The Crimson Lady (4 page)

Grimacing again against the damnable scratchiness in his throat, he said, “It is passing strange to see a woman so shrouded within doors; I ask you once more, why are you dressed so?”

“You’ll see in a moment,” came her cryptic reply, though he saw that she glanced furtively from beneath the cowl to allow herself full view of the inn chamber. “Have you noted any men of law about? Any justices or constables among those here?”

“Nay,” Braedan answered. He looked up at her from his seated position, feeling more irritated with each passing second, whether from her secrecy or his own unsettling shakiness he wasn’t sure. He only knew that he wasn’t in the mood for games. “Your requirements have been met, Fiona, so let us get on with learning the whereabouts of your former thieving partners.”

“Your eagerness to take up a criminal’s life inspires me, my lord,” she answered quietly, refusing to meet his gaze again, as she continued to look carefully around the room. “And yet perhaps it will not be so when reality settles in—which will be in the next few moments, unless you agree to reverse this foolish path you’ve set us on and release me from my part in your plans.”

A surge of denial rose in him, urged on by Elizabeth’s
need. He shook his head in refusal, though the movement made his skull ache even worse than before.

She paused, the silence tight, before she said, “As you wish, Braedan de Cantor. But know you that from this moment on, there will be no turning back.”

“So be it,” he rasped.

“Aye, so be it,” she echoed.

She remained still for a moment, then, taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, and he saw in profile how her lips moved as if in some sort of silent prayer before she reached up to the fastening of her cape. He watched her, amazed, as she eased the hood back from her face, letting it fall onto her back; when she shrugged her shoulders the entire cloak followed after, sliding to the floor with a muffled swish.

The image that greeted him then hammered through his fever-beleaguered brain in a molten tide, maddening and tantalizing. Standing in front of him was a temptress—a woman completely different from the one he’d met in the embroidery shop. Her voice was the same, but by the Rood, this lady was as unlike the matronly shopkeeper as the glorious sun was to a blackened stone. It was a mortal shame that she was a fallen woman, he thought, struggling with his sense of shock, for in other circumstances he’d have been hard-pressed not to try to win her for himself.

She wore no wimple now. Nay, her hair shone in the rushlight, pulled back from her brow by a delicate circlet to fall unfettered in glossy waves to her waist. Its dark cinnamon hue took essence from the crimson gown she wore—an elegant confection that looked as if it had been crafted just for her. It was dazzling…long-sleeved
but scooped low on her shoulders, clinging to the curve of her breasts and the slender length of her sides, down to where a golden girdle encircled her hips. From there the fabric fell in loose pleats, flowing to a long train that she’d apparently been holding up, concealed, beneath her cape.

In short, she was stunning. There was no other way to describe her, and no way to deny the effect her beauty had on him.

The inn began to fall silent as the patrons noticed her standing there. Braedan knew he gaped as well, yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself; if he hadn’t already been sitting, he’d have slumped to the nearest bench he could find, so overwhelming was his reaction to the vision standing before him.

When he could find his voice, he croaked, “By all the saints, Fiona, I—”

“It is Giselle,” she broke in quietly, turning her head a little to look at him. “Giselle de Coeur.” Her eyes glittered at her utterance of that name, and the coils of desire that had been winding through his feverish body were suddenly tempered by the conflicting emotions he saw churning in the depths of her gaze.

“Fiona is gone,” she continued. “Destroyed by your command.”

An aching pit opened in his belly as she looked away again and began to walk slowly toward the center of the chamber. She was perfection, Braedan thought absently, the idea floating into his consciousness. The embodiment of pure, emotionless beauty, at once both scorching and icy.

He swallowed hard, his throat hurting from more, now, than just the raw sting of fever. He had done this to
her. Aye, he had. For whatever secrets this woman had to hide, whatever pain was buried beneath the disguise she’d used to conceal herself, it was clear that he was forcing her to bring it all into the light again. But it couldn’t be helped. There was no other way for him to accomplish what needed to be done. She was the absolute fulfillment of all he’d hoped to find when he’d conceived his plan for rescuing Elizabeth. Aye, she was the one. For a little more than two weeks ago, he’d come in search of the Crimson Lady—the most desirable courtesan and notorious thief in all of England…

And it seemed that today, he’d finally found her.

