by Deb Marlowe
“I’ll help.” The whelp crawled from the bushes. “I’m that sorry, sir. I was watching over my shoulder instead o’ in front o’ me.”
“Why are those toughs chasing you?”
“I’m new here,” the boy answered, handing over a fistful of grime-covered brushes.
“Um-hmm. That’s it? You didn’t poach on their territory?”
“I said I was new, not daft.”
Rhys sighed. “Never mind, let the bladders be or you’ll spill my paint. Just go on and try to stay out of trouble.”
“What? D’ye think I’m a lame duck?” the boy protested. “I pay my debts. I’ll help you carry everything home.”
“Um-hmm,” he said again. “And you’ll take advantage of my protection all the way back into the city?”
The boy’s mouth quirked. “I did say as I’m not daft.”
Rhys just grunted, closed up his case and handed it over. They started off and the boy marched along quietly, swinging the case. He ran another long gaze over the lad as they went. His features were sharp, his limbs thin beneath his baggy clothes. But there was something about him . . . was he familiar?
“That’s a pretty enough spot you’re painting.” The boy craned his neck to look at the canvas Rhys carried. “It looks just like that, down there.”
“It’s just a sketch,” he answered with a shrug. “The real work is done in my studio.”
The boy’s brows shot skyward. “You’ve got a studio here?”
“A temporary one.”
“Ah, I didn’t think you sounded like you were rooted here.”
Rhys laughed. “No.” He gave a dramatic shudder. “Not here, or anywhere, truly. No roots for me.”
The boy stopped to stare.
Rhys just walked on.
After a moment, the boy ran after him. “That sounds . . . sad.”
“What does?”
“No roots. What does it mean? No friends? No family?”
Rhys shrugged. “Do you find it pitiable? I assure you, I do not. Quite the opposite.” The streets began to grow busier as they came closer to the city proper. He stopped to let a convoy of carriages pass and glanced downward. “And why should you? You said you were new here too.”
“Yes. I’m just temporary here, too.” He was quite a moment. “But I’m not rootless.”
“Well, good for you, if it makes you happy.”
The boy appeared to be thinking it over. He turned away and switched the box from one hand to the other. The lowering sun struck him, highlighting the delicate brow, the slightly pointed nose and the golden tips on a set of long eyelashes. Rhys frowned. What a waste, on a boy. And how serious he’d become. There was a puzzle here, somewhere. “What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.
“Flightly.”
Truth. He answered with a smidgeon of pride and not an ounce of self-confidence.
“It’s interesting, down there by the water, isn’t it?” Flightly gestured toward the canvas again. “The air is soft down in that ravine, and the light is too.”
And the mystery deepened. Rhys set out again, his mind moving quicker than his feet. “You have a lot of opinions about my work.”
The lad bristled. “And why should I not have them? Opinions are for everyone. They’re free—and they don’t weigh me down.”
Fighting not to grin, Rhys raised a hand, capitulating. “No, no, don’t take me wrong. You are, of course, entitled to your opinion. But you seem to have a bit of knowledge, and to have thought about it. Where did you say you were from?”
“I didn’t say.” The smudged chin went up. “But I’m from London, where there’s plenty of good art in the streets and parks—and I seen my fair share otherwise, too.”
“Have you?” A street urchin with fierce pride and opinions on art? “Do you perhaps fancy becoming an artist yourself?”
The imp laughed. “Saints, no, guv! If my handwriting is anything to go by, I doubt I could draw a stick house.”
So he could write as well, could he? Turning a corner onto George Street, he gestured ahead. “I’m at the Hound and Hare.” Half a block later, Rhys held out a hand for his case. “Many thanks for your help.”
“As I thank you for yours.” The boy gave a quick, little bow and Rhys’s curiosity inched up another notch.
“What is it that brings you to Edinburgh, Flightly? You didn’t say.”
“Oh? Didn’t I?” His eyes sparkling, the boy skipped backwards down the street. “Well, I should have made that clear from the start. I’m looking for someone, you see.”
“Oh.” Wait a moment . . . there was something in the lightness of that step, in the quality of his movement. Rhys’s heart began to pound. “Well, good luck to you. I hope you find him.”
Flightly turned and flashed a grin over his shoulder.
Abruptly, Rhys lost his grip on the heavy case. He never moved, merely let it go as it slid down his leg while he carried on, staring at the cheeky urchin.
Another flash of white teeth and a wicked grin. “Who’s to say I haven’t already?”
The figure darted away and disappeared around a corner. Rhys just stood there, his mouth gone as slack as the tension in his fingers.
Damnation.
Flightly was a girl.
Chapter Three
But I was a gently bred girl. Lord M— might have abused me mercilessly, but that only taught me how to hate—and how to survive. I needed to know much more if I was going to become an accomplished courtesan.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
The hour was late when Rhys collapsed into bed. Late enough that the inn had gone quiet around him and the quantity of candles he’d lit earlier had all burned low.
With a sigh, he pulled his hair loose and rubbed paint-stained fingers along his scalp.
The thin glazes were doing the job. So close he’d come, to capturing the unique quality of that lush valley. He’d been working feverishly for hours, trying to summon magic into his fingers—and avoiding the storm of conflicted conjectures in his head.
They caught up to him now, though, despite his best efforts.
So Flightly had come to Edinburgh looking for him? She hadn’t said it in words, but the implication lived in the glint of her eye and in the mischievous slant to her grin. Well, he didn’t give two damns why she’d searched him out. There were several possible answers to that question—and he wasn’t interested in any of them.
He was interested in her, however. With his artist’s eye he looked back, and realized that the clues had been there all along. The clear, high tone of her voice. The narrow set of her shoulders. Her fair skin—it had the peachy undertones of a blonde or redhead. Surely that dirty mop of dark hair was a wig. She’d been smart enough to darken her eyebrows, though, and to wrap her dirty neck cloth high around her throat.
How old was she? Older than she appeared as a boy, he’d wager. The quickness of her mind, the confidence she exuded—and the almost unconscious allure in that last exchange—it all made him believe she might be small in stature, but not in number of years. He’d guess she had close to a score of years, if pressed.
And how on earth had she come to be so comfortable in her role as a boy? She had the walk conquered, the bravado, the street cant. Hellfire—she’d even fooled him for a significant period of time, and he counted himself as far more observant than the general population.
All of those questions kept him tossing about and unable to sleep. But one followed him as he finally dropped off into the depths of slumber.
What did she really look like? As herself? What bounty had she hidden away beneath that wig and those baggy clothes?
His prodigious imagination set to work and his sleeping mind conjured one hazy image after another. She transitioned from slender to curved, from ash blonde to vibrant redhead. But every incarnation called to him, beckoning with laughing eyes and sultry smiles. She moved effortlessly through the mist in his dreams, drawing ever nearer—un
til he abruptly awoke—grumpy, hungry and hard as a pike.
The sun was just up. He crossed to the washbasin and dumped the cold contents of his pitcher over his head. Shaking like a dog, he tied his hair back into a queue and went to stand in front of his painting. Moments later he was back to it, brush in hand. Caught up in a furious push to finish, he paused only for a bite of toast and to toss back cup after cup of strong, black coffee.
When the sun finally reached a spot high enough in the sky, he gathered up a blank canvas and his case and went back to the Water of Leith.
The small valley was empty this morning, the well abandoned for the moment. Rhys set to work again, concentrating only on capturing the sky, the light on the lush growth and the sparkle and glint of industrialization peeking through and above the foliage on the opposite bank.
Only gradually did he become aware that someone had intruded on his isolation. The weight of attention tingled along his spine and raised the hairs on his forearms. Was she watching him? Casting discreetly about, he searched for a sign of the street urchin.
It took several minutes before he spotted her. No urchin now—but a young lady seated up at the well. She was nearly hidden by the shadows of the columns, and yet he knew it was she who had set his instincts alight—all while doing a convincing job of looking elsewhere entirely.
His heart rate climbed, pulling him along and into a heightened awareness.
Her. It had to be.
He strained, trying to see without letting her know. He had to know what she looked like—in her natural state. At this distance he could only make out bits of fair skin, light green skirts and a straw bonnet with matching ribbons.
It wasn’t enough. Taking a step back, he stretched and tilted his head, examining his work. After a moment, when she didn’t move, he gathered up his brushes and a small pail and went to the water to rinse them—at a spot a good ten feet closer.
She appeared not to notice. In fact, she appeared to be absorbed in the view that had so captured him—leaving him with little more than a glimpse of her profile.
He went back, burning curiosity slowly being replaced with a sense of bitterness. Did she think him so unobservant? Her disguise so foolproof? She flaunted her presence, seemingly secure in his imagined ignorance. And the question remained—which of his parents had sent her? It had to be one of them—who else would care? It scarcely mattered in any case. He was interested in hearing from neither.
Moving stealthily, he packed up his case while she continued to appear lost in the beauty around them. Taking up his things, he crept quietly up to the walking path above.
At the top, he hesitated. Torn.
Slowly, he turned to look at the well.
She’d risen to her feet and walked to the other side of the round area. Was that a length of reddish hair escaping the confines of her bonnet?
Briefly, he imagined marching up to her to find out. But she took the initiative again. Leaning both hands on the railing, she shifted her weight forward, but turned her head to glance directly back at him. He was far enough away so that he could only really see the curve of the smile she tossed him.
He wanted to drop his things and stride over there. Get a really good look at her. Question her to discover why she’d sought him out—and at whose behest.
But what good would it do, in the end? He had his own life to live—and no plans to engage with either of his warring parents.
So he merely raised a brow at her, then spun on his heel. Resolutely, he turned toward the other direction and set out on a longer, alternate path back to the Hound and Hare. It was time put to good use, though. He spent it convincing himself of the folly of temptation. His course was set. He was having a grand time living just as he’d always wished. Why veer astray now? It would be foolish to even think of risking his carefree, hedonistic lifestyle.
He remained utterly convinced of his own wisdom, right up until he passed through the gate into the courtyard.
There she sat, looking prim and proper, even though she perched on an upturned stump near the inn’s front entrance. Surely she must have run, to have reached the place so far ahead of him—but how then, did she look so completely unruffled? He couldn’t decide if he was more impressed or annoyed.
She looked up as he approached—and everything changed.
That wide grin hit him full on. Her eyes, turned quite green in proximity to her walking dress, lit up. Mischief and glee and triumph—and challenge—oozed from her.
He stumbled to a halt. He could better see the outlines of her bones without the overlay of grime. She was everything sharp—high cheekbones, tilted nose, pointed chin. It might have given her a look of shrewishness, were it not for her large, expressive eyes and generous mouth. Her expressions saved her as well—and right now she looked piquant and almost . . . fey.
His fingers twitched.
He wanted, quite desperately, to paint her.
“Afternoon, guv!” she called in her street urchin’s tone. Then she stood and strolled toward him—and a shiver went down his spine. Her boy’s clothes had indeed hid a host of feminine curves, but they were pleasingly showcased now. It all felt eerily like the dreams he’d had the night before. Breathlessly, he waited, while she stopped, still several feet away. “I’m so sorry that I missed you at the well this morning, Mr. Caradec.” She tilted her head. “Did you think to avoid me?” Her voice had changed, flowing smooth and cultured without even a hint of street taint. “How disappointing. But I am determined, sir.”
“As am I,” he answered.
“Does that mean you are not interested in speaking with me?” she asked. Amusement lived in her lively expression, not insult.
Who was she? Urchin? Lady? Messenger? Distraction? All he knew was that she was challenging him yet again. He stared back at the red-gold curls dancing around her bright face, at her cocky stance—and he knew that it didn’t matter why she was here.
He gave her a long, considering look. “Someone sent you. And while I could not be less interested in whatever it is that they mean for you to say—I find I am quite interested in you, Miss . . .” He raised a brow and waited.
She didn’t give in to the hint. “Well, that does leave us at an impasse, does it not? Whatever shall we do about it?”
It could have been said with innuendo and flirtation. Perhaps it should have been delivered so—it would have been the expected thing. But she said it with humor and quiet confidence and it piqued his interest more.
There it was—that prickle of inspiration. The tingle that began when his imagination caught fire and wouldn’t let him go. He had to know her. He felt awake and alive and animated in a way that usually only came to him at the height of a project. There was no way he was going to back down from the provocation she was throwing in his direction.
Hitching his case up, he stepped forward until he’d drawn even with her—and then he leaned in close, so that the warmth of his breath would caress her cheek. “So. Flightly, you said your name was?”
She lifted a noncommittal shoulder.
“Very well.” He fought back a smile. “Do I think to escape, you ask? I confess, I haven’t yet decided. Would you chase me?” He paused to savor the surprise that flashed in her eyes.
“Or would it be more pleasurable if I chased you?” He walked on past her and tossed the last bit over his shoulder, just as she had done to him last night. “Let’s find out, shall we? Tomorrow. If you can find me, we’ll speak, then.”
Chapter Four
How to learn such things? I turned to books first—my first loves, my best teachers. I learned of the great courtesans of Venice, who wrote poetry, composed music and advised powerful men on affaires of state. I read of the sophisticated beauties who moved through the courts of France, influencing politics, Fashion and many aspects of Society. . .
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
“Oh, he’s no’ here.” The next morning had dawned bright and clear, wi
th a sea wind blowing steadily. Mrs. Beattie, the inn’s landlady, spoke around the clothespin in her mouth. Crisp, clean linen fluttered in the breeze, filling half of the walled courtyard behind the Hare and Hound. She nodded toward the top of the building. “Yon large beastie was up there painting into the wee hours—the candles that man does go through!”
She snapped another piece of linen from the basket at her feet. “He came down at mid-morning, ate a breakfast fit for two men his size, then headed out into the city.”
Francis, dressed in her breeches once more, buried her pounding heart beneath a mien of annoyance. “D’ye know where he meant to go? I’m supposed to put this message straight into his hand and nowhere else.”
“Sorry, lad. Ye might check back here later.” She nodded toward the stables. “Or wait if ye like—jest don’ go distracting the lads from their work, aye?”
Francis thanked the woman and made her way around to the front of the inn. Excitement fizzed through her veins, as it had ever since she’d realized the truth—Rhys Caradec had seen right through her disguise.
She’d suspected it that first afternoon, when he’d gone slack-jawed and let his case slip from his fingers. She’d known for sure when he’d abandoned his painting yesterday, while the sun was still high and the light still favorable.
She was still savoring the surprise of it. She’d learned her role from the best—and she was good. The last person to recognize her trick straight out had been Brynne, long ago. The fact that he’d unearthed her on their first encounter—it meant that he was quick and observant—two of her favorite qualities.
But it was his reaction that had truly set her alight. He’d shown no sign of disapproval or disgust—and she’d encountered both in the past. The men, in particular, who had been let in on her secret had always found it distasteful. Not Rhys Caradec