Danger's Kiss (5 page)

The damsel probably had no place to stay for the night, anyway.  He’d be doing her a favor by letting her take shelter in his home.

“If you don’t let me go,” she bit out, “I swear I’ll break off this bedpost and shove it so far up your
—
“

“Cease!”

He had no intention of using a scold’s bridle on her
—
the horrible spiked thing had hung unused on his wall for as long as he could remember
—
but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take other measures to ensure himself a peaceful night’s sleep.

He delved into the chest at the foot of his bed and drew out a scrap of linen for a gag.  It would serve two purposes.  Her cries would be muffled, and he could rest assured she wouldn’t be chewing off her paw in the middle of the night.

The moment Desirée saw the gag, she prepared to fight.  The secret to overcoming formidable foes, she’d learned from Hubert, was unrelenting aggression.

It worked for cats.  She’d once seen a kitten fend off a pack of dogs with nothing more than fierce hisses and threatening swipes of its paws.

And it had always worked for Desirée.  Men who mistook her for a frail flower, theirs for the plucking, were treated to a spate of flying fists and loud curses that would curdle cream.  They couldn’t flee fast enough.

But this damned shire-reeve, unmoved and undaunted, came for her as if she
were
but a kitten, a troublesome creature to be subdued.

Even with one hand shackled, she might have been able to fight him off.  But the brute sat on her.  While she was gasping from the indignity and sheer weight of his bulk atop her writhing legs, he managed to shove the wad of linen into her mouth.  Not even pounding his back with her free hand could prevent him from tying the gag around her head.  Then he grabbed that wrist, too, completely immobilizing her.

Incensed, she tried to scream, but the cloth muffled the sound to a pathetic whimper.  He nodded in satisfaction, infuriating her more.

She might not be able to curse him, but there was more than one way to get her message across.  Summoning up all the pain and rage and frustration she felt, she skewered him with a smoldering glare full of hatred.

It had little effect, but then, she supposed a lawman was accustomed to glares of hatred.

Her legs began to tingle from lack of blood, but he only continued to sit there, staring at her as if she were some curious sort of beetle he’d never seen before.

Every instinct told her to look away.  But she’d survived on the streets by temerity, not timidity.  If there was any hope of enduring this ordeal, it would be by fearlessness.  So she met him, stare for stare, and tried to think of something,
anything
other than the rack of gruesome instruments on the wall.

Green.  The knave’s eyes were green.  She tried to convince herself they were the color of pond slime and frog warts and snake scales.  But in fact, the hue reminded her of fresh summer meadows.

His mouth she expected to be cruel, but there was a surprising softness to it that ill befit a man accustomed to violence. His brows were dark and expressive, and his nose was unbroken, a miracle considering the scars of past injuries to his face.  His unruly black hair looked as if he seldom bothered to cut or tend to it.  Why, she didn’t know.  He certainly owned enough sharp blades to do the task.

She gulped against her will.  From the edge of her vision, she could still make out the grisly silhouettes of his tools.

“Go to sleep,” he said wearily, releasing her wrist and easing off of her legs.  “There’s a chamberpot beside the bed.  We’ll talk on the morrow.”

As the blood flowed back into her legs, relief coursed through her veins.  He didn’t intend to torture her, then.  At least not this eve.

But she’d seen the vicious way he’d killed Hubert.  He was capable of great violence.  She dared not forget that.

She watched him walk away, his hand dripping blood where she’d sliced it, his linen shirt askew from the struggle, flecked with crimson at the shoulder where she’d stabbed him with the pin.  When he reached the doorway, he hesitated but didn’t turn around.

“He didn’t suffer long,” he muttered.  “You should know that.  ‘Twas a merciful end.”

Then he left.

Alone in the dim chamber, Desirée felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.  She silently cursed them.  Damn it all!  She wasn’t going to cry.  Crying was for the weak-hearted.  Tears were something Desirée only feigned to loosen men’s purses so Hubert could pick them.  Hubert would have given her a tongue-lashing for weeping over him.

Was it true, what the lawman said?  Had Hubert been shown mercy?  She’d never witnessed such a horrible spectacle.  Still, she had to admit the old thief’s suffering
had
been brief.

She glanced at the wall.  Surely the lawman was lying.  How could someone who owned such a gruesome array of torturous devices feel a shred of mercy?  What would someone capable of inflicting pain without batting an eye know of suffering?

With that whole armory of malicious instruments looming over her, waiting to taste her flesh, and a brute willing to use them only a chamber away, she thought she’d never get to sleep.  But she’d had an exhausting day.

Over the last several days, she’d sold everything she owned to pay for Hubert’s upkeep in gaol, starving herself so he might eat.  All morn she’d waited in the freezing snow for a man Hubert had invented, only to discover he’d betrayed her.  Between the trauma of watching her old mentor hang from the gallows and her fevered battle with a lawman as strong as an ox, she was overwhelmed with fatigue.  Before she’d taken a dozen breaths, the heavy fog of slumber fell over her eyes.

Nicholas woke early, not because he was eager to rise, but because there was a cat licking his chin.  He brushed the beast aside, groaning as his backbone popped.  Lord, he felt like he’d slept on the rack.  A man his size shouldn’t have to spend the night perched on a bench.  Especially when there was a mite of a wench taking up his whole bed.

He stretched, wincing as his joints complained, then snorted, raked the hair back from his face, and hauled himself to his feet.  It was yet dim, perhaps not even dawn, but he had one more task to do this morn before he was finished with Hubert Kabayn.

