Danger's Kiss (41 page)

His body seemed weighted with lead as Nicholas dropped the shears and shot out his arm reflexively, trying to catch her.  His fingertips brushed the long tippet of her sleeve, but already she’d fallen past his reach.

By the time he saw where she was headed, it was too late.

With a sickly wet thud, she landed atop his open satchel of tools, impaling herself on the sharp blades.

“Shite!” he hissed.

Time rushed onward again.

Acting on impulse, Nicholas dove forward, catching her about the waist.  Using all of his strength, he lifted her up, carefully pulling her body free of the blades and rolling her gently onto her back.

But she was beyond hope, too damaged to live.  Blood dripped from her belly, and by the wheeze of her breath, he knew her lungs had been pierced.  She lingered for a few torturous moments, soundlessly moving her mouth, scrabbling at the dirt, and staring up at him with wide, dimming eyes.  Then, with a bloody grimace of disbelief, she exhaled a final rasping breath and slumped over against the satchel.

Nicholas collapsed back onto his hindquarters, staring at her in horror.

The sight of blood didn’t sicken him.  He was used to it.

And try as he might, he could summon no insurmountable guilt over her demise.  It had been an accident, and he’d tried to save her.  If justice had been served, the woman would have hanged on the gallows, anyway.

His horror came from the fact that now there was no way to exonerate Desirée.  Worse, he had enough blood on his hands to warrant his own arrest and hanging.

What in God’s name was he going to do?

Despite his early return, Desirée sensed something was wrong the moment Nicholas stepped into her cell, heaving the heavy satchel from his shoulder while the guard secured the door behind him.

“Oh, no,” she said under her breath.

Once he threw back his hood, her worst fears were confirmed.  His teeth were clenched, and bleak despair filled his eyes.

She swallowed.  “She didn’t withdraw the warrant?”

He shook his head.

Her hand went impulsively to her throat.

He steeled his jaw.  “I’m not going to hang you, Desirée!”

He hauled her into his arms, kissing her hard, and on his lips she tasted both reassurance and desperation.  Then, too soon, he released her, holding her at arm’s length.

“Listen to me,” he said.  “Bad things have happened tonight.”

“Bad things?  What bad things?”

“You have to leave.”

“Leave?”

He let her go and began to pace the room, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over his jaw and planning aloud.  “I’ll have to kill the gaoler.  Otherwise, he’ll alert the constable.  That should give you a good start.  I’ll give you what coin I have.  If you take the north road
—
“

“Wait!”  She blocked his path.  “Kill the gaoler?  What
—
”

“I
have—
“ he started to yell, then lowered his voice.  “I
have
to.  There’s no other way.”

“Nicholas, what are you talking about?”

He spoke in measured syllables, as if to a child.  “You have to leave Canterbury.  Now.  There’s no time.”

“Me?  What about you?”

He started to reach out to touch her hair, then withdrew his hand.  “I can’t go with you, Desirée.  You’ll be safer on your own.”

“I can’t leave you.  I
won’t
leave you.”  She looked into his desolate eyes and realized the truth.  “If I leave you, I won’t ever see you again.”

By the tensing of his jaw, she saw she was right.  “But you’ll live, Desirée,” he said, reaching out to cup her cheek.  “At least you’ll live.”

She pushed his hand away.  “What good is living if I can’t be with the man I love?”

“Bloody hell, Desirée,” he ground out, “if you don’t leave right now, you’ll die.  We
both
will.”

She frowned.  “What do you mean, we
both
will?”  There was something he wasn’t telling her.  “What’s happened, Nicholas?  Tell me.  You owe me that.”  She crossed her arms over her chest.  “Tell me now, or I swear I won’t set foot outside of this cell.”

With a scowl of frustration that said that he’d prefer to sling her over his shoulder and carry her off forcibly, he quickly told her what had transpired since he left.

When he finished, she blinked in disbelief.  “You mean Philomena...she’s dead?”

He nodded.  “And all the evidence points to me as the murderer.”

It was an astonishing tale, and Nicholas was right.  No one would believe Philomena’s death had been an accident, and since Nicholas was the last to see her alive, he’d be presumed the killer.  It appeared they were both doomed to die on the gallows.

But if there was one thing she’d learned from Hubert, it was that things were not always as they appeared.  No matter how tangled the knot, there was usually a way to unravel it.  It was only a matter of looking beyond the expected.

“Desirée,” Nicholas pleaded, “you have to leave.  I can only hold off
—
“

“Shh,” she said, placing fingers over his mouth.  “I’m thinking.”

He pulled her fingers away.  “While you’re thinking, they may already be searching for Philomena.”

“What?”  She glanced up at him, frowning.  “What did you say?”

“They’re likely wondering what’s become of her.”

She narrowed her eyes.  “What did you do with the body?”

He closed his lips into a thin line, reluctant to answer.

“Nicholas, where’s the body?”

He winced in distaste, and his gaze fell to his satchel.

Desirée gasped.  “In there?  She’s...  You...  But why would you...”

He scowled.  “I didn’t have time to bury her, and I couldn’t just leave her there.”  He ran a guilty hand across the back of his neck.  “After you’re gone, I’ll take her body to the crossroads and
—
“

“Wait.”