F
iona held herself stiffly as she moved toward the center of the chamber, the despised, crimson-hued gown swishing as she walked. It was difficult, so very, very difficult to take this up again. She felt awkward, the flow of her steps, the understated, swaying motion she commanded of her body off-balance somehow. And for a moment panic swelled.

She couldn’t have forgotten in only three years, her mind screamed silently—it was impossible. It had been one of the first lessons Draven had forced upon her, making her practice the way she walked over and over, until it seemed part of her very blood and bones. The movement…the teasing yet subtle tension of steps as she crossed a room, calculated to drive a man wild with longing before he ever felt the brush of her cool fingers against his flesh…she’d somehow lost the rhythm of
that skill, and the awareness of it frightened her to the point of sickness.

What if she couldn’t do this any longer? What if she’d forgotten all that she’d been made to master—ways of moving, talking, touching…yea, even breathing—that comprised her embodiment of the Crimson Lady?
Apprehension tore her with needle-sharp claws. The store of decadent knowledge she’d once possessed seemed to have deserted her, leaving behind nothing more than the sinful memory of all the acts she’d been made to commit, the sensual performances she’d been commanded to deliver. Those images were graven, she knew, bloody and deep into her soul, but oh God the actual knowing seemed to have—

There
.

The sensation swept over her body, and suddenly everything fell into place as it should, the seductive rhythm regained, as if never lost at all. Like an outgoing tide, her sense of alarm receded, her mind clearing enough so that she finally heard it—the whispers rising all around her, people breathing her name, forming it, savoring it with their tongues before releasing it in wafts of moist, hushed air, like something both tainted and beguiling.

The Crimson Lady…’tis the Crimson Lady, I tell you…Nay, it can’t be. She’s long gone—surely…

’Tis her, I say! Look at her. The very same woman, it is…Giselle de Coeur…The Crimson Lady…

Bringing herself to a halt in the center of the chamber, Fiona stood regal and silent. An answering quiet settled uneasily over the room, and she let her gaze drift to meet the glances of those around her, paying attention to the men in particular, noting the various expressions of sur
prise, disapproval, suspicion, or interest on their faces. But most of all she saw hunger…hot, unabashed lust.

The certainty of it washed over her, leaving her feeling both shamed and oddly reckless. It had been a long time, and she couldn’t stop the flare of satisfaction in the very male reactions she was inspiring in this room, even from the virtuous Braedan de Cantor, who’d almost toppled off his bench when she’d revealed her true form.

Aye, when all was said and done, the immoral woman she’d done her best to bury these past years was worthy, perhaps, of good people’s disdain—but none could deny that she was gifted. Remarkably, wickedly gifted where men were concerned. It was a poor recompense for all the pain and self-loathing that was already beginning to churn in her breast again, but it was all she had, and so she reveled in it. In truth, Draven had unwittingly given her a measure of power when he’d forced her to perfect the art of bringing men to their knees, and she planned to wield it to her advantage.

Right now that meant using it to gain the information that Braedan had demanded of her.

“Does anyone here know the whereabouts of Will Singleton and his men?” she called out, modulating her voice to resonate in the husky tones of the Crimson Lady.

A faint grumbling began in the farther reaches of the chamber, but no one answered her outright. Fiona decided to wait before saying anything more, to let her appearance sink in; three years was a long time, and she wanted to let those who might remember her recall that, though they were undoubtedly still loyal to Will, they owed her at least a share of allegiance for all of the
filched wealth she’d convinced him to share with the people of Alton during the time she’d worked with him and his men.

From the side of her gaze, she saw someone dart out the door to the kitchens, most likely to fetch John Tanner, the blustery owner of the inn. It was just as well. Tanner would remember and vouch for her—he’d been one of the prime beneficiaries of their plunder, his reward for providing a safe haven and alibi whenever one of the blasted king’s men had gotten too close.

Aye let him come in, she thought. It would speed things up immeasurably.

“Why don’t they answer?” a voice rasped in her ear.

