”

A muffled squeal came from the pallet as the panicked prisoner tried to thrash free.

Nicholas caught Desirée’s elbow to steer her out of the hearing of the poor wretch tied to the bed.  “I’ll question him,” he whispered.  “I never agreed to torture.”

She scowled in disappointment and hissed, “I thought you were a cold-blooded lawman.”

“And I thought you were a sweet-natured lass.”

She let the remark pass.  “How do you expect to get the truth out of a man like that if you don’t torture it out of him?”

He frowned.  “You have a lot to learn about interrogation.”

Instead of taking umbrage at his remark, she picked up the three-legged stool perched against the wall and strode to the middle of the room, planting it at a safe distance from the bed.

“Teach me,” she said, taking a seat.

Nicholas thought he’d never met a more dauntless woman.  But here, she was over her head in perilous waters.  She might be able to cheat men out of their silver without blinking an eyelash, but squeezing information out of them was another matter.

“Have you ever seen a man tortured?” he asked.

She shrugged.  “Nay, but
—
“

“I thought not.”  He jerked his thumb toward the doorway.  “Go.”

“I have a strong stomach.  I can
—
“

“Now.”

The wretch on the bed began struggling hysterically against his bonds, flapping his arms like a hen cornered by a fox.

“See?” Nicholas said.  “He wants you to stay.  Do you know why?  Because he knows there are certain vile things I can do to him that I won’t undertake in the presence of a lady.”

Nicholas rubbed his hands together, as if relishing the torment to come.

“If you leave,” he continued silkily, “he fears my violence will know no bounds.”  He turned to the man.  “Isn’t that right?  You want her to stay, don’t you?”

The man, blinking in confusion, rapidly nodded.

Desirée sighed.  It wasn’t that she was bloodthirsty.  On the contrary, she was rather averse to violence.  The only reason she’d ever attended public floggings and executions was to cut the purses of distracted onlookers.

But she wanted to make sure Nicholas questioned the man thoroughly.  She needed to get as much information out of him as possible.  After all, she could hardly lure a different servant home each day without arousing suspicion.

Still, Nicholas was probably right.  With her looking on, he’d likely stay his hand.  She glanced at the sinister tools on the wall.  Maybe she didn’t want to watch him, after all.

“Very well.”

The master of the mews wagged his head frantically back and forth, telling her nay, but she rose to go.

Before she left, she caught Nicholas by the sleeve and murmured, “Ask him what the murderer looked like.”  She turned to leave, then thought of something else.  “And find out what weapon was used.”  She took a step away, then back.  “And try to
—
“

“Don’t tell me how to do my work.”

She furrowed her brows at him, then stalked from the room.  “Come on, Snowflake.”  The cat dutifully followed her.

She set about preparing supper, trying to pretend nothing unseemly was happening in the next room.  She started a fire on the hearth.  She poured a small dish of cream for the cat.  She began chopping greens for pottage, all the while listening for telltale sounds that Nicholas had broken the witness.

All she could hear was the low, indistinguishable rumble of Nicholas’s murmuring.  She hoped he knew what he was doing.

At the first horrible shriek, Desirée almost chopped off the ends of her fingers.  The knife clattered on the cutting block, and her heart leaped into her throat.  Dear God, what was Nicholas doing to the man?

“Nay!” came a scream.

Murmur, murmur.

“Nay!  For the love of God, nay!”

Murmur, murmur, murmur.

“Please, my lord, not that!”

Murmur.

Desirée’s stomach wasn’t quite as strong as she’d thought.  She gripped the counter, feeling sick.

“Nay-nay-nay-NAY-NAY!” he cried in increasing panic.

Bloody hell!  What vile instrument was Nicholas employing?

The man screamed again, a long scream that turned Desirée’s knees to custard.  She clapped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut.

After a moment, there was only silence.  She cautiously opened her eyes.

God’s wounds, had he killed the man?

She carefully peeled her fingers away from her ears.

Nay, Nicholas was still talking to him, in words too quiet to discern.  The man had stopped screaming, and he seemed to be gasping out something.

Desirée wanted to know what he was saying, but she dared not move from the spot.  She didn’t want to hear that scream again at close range.

With trembling fingers, she resumed chopping the cabbage, then leeks, then onions.  But when she reached for the chicken, she heard a scuffling at the doorway.

What she saw almost made her drop the knife.  Nicholas was escorting the master of the mews, looking none the worse for his ordeal, toward the door, and the lawman’s arm was wrapped around the smaller man’s shoulders, as if they were old companions.

While she stood agape, Nicholas opened the door for him, issuing a good-natured warning.  “Remember what I said, Odger.  I know where you dwell.  ‘Twill go badly if you cross me.”

“Aye, my lord.”  The master of the mews nodded without hesitation, then scurried out the door.

“What was that all about?” Desirée demanded when the door closed.  “Where is he going?”

Nicholas pulled a draught of ale into one of the new flagons.  “Home.”

“You let him go?”

“Why?” he said with a smirk.  “Did you want to keep him?”

She pursed her lips.  “Did he tell you anything?  Did he confess?”

“There was nothing to confess.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t see anything.”  He took a sip of ale.

She clenched her teeth in frustration.  Surely the man knew something.  He was a servant, after all.  Weren’t they always poking their noses into their masters’ affairs?  “Maybe you didn’t press him hard enough.”