In the kitchen, he poured water into a basin and washed his face, taking care with the gash on his cheek and the tender slice between his thumb and forefinger.  Then he carved a hunk off the bacon hanging on the wall, giving Azrael several generous bites.  He took down a pair of mismatched wooden flagons and pulled ale into them.  The maid in his bed would likely have a fierce thirst after her scathing tirade of last eve.

He paused at the doorway to the chamber and peered in.  The damsel appeared to be deep in slumber.  He crept in quietly, then stood over her, perusing her as she slept.

The woman was absolutely stunning when her features weren’t contorted with rage and hatred.  Her brows were finely arched, her lashes long and luxurious.  Her skin was luminous, even in the dim light, and her hair sprawled across the bed in dark, gentle waves.

Indeed, with her prominent cheekbones and angular jaw, she looked a bit underfed.  But then, her grandfather had been little more than a sack of bones himself.  Doubtless their life of traveling from village to village, scraping by on petty thievery, kept them living hand to mouth.

Her fingers were curled under her chin, and he could see the nails were bitten down to the quick.  That was fortunate, since she’d run those nails down his arms several times yesterday.

But her most intriguing feature was her mouth.  He wished he hadn’t needed to gag her, for it seemed a crime to desecrate those sweet lips.  For a woman who could spit out curses with all the fury of a heretic spouting proverbs, her mouth was deceptively soft and full, like a ripe peach ready for the tasting.  Indeed, if he wasn’t sure she’d bite him, it would have been tempting to wake her with a kiss.

It was an absurd idea, of course.  No one kissed the shire-reeve of Kent.  He was despised and feared.  The only women who offered Nicholas their affections were lawbreakers trying to entice him into leniency, and he refused their bribes.

The lass’s temper might have cooled, but she’d still hate him.  After all, he’d ordered her grandfather to the gallows.  And no matter what heinous crimes a fellow committed, his kin never believed he deserved death.

In this instance, he couldn’t be sure the man
did
deserve death.  Kabayn seemed to Nicholas more of a fox than a wolf, a conniving cheat, maybe, but not a ruthless killer.  Nicholas had given the old man every opportunity to fight the charges, however slim his chances were against the powerful Lady of Torteval.  In the end, Kabayn admitted he’d probably earned a dozen hangings in his life, anyway, and he’d sooner face a quick death upon the gallows than the wasting sickness that currently afflicted him.

Nicholas supposed it was useless to let the matter trouble him.  After all, the outlaw was gone now, and in a way, his death had been a mercy.

He crouched beside the pallet with the cups of ale and frowned, suddenly realizing he didn’t know the wench’s name.  Kabayn had never mentioned it.

“My lady,” he called softly.  “My lady.”  There was no response.  He leaned in closer.  “My-“

Her fist flew out so quickly, he almost didn’t dodge it in time.  She narrowly missed his chin, but her forearm caught the cups, knocking them sideways and spilling ale all over the floor.

“Bloody hell, wench!”

The damsel hadn’t been asleep at all.  She’d been lying in wait.  A good night’s rest apparently hadn’t tempered her mood in the least.

He scowled.  “Two pints of good ale gone to waste!”

Not completely to waste.  Azrael was already sauntering through the doorway, eyeing the frothy brew.  He had a taste for ale that rivaled his master’s.

Nicholas blew out a disgusted breath.  “So you’re not ready to make peace,” he said flatly.  “Fine.”

He slammed the empty cups down on the table, then snatched up his cloak.

“I’d hoped a good night’s rest would make you more malleable,” he muttered, whirling the cloak about his shoulders.

By the mutinous smoldering of her gaze, the woman was going to make him drag her, kicking and screaming, to the town square.  Nay, he amended, not screaming.  He had no intention of removing the gag now.  At this early hour, if he hauled a shrieking shrew through the streets, he’d incur the wrath of all of Canterbury.

He opened the low chest beside the wall and pulled out a coil of rope.  He’d need to bind her tightly if he wanted to avoid a new barrage of blows.

The task proved harder than holding on to a mud-slick piglet, but he managed, by sitting on her and gathering her knees beneath one arm, to tie her kirtle about her ankles.  Then he unlocked the shackle from the bedpost and locked it again around her other wrist, cuffing her hands behind her.

All the while she thrashed and tossed her head until her hair was a tangled mess and the ties of her kirtle came undone.  Even when he rolled her onto her belly to lace them again, she fought him, until he had to plant a knee in her back to get her to hold still.

“God’s bones, wench!  Do you
want
to walk naked through the streets of Canterbury, then?”

D
esirée went still.  The streets of Canterbury?  Where were they going?

His knee was crushing her spine, but his fingers were oddly gentle upon the back of her neck as he secured the ties.  Still, it took all her resolve not to fight against him.

Lord, but she was thirsty.  She regretted spilling that ale.  The wad of linen had sapped all the moisture from her mouth.  She couldn’t have screamed if she wanted to.

He gave the laces one final tug, but no sooner did the weight of his knee lighten upon her than she was scooped up off the bed.  The oaf slung her over his shoulder like a sack of barley.

“Fight me and you’ll only hurt yourself.  ‘Tis a great distance to fall,” he said, his hand clasping her thigh with far too much familiarity.  “We’ve got a long walk.  Don’t make it seem longer.”

Every instinct told her to fight her way free.  But he was right.  With her arms shackled behind her and her feet bound, even if she managed to extricate herself from his grip, she wouldn’t get far, and she’d only succeed in injuring herself.

Lord, it was humiliating.  Bent over his shoulder with her backside close enough for him to bite, she was treated to an unwelcome view of the man’s buttocks.  She wasn’t sure whether it was dangling upside down from his shoulder or sheer mortification that sent the blood rushing to her cheeks.