Fiona resisted the urge to turn and glare at Braedan, instead muttering over her shoulder, “They just need some time to be sure they’re doing right in telling me. Now go and sit down. I’ll take care of everything if you’ll but leave it alone.”

More grumblings had begun as soon as Braedan stood and moved next to her, and Fiona saw renewed suspicion tightening the faces around her, heard the hissed comments concerning the possible identity of the stranger—for though he was a de Cantor, by his own admission he’d been gone from Alton for even longer than she, and surely none would remember him.

“Who is that with you, Giselle?” someone finally called out from the back of the room.

“Hold off there,” called another, more commanding voice. “How do we know she’s really Giselle de Coeur? Might be a trap, set by the new sheriff to capture Will and the boys.”

More mumblings of agreement and dissent arose, and then the second man who’d spoken separated from the
crowd, walking toward her, as he added, “I say we don’t tell her nothin’—not until we get us some proof that she is who she says. The Crimson Lady I heard of didn’t travel with
any
man, ’ceptin’ Will Singleton, and I don’t think this is her. If ’twas, she’d know where he is all by herself.”

Fiona directed her gaze to the dissenter, letting it move with unmistakable judgment over his entire frame, from head to toe, until she was rewarded with the flush that spread across his face. He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old either. He might very well have been in or around Alton when she worked with Will; if he’d heard of her, he might also remember what she was known for—and just exactly how she’d made herself useful to Will and the boys in their roadside snares to steal from wealthy and corrupt noblemen.

“I
am
the Crimson Lady, sir,” Fiona said at last, “and I must seek out Will because I am only now returning to Alton after three years’ absence.”

Many of her old instincts were returning she noticed, now that she’d overcome that first, most difficult hurdle; almost without thought, she called up a supremely innocent expression and leaned just a bit toward the man, murmuring in a husky plea, as if for his ears alone, “Surely you can understand my need for help in finding him after all this time. Won’t you aid me? Please…?” she breathed as an afterthought, staring directly into his startled brown eyes.

Her actions had the very effect she’d hoped; her accuser flushed an even deeper shade than before and looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He backed away a step, crushing his cap in his hands and doing everything he could not to meet her gaze again, and she
couldn’t help thinking that he looked like a drowning man afraid of going under one last time.

“Aye, I might be able to—I mean, I can help, I think,” he stuttered, backing off another step. “That is, we—we might be able to lead you to Will again. We could take you to the place where—”

“But you still have no proof, man,” a drunken and more malevolent voice called from a table to the left of Fiona. She turned and saw its owner, a burly mountain of a man with a thick beard and leonine hair, lurch to his feet, flanked swiftly by two of his friends as all three crossed the short distance to where she and Braedan stood.

A tingle of warning slid up her spine. This man looked dangerous. She’d never seen him before, of that she was certain; she’d have remembered someone of his size and appearance—and she didn’t like the look of him now, especially not the way his lips curved on his face. It was the sort of leering expression she hadn’t seen since Draven had made a sport of parading her before his friends at one of his frequent feasts, like a sweetmeat to be tasted.

“I be a traveler from London,” he said thickly as he looked her over, “not from this shire, and yet I’ve heard my share about the famed Crimson Lady.” He glanced around the inn now, spreading his arms and showing off a line of thick, strong teeth, as he confessed, “I’d always planned to sample Giselle de Coeur’s charms myself, knowin’ as I do the lord who’d eased her on the path to…disrepute, shall we say. But I never got around to makin’ the arrangements before she disappeared. And while she were in London, Lord Draven, the bastard, kept her to himself most of the time.”

“Draven…?”

The raspy growl of the name came from Braedan, and now Fiona did twist around to look at him, frowning at the black expression clouding his feverish eyes.

“Did you say Draven?” he demanded of the burly intruder.

“Aye, what of it?” the man slurred in response, clenching his fists and scowling threateningly at Braedan. “I may not be a high-and-mighty, but I know his lordship as well as any. I be a smithy by trade, and he places some curious orders with me, he does, for shackles and the like. I always fill ’em, just as he asks, and he rewards me with a chance at the women he knows. His name be Kendrick de Lacy, Viscount Draven, though in the
stewes
he’s better known by the name he fashioned for himself—the Whoremaster of London,” the smithy crowed, “which is just what he is, by spittle and piss!”

