Danger's Kiss (7 page)

Now that she stood over him, she didn’t know what to say.  She’d harbored no great love for the man.  Indeed, he’d been harsh, hardhearted, and oftentimes cruel.  In return, she’d given him as good as she got.  There were no words to describe the unsentimental nature of their bond.

Besides, Hubert had liked sappy proclamations of false affection about as much as he liked weeping.  She couldn’t very well extol his virtues, since he had so few.  And her prayers would likely do little for him, coming from a sinner like herself.

But as she gazed into the grave, it suddenly struck her that Hubert had shown her one last kindness.  He must have known all along that he was going to the gallows.  The fool’s errand he’d sent her on was his way of keeping her at a safe distance from his execution.  It wasn’t an act of betrayal.  It was an act of protection.

She felt her throat thicken with emotion as she recognized the truth
—
Hubert hadn’t hated her as much as he pretended.  At the very least, he cared enough for her to keep her from harm with his dying breath.  As callous as he could be sometimes, he
had
always looked out for her.  She supposed she owed him something for six years of watching over her.

His spirit would not be eased by tears or praise or prayers spoken over his dead body.  Only one thing would ensure the quiet repose of his soul.

“I’m going to hunt down the real killer, Hubert,” she decided.  “You may be dead, but I’ll see you rest in peace.  I promise.  No matter what it takes, I’m going to remove this stain upon your soul.”

It was the least she could do.  Hubert wasn’t a murderer.  He’d been wrongfully hanged.  And she wouldn’t rest until his death was avenged.

She could see she’d been wrong to blame Nicholas Grimshaw alone.  He might have been the one who ordered Hubert’s execution.  But the real target of her vengeance was whoever committed the murder and let Hubert face the gallows for it.

She stepped away then and let the shire-reeve fill in the grave.  As he tamped down the last of the dirt, then placed a large rock at one end as a crude marker, the truth hit her like a boot in the belly.

Hubert was well and truly gone.  The only proof she had that he’d ever existed were the Fast and Loose chain he’d given her, a useless iron key he’d stolen, and a weighted die.  She was on her own.  She’d used up the last of her coin on food for him in the gaol.  Their room at the inn had been let to someone else.  And with the weather so bleak, most of the alehouses, where she might take a drunken fool’s purse in a game of Three Shells and a Pea, would be empty.

She had nowhere to go.

The shire-reeve must have read her thoughts.  “Come back to the cottage.  I’ll make frumenty,” he said, returning the spade to its spot.  “You could use some meat on your bones.”

Frumenty.  It had been a long while since she’d eaten more than maslin bread and ale for breakfast.  Indeed, it had been a long while since she’d eaten at all.  Indeed, a bowl of creamy wheat pottage would do much to warm her blood.  With her belly full, perhaps she’d be better able to consider the future and how she was going to keep her promise to Hubert.

Besides, taking advantage of the shire-reeve’s hospitality was almost as satisfying as cutting his purse.

N
icholas stirred the pot over the fire, wary, suspecting that behind him, Desirée was likely contemplating his death or, at the very least, musing over what valuables she might steal from him.  What she didn’t realize was that he’d hung a polished steel spoon over the hearth and he could watch her every move in its reflection.  So far, she hadn’t budged from the bench, except to stroke Azrael, who’d taken a curious liking to the wench and who currently brushed back and forth along her damp skirts.

“Take care.  He has sharp claws,” he called over his shoulder.

She didn’t answer him.  Instead, she defiantly scratched the cat behind the ears, eliciting a loud purr, then whispered to the beast, “Do you like that, Snowflake?”

Nicholas snorted.  “Snowflake?  His name is Azrael.”

“Azrael?  Isn’t that the...“

“Angel of Death.”

She paused for a moment to think that over.  “I’m going to call him Snowflake.”

Nicholas shuddered.  It was a good thing the cat couldn’t speak her language.  The proud beast would be highly insulted.

He poured the steaming frumenty into his only bowl and carried it to Desirée.  She dropped one spoonful onto the floor for Azrael, who lapped it up as if it were the sweetest ambrosia.

“You’ll spoil my cat,” he chided.

“I won’t be here long enough to spoil him.”

“Aye, about that.”  He began pacing before her while she stirred her frumenty to cool it. “You’ll no doubt be pleased to know that your grand-, Hubert made a final request of me.  Since you have no one else, he asked me to look after you.”

Her spoon clattered in her bowl, and her eyes darted to his.  “You?  The shire-reeve of Kent?”  After a moment, she gave him a dubious smirk.  “Of course he did.”

“He might not have been your grandfather, but he was concerned for your welfare.”

“If that varlet was concerned for my welfare, he’d not leave me in the hands of a killer.”

Nicholas’s jaw twitched.  “I’m not...” he snapped, then steadied his tone.  “I’m not a killer.  I’m a lawman.  There is a vast difference.”

Her bark of laughter was humorless.  “Indeed?”

Nicholas clenched his fists reflexively.  He hated feeling defensive.  Damn it all!  He was not a murderer.  Aye, he presided over executions, but if
he
didn’t, someone with far less pity would have done it in his stead.

“Who lives or dies is not by my will.  I’m merely an instrument of the law.  Even Hubert understood that.”

“Did he?  And how would you know that?”

Nicholas scowled.  Must the wench challenge him at every turn?  “Because I spent his last night with him.  That was when he bade me look after you.”

She studied him, as if gauging whether he told the truth.  “He was ill.  He didn’t know what he was saying.”