This changed everything.  Desirée chewed at her thumbnail as her mind suddenly lit up with possibilities.

“Desirée!” he said, to capture her attention.

She held up a hand.  Before long, a devious idea began to wind its way through her brain.  She glanced at the satchel.  The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced it could work.  If it did, it would be the most magnificent piece of deception she’d ever perpetrated.

“Shells and peas,” she murmured.

“What?”

Desirée bit her lip.  Hubert had taught her well.  It would take serious distraction and expert sleight of hand, but together they could do it.

Desirée would escape the gallows.

Nicholas would wash the blood from his hands.

And Philomena herself would see that justice was served.

“Nicholas, my love,” she said with a hopeful glint in her eyes, “how would you like to learn the secret of Three Shells and a Pea?”

Desirée swallowed hard as the first gray light of dawn seeped in through the slit at the top of the cell.  It was one thing to come up with a brilliant plan, another to carry it out.  Sitting here now, in the naked reality of day, she wondered if she’d made the right decision.

She glanced at Nicholas, sitting beside her, his face shadowed as he stared at the floor, lost in thought.  Neither of them had slept a wink.

She had to be brave, for his sake.  She was the one who’d talked Nicholas into this, after all, convincing him it would work.  She couldn’t let him down.

But in the distance, when the bells began to ring, she flinched at the sound, knowing they were tolling not for Mass, but for her execution.

Nicholas reached his hand over and gave hers a reassuring squeeze.  She squeezed back, and for a long while they stayed like that, lending each other strength by that mere touch.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he murmured.

“Aye.”

“There’s still time for you to run.”

She shook her head and gave him a shaky smile.  “You won’t get rid of me that easily.  Besides, where will you find another maid to burn your supper and beat you at draughts and...”  She broke off as her throat closed unexpectedly.

“Listen to me.”  He clasped her hand against his heart and spoke fiercely.  “I’ll make this work.  I promise.”

She bit her lip to still its trembling.  Curse her wayward tears.  She meant to be strong for
him
.

God, she hoped he was right.  They must have gone over the plan a hundred times.  In the same way she’d learned Three Shells and a Pea, Desirée had stressed to Nicholas the importance of timing and distraction.  They’d practiced over and over until it became like a dance.

But there was always the possibility of failure.  One overly shrewd observer, one slip of the tongue or hand, and the entire piece of trickery could be exposed.

And this time, unlike her ventures with Hubert, there would be no easy escape, no fleeing to the next town.  If they couldn’t pull this off...

Sensing her lingering doubt, Nicholas reached out and turned her head toward him, gripping her jaw and piercing her with his determined gaze.  “I won’t let you down.  And I won’t let you die.”

She nodded.

He gave her a kiss to seal his promise, then murmured, “Are you ready?”

She blew out a steadying breath.  She had to focus now.  “Aye,” she said, letting him help her to her feet.  “I’m ready.”

She took off her boots and stockings and swirled his massive cloak over her surcoat, covering herself completely from head to toe.  They’d already removed Philomena’s bloody clothing and slippers, dressed the corpse in Desirée’s clean linen shift, and tucked the body back into the empty satchel.

Nicholas donned his cloak and gloves.  Then he carefully shouldered the heavy sack.  She nodded, confirming it didn’t look suspicious.

He raised his fist and banged on the door, calling for the gaoler to let them out.

The instant they stepped outside and he wrapped his black-gloved fist around her upper arm, she sensed the change in him. She suddenly felt as if she walked beside a stranger.  Her tender lover was gone.  In his place was Nicholas Grimshaw, shire-reeve of Kent.  And in a curious way, that restored her confidence.  This
was
going to work.

He was magnificent and menacing and larger than life.  Indeed, if Desirée hadn’t known it was but a role he played, she would have been quailing in her tracks.

The moment they exited the gaol, a wave of jeering onlookers surged toward her, but he handled them expertly.

“Make way!” he bellowed.  “Make way for Nicholas Grimshaw, shire-reeve of Kent!”

Her elbow firmly in his grasp, Nicholas strode with confidence along the road to the town square, and the crowd scattered before him like chickens before a cart.

“Make way!”

As he swaggered past, singling out members of the gathering townsfolk with a steely glare, women cringed in fright and young lads shouted insults and challenges.

Soon a chant of “Grimshaw!  Grimshaw!  Grimshaw!” arose, and peering from the shadows of her hooded cloak, Desirée saw Nicholas raise his hand high, as if to quell their worshipful cries.

She’d never seen so many gathered for an execution.  But then she supposed it wasn’t every day a woman was hanged from the gallows.

She shivered.  The road was cold on her bare feet.  Thick fog rolled along the lane like dragon’s breath, lending a dreamlike quality to the day.  But the mist would be their ally, she knew, obscuring perception, blurring reality.

Suddenly something streaked across the path before her like a small white wraith, then disappeared, and Desirée realized it was Snowflake.

Before she could wonder what Nicholas’s intrepid cat was doing here, the vicious threats began.

“Hang the witch high!” someone yelled.