“Christ, it can’t be,” Braedan muttered, grimacing and rubbing his head, trying to make it stop spinning. He swayed a little before he managed to say, “Lady, I have to tell you something. It doesn’t seem possible, but—”

“Back away, man—I weren’t finished with ’er yet,” the wild-haired giant suddenly groused, stepping between Braedan and Fiona, and directing his avid gaze back on her.

Reaching out to steady himself against the table, Braedan tried to regain his position, but his legs felt like jelly, his mind awash with seemingly a thousand disjointed thoughts and images. He clutched again at the burning ache that was his head, locking his knees to keep from tipping over. There was something he needed to tell her. Something important. About Draven…

“I never had a chance at the Crimson Lady,” the smithy continued, speaking loudly enough for the benefit of the entire gathering, “but I still know a way to tell any who wants if this be her—aye, that I do, and I learned it from the master himself. Proof positive. Left her a little token of his esteem, he did, and it should be right here—”

As he spoke his meaty fist darted out with surprising speed, his fingers latching into the scooped neckline of Fiona’s gown. In his fever-induced confusion, Braedan didn’t react at first. The vague thought that it was probably useless anyway to jump to the defense of a woman as tarnished as the Crimson Lady flitted through his mind, but then his natural instincts surged to the fore and he staggered into action, drawing his sword from its sheath with a hissing sound to level it at the foul-breathed ogre who was using her so roughly.

“Unhand her. Now,” Braedan muttered, squinting to keep himself and his blade steady, and hoping that the resulting expression on his face looked more menacing than woozy.

He must have done well enough, he thought, hearing the gasping sounds of awe echoing around him, even as the brutish smithy’s face blanched a grayish white. But after glancing up, he realized that the gasps were only in response to the sight of his sword—a mercenary knight’s fine-tooled weapon, likely worth more than a year’s wages of any man in this chamber…and that the pale, gaping look on the smithy’s face was only in reaction to the blood that was coming from the gash Fiona’s dagger had sliced into the flesh of his palm.

“The bitch cut me!” the smithy echoed in disbelief, stock-still as he stared at the flow. Before Braedan’s
eyes, he seemed to pale further, stumbling back toward his comrades before lurching forward again, as if he would fall on Fiona. At that, Braedan blindly threw himself in his path, intent on taking the brunt of his weight.

But there was no impact. There was simply…nothing. Braedan blinked and shook his head, wavering on his feet where he’d come to a stop. As the black spots swirled across his vision, he realized that the giant had toppled sideways instead of forward, knocked off-balance by several from the crowd who had leapt up to intervene. Fiona had stepped back a few paces, and now Braedan managed to twist around to look at her. But the motion deprived him of any little balance he still had, and he careened dangerously.

The slow stream of images that played out then were like a dream—but it was no imaginary stone slab that rose up and slammed into him. Nay, it was hard and cold, packing a solid wall of pain into his lungs, every hint of breath removed. As if from a great distance he heard his sword clattering to the stone floor, saw through the shrieking blur of torment in his chest and head the mob of people milling about, some attempting now to restrain the smithy or scuffling with his friends, while another enormous man came waddling from the kitchens, shouting commands in an effort to lessen the uproar.

Braedan’s gaze managed to find Fiona; though she still clutched the bloodied dagger, no one had approached her. Before he could think further on it, his burning lungs took over, forcing him to draw in his first, agonizing breath since crashing to the floor. His eyes squeezed shut, his face contorting with the pain of it, and when he opened them again he saw that Fiona had
come to kneel beside him. She frowned and gripped his shoulder, calling his name. But he couldn’t hear her. Her mouth moved, but it was empty of sound thanks to the buzzing and his own raspy, shallow breathing filling his ears.

God help him but the blackness was winning, and he knew he had to tell her something important before it overwhelmed him entirely. He had to make her stay. He couldn’t let her escape after he fell senseless; not when he needed her help so badly.