“Aye, he
was
ill.  But he was sound of mind.”  He shook his head.  “Sound of mind enough to deceive me into thinking you were no more than a helpless child.”

The merest trace of a wistful smile touched her lips.  “Hubert always had a talent for deception.”

She spooned a bite of frumenty into her mouth, then another, then another.  He wondered how long it had been since the poor waif had eaten.

It didn’t matter, he thought.  It wasn’t his responsibility to watch over every starving creature that came crawling to his door.  He’d already taken in Azrael.  He didn’t need another mouth to feed.

“Listen,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.  “I made a vow, and I mean to keep it.  I won’t throw you out into the streets.  But the truth is I can’t have you staying with me for long.”  He resumed pacing before her.  “A shire-reeve’s life is brutal.  I work long days, travel from town to town.  And you’d be a target for abuse.  ‘Tis no kind of life for a young maid, and
—
“

She began laughing, nearly spewing the last bite of frumenty from her mouth.  If she hadn’t clearly been laughing
at
him, he would have found the musical sound oddly pleasing.

He uncrossed his arms and frowned.  “What?”

When she’d regained her composure, she told him in no uncertain terms, “You needn’t worry.  I’d sooner rot in a nunnery than live with a man of the law.”

“Indeed?”  Nicholas testily snatched the empty bowl from her, carrying it to the cutting block and slopping water into it from his pitcher.  “Well,” he muttered, his ire piqued by her insult, “Hubert obviously considered me a fit guardian.”

“On the contrary.”  She rose to take the bowl from him.  “Hubert knew you’d never take me in.”  She sloshed the bowl vigorously to clean it.  “But he saw you were a man of substantial wealth and guilty conscience.  He only said what he did to fleece you of your coin.”

She crossed to the hearth, tossing the dirty water onto the coals, which sizzled and smoked like a vexed dragon.  Then she faced him, holding out the empty vessel and cocking a brow.  “That
is
what you’re about to do, isn’t it?  Offer me coin?”

When Nicholas didn’t take the bowl from her, she placed it on the cutting block herself.

Nicholas scowled.  Indeed, that was exactly what he’d intended.  He’d planned to give the maid a sizable purse, enough to keep her alive for several weeks, long enough for her to find employment or a suitable husband.

Had Hubert played him for a fool?  He’d seemed so sincere.  The old man’s plea had been heartfelt, he was sure.

“Don’t worry,” Desirée said, her lids flattening over sulky eyes.  “I won’t take your coin.  You’re right.  I’m not a child.  I can make my own way.”  She raked him disdainfully with her gaze.  “Besides, your silver has the stench of blood upon it.”  With that, she whirled about and headed for the door.

Usually such scorn blew past his ears like the Latin spoken at Mass, heard but not absorbed.  Not a day passed when someone wasn’t spewing insults at him.

Yet for some reason, her words cut him to the quick, as surely as the stone she’d hurled.  Damn the wench!  He was a good man, an honorable man, and it vexed him that she should think otherwise.

It was his own fault, he supposed.  He’d cultivated a reputation for harshness.  It was what kept him employed.

But the truth was Nicholas didn’t have a harsh bone in his body.  And the knowledge that the wench thought him a callous murderer rankled him.

He charged past her, blocking her exit.  Nothing changed the fact that he’d made a vow to Hubert, a vow he intended to honor, even if he had to stuff the coins down the woman’s bodice.

He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke in challenge.  “You’d refuse my help?  You’d deny poor Hubert his dying request?  The man who called you granddaughter.  The man whose last thoughts were for your welfare.  The man who
—
“

“Ballocks!”  She narrowed her eyes to wicked slits.  “Don’t you understand?  You’ve been cheated.  Deceived.  Betrayed.  He told you that just so he could rob your purse.”  She smirked.  “Not even death could stop a hardened outlaw like Hubert Kabayn from filching just one more farthing.”

He uncrossed his arms and began digging in his purse.  “It doesn’t matter.  I won’t throw a penniless waif out into the cold.”

“You’re not throwing me out.  I’m leaving of my own accord. 
If
you’ll get out of my way.”

“Not until you accept my coin.”  He held out a generous handful of silver.

She smacked his hand aside, and the coins spilled across the floor like scuttling beetles, startling Azrael from his hearthside nap.

“I won’t be bought,” she bit out.  “Hubert died unjustly.  If you think that handing me a purse full of silver can wipe away the blood on your hands and ease your guilt, you’re mistaken.  Now stand aside.”

He ignored her command.  “Where do you think you’ll go?  What will you do?  How will you survive?”

“’Tisn’t your concern.”

“Have you any skills?”

Irritation smoldered in her gaze.

“Any
lawful
skills?” he corrected.

“Are you going to let me pass, or do I have to
—
“

“I won’t turn an outlaw loose in Canterbury.”

She arched a brow.  “You don’t believe I can make an honest living?”

His silence was damning.

“Out of my way!” she hissed.

Behind her, his cursed cat hissed at him, as well, as if taking Desirée’s side.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

He couldn’t very well force the lass to take his coin, but he wasn’t about to give up on his oath.  Damn the lass!  Why couldn’t she just quail beneath his commands like everyone else?

He stabbed a finger of warning at her.  “Listen, you bullheaded wench.  I’ll let you go now, but I’m not through with you.  I’ve got friends all over Canterbury, and if I hear you’ve gotten into any sort of
—
“

“Friends?”  She rolled her eyes.  “Oh, aye, a regular hero of the people you are.  Nicholas Grimshaw, everyone’s favorite tax collector.  I think I hear the ladies clamoring at the door now.”