Lois Greiman (3 page)

“I
say we cut ’is throat and ’ave one with it.”

Will awoke with foggy uncertainty, as if he hadn’t quite been asleep, and would never quite awaken. The world around him seemed surreal, swirling with dark, heavy mist and hardly worth the effort of opening his eyes.

“How surprising,” drawled a voice. It wasn’t one Will recognized, but the tone was familiar, almost bored, but not quite so. Did his own voice sound similar? “You haven’t wished to kill anyone for days, Mr. Oxford.”

“Well, this un’s ripe for it, I’d say.”

“That ain’t true. ’E ain’t done you no ’arm, Ox.” The woman who spoke was nearby. In fact, Will could feel a hand on his brow and wondered vaguely if it were hers.

“You ain’t done me no ’arm either,” crooned Oxford. His voice was low, with something of an Irish lilt beneath the grainy surface. “So that don’t mean much does it, missy?”

There was a moment of silence, then, “’E ain’t done nothing, Master Poke. There’s no reason ta see ’im dead.”

Will lay absolutely still. He was stretched out on his back, and he was injured. That much he knew, but little
else, though fragments of memories floated just out of reach, and senses, once fully loaded, niggled at his nerve endings like small fishes at a bobbing hook. The room smelled of tobacco smoke and other things. Mildew maybe.

“Little Gem,” said the man with the cultured voice, “I’ve not known you to be so concerned with another’s pain. Perhaps your time at Westheath changed you.”

“Changed me? Course not.” The tension in her voice had cranked up a notch. “It didn’t change me none. I’m the same as I always was, only quicker with me hands.”

“Was there someone there whom you grew to cherish? MacTavish perhaps?”

MacTavish. Did Will recognize the name? But there were so many other factors to consider. There was something in the man’s voice. A threat wrapped in velvet. Who was he? He could identify none of the voices, but perhaps he’d be able to say the same for his own. The thought made him want to speak, to sit up, to examine himself, though he knew suddenly how he would look. Tall and lean, with shabby brown hair and a jaded expression. His clothes were unkempt. He remembered someone laughing as she told him so. Was he a pauper, then, like the others here?

“You know I’d never fall for no foppish gent. Except…” There was the flirtatious edge of teasing in the girl’s tone. But there was caution in equal measure. “Except you of course, Master Poke.”

Poke. Will searched his memory, but the name drew not a spark of recognition. The man was laughing now, a dry sound that fell like darkness into the room. “Young Gem, still as nimble with her wits as she is with her fingers, despite her infatuation. But what of you, my lady?”
Will could hear him turn away, could feel the mood change ever so slightly. “I’ve yet to hear your opinion.”

“’Tis because I have none.” The woman’s voice was smooth, almost singsong, though not quite cultured.

“Truly? None a’tall.”

“Is there a reason I should care if he lives or dies?” she asked, and the shock of those words said with such unconcern seemed strangely surreal.

“Our little Gem seems to think so.”

“Then perhaps you should spare him.” There was a shrug in her voice. “For her.”

The Den! For no apparent reason the memory of a young man’s face snapped suddenly into Will’s mind. The lad had saved him from the watch and brought him here. To the Den, he’d said. But what was…Was this the proverbial den of thieves? Emotions flared in Will’s soul, but for the life of him he couldn’t identify them. Anger perhaps. Or fear. Yes, fear would be appropriate, for regardless of his disorientation it was clear that he had good reason to be afraid. They were discussing his future survival as one might debate rearranging the parlor furniture. But perhaps this was how he spent his days, fencing terror like a master swordsman.

“Might you find him attractive?” The gentleman almost purred the words, and perhaps there was still the hint of a threat, prompting the woman’s delay.

Will waited for a denial. Instead, footsteps rapped across the floor toward him, the stride slow and cadenced until he could feel the woman’s gaze on him and was tempted to open his eyes. But his survival instincts were strong. That much was apparent, though memory told him nothing.

“Attractive?” She was close now. Close enough to
touch. He was sure of that, and for one ragged instant he wondered if he should grab her, pull her against his body, and hold her hostage against the others. But the thought left him as soon as it came, for he knew too little of the situation. Regardless of his combat abilities, the odds were greatly against him. “Yes,” she said. “He is rather attractive in a shabby sort of way. A bit gaunt, of course, but handsome nevertheless.”

The room went absolutely silent. Not a soul spoke. The tension was cranked as tight as a phaeton spring, but suddenly Poke laughed.

“My Princess.” His footfalls followed the woman’s, striding up to Will’s side. The smell of sweet tobacco grew stronger. “Always so honest.”

“Not always.”

“Perhaps not,” he said, and laughed again. “But always bold.”

“No boldness necessary,” she said, daring to disagree yet again. “There is little reason to be untrue, since I’m certain you are not threatened by his ilk.”

“Are you? And why is that?”

The room went silent. “Because you are the master,” she said.

The answer seemed to please him, for there was a smile in his voice when next he spoke. “But who is he, do you suppose?”

“Him?” Her voice was soft, dismissive. “He looks very much like nobody to me.”

“Then ’ow’d ’e get them trousers?” Oxford asked.

“Perhaps the same place you got yours,” she said. “From the last man he stabbed in the back.”

Oxford made some indistinguishable sound, but Poke ignored him. “So you believe he’s a thief, my love?”

“Peter found him in Tayside. Why would a man be
there in the small hours of the night if he could afford to be elsewhere?”

“But remember, my love, I could be elsewhere.”

“But once again,” she said, “you are Poke. And he is not.”

“So you think he is one of our own,” he said, and seated himself on the mattress. Will could feel the heat of his body against his thigh. Could smell the cheroot. Mahogany blend. His favorite, he thought, and felt again the spur of surprise as wispy memories swirled through his mind with sleepy slowness.

“Certainly,” she said.

“And what else do your fair instincts tell you, my lady?”

Reaching down, she picked up Will’s hand in both of hers. He nearly started at the touch, but instincts warned him to remain still. Her skin felt cool and smooth against his. “He’s had some education, but he’s fallen on hard times.”

“How can you tell?”

“His hands are not sufficiently callused for hard labor. But the nails are dirty, the cuticles rough.”

“Still a ladies’ maid at heart?” Poke asked.

“I was never a maid,” she countered. “Not at heart.”

He chuckled again. “So he is an educated man. Perhaps a clerk or a merchant who could no longer hold his job?”

A clerk? No. Surely not.

“Perhaps.”

“Or possibly a gambler.”

He waited, but she didn’t respond.

“What say you, my lady? Is our shabby guest a gambling man?”

“I would not know.”

“Then what do you know, my love?”

She was silent for a moment. Once again, he could feel her gaze on his face for a prolonged moment, then she spoke. “I know he’s awake.”

Shock speared through Will, almost prompting him to open his eyes.

“Truly?” There was surprise in Poke’s voice for the first time. “He’s conscious?”

“Yes.”

“And not entering into the conversation?”

“Not as of yet.”

“That seems rather ill-mannered, wouldn’t you say?”

“Some thieves are.”

“Present company excluded of course.”

She said nothing.

“Sir, are you awake?” Poke asked, and nudged Will’s hip with an elbow.

Possibilities stormed through Will’s battered mind. What now? Admit the sham or remain as he was?

“Well,” said Poke, “either you are entirely wrong, or our damaged guest is being duplicitous. Which do you think it is, Princess?”

“I am certain you shall find out.”

Laughter again, but there was a raw edge of excitement to it now. “You’re right, of course. But how?”

The room went absolutely silent.

“What of this plan? If you are correct and our friend opens his eyes in the next few seconds I shall allow you to keep the entirety of what you brought in today. But if you are wrong…” He rose to his feet. Evil crowded in, as palpable as a chill wind. “Then you shall wear the brand of my cheroot upon your palm.”

The shock of his words hit Will’s mind like a blow, stunning on impact.

“No!” Gem rasped.

“You have something to say, Gemini?”

“You can’t…” She paused. “You don’t want to ruin ’er hands, Master Poke. She won’t be no good to us that way.”

“Ahh, a fine point, lass. Where would you like to bear the brand, my lady?”

Silence, as deep as the night, then, “You decide.” Her voice was quiet, eerily devoid of emotion.

Poke laughed. “Cool as chilled wine, aren’t you, love.”

She made no response, or perhaps her words were drowned in the tumultuous whirring of Will’s mind. What now? What would he have done in the past?

“Your arm then,” Poke said. “Just above…” The kiss was audible. “There. Where the skin is as soft as a baby boy’s. Are you ready?”

“Hell’s gates!” Gem hissed, and slapped Will’s face. It jarred his system like the splash of ice water. But he had to think. To survive. “Wake up.”

“I say,” Poke crooned, “our Gem has become decidedly maternal. I shall count to three. One…”

Maybe if he lunged for the door! But where was the door?

“Two…”

Were they armed? How many were there? And what of himself? Was he hero or villain or—

“Thr—”

Will snapped upright, grabbing Poke’s wrist. Pain shot like icy arrows through his chest, clogging his breathing, stopping his heart. But he didn’t let go. Couldn’t.

Their gazes met and clashed. Poke’s eyes were large and limpid, his hair dark, his side whiskers curled. His lips were wide and bright, his face handsome enough to be pretty.

“Good Christ.” His voice registered little surprise as
he held his slim cigar steady. “You were right again, Princess.”

She didn’t respond, and Poke laughed. “I should have known you would not have risked your lovely flesh,” he said, but his gaze never left Will’s. “And, of course…” He smiled. “Neither would I. Welcome to our humble home, good sir.”

Uncertainty boiled in Will’s mind. Had she been at risk? Was he? Who…But in that moment he flipped his gaze toward the woman who stood beside him and his thoughts froze. For she
was
a princess.

Regally tall and as trim as a willow, she wore her hair pinned atop her head. Only a few flaxen tendrils wisped down to her squared shoulders, and her expression was as imperious as a queen’s, but it was her eyes that stopped his breath. They were blue, but not a hue that made one think of sunny days and posies. They were a silvery, haunting blue, wide and slanted, reminding him of an Oriental cat he’d once seen.

“Fascinating, isn’t she?”

It took several seconds for Poke’s words to saturate Will’s floundering senses. He pulled his gaze from the woman’s with a conscious effort and turned his scowl on her master.

“It’s time,” Poke said, his expression affable, his tone the same.

Will scowled, doing his best to marshal senses too long languishing in the dark. “Time?”

“To loose my arm before I have Mr. Oxford here remove it for you.”

William glanced at his own hand. It seemed strangely disembodied, as if it belonged to another, but he moved it, doing so slowly, buying time, assimilating facts. “Where am I?”

“Where do you wish to be?”

Memories flashed like fireflies through his mind, flittering and elusive. Music. Dancing. Emotion, hot as a poker. He had come here for a reason. What it was he couldn’t recall, and the swirling thoughts made his head pound like a Celtic war drum. But he dare not falter now.

“I was looking for the Den,” he said.

“The Den.” Poke sat back down, his hip settling against Will’s thigh again. The position seemed odd, stirring a host of uncomfortable feelings in Will’s gut, but he remained as he was. “And why would you wish to be there?”

He was tempted to scan the faces of the people who surrounded him, to search for clues, but he kept his gaze steady on Poke. They were thieves. He was certain of that much. And thieves had…what? What had they done? Was he one of them? “I’m told they know talent there,” he said.

Poke raised his heavy brows. He had a mole above the left corner of his lips. His skin was clear and very pale. “Talent?”

“Aye,” Will said and his voice sounded casual, easy. Was that who he was then? A thief, accustomed to dealing with thieves?

He let himself skim the faces around him finally. The girl called Gem was young, not past her sixteenth birthday, her hair red, her eyes green, her face foxy and pert. Oxford was short and broad, built like a bad-tempered terrier, or perhaps like the beast for which he was named. Life. It teemed around him. “I’ve got several,” he said and, feeling a surge of trilling energy, gave Gem a wink, which seemed to surprise her almost as much as it did himself. But he was still alive, God damn it. Alive, despite the odds. “Talents, that is.”

“Do you now?” Poke asked.

“What are they?” The lady’s voice was cool in the stillness of the room.

He shifted his gaze back to hers, while his mind scrambled for solid footing. What indeed? Was he a pickpocket? He had no idea, but surely they would ask for a demonstration if he claimed such a talent. So what was he? A thug? A highwayman? The thought flared in his mind, causing an eruption of uncertainty.

Princess raised a single brow at him, still waiting for an answer, but his head was filled with flashing memories and tattered scraps of nothing.

He forced himself to relax. Where there was life, there was hope. Wasn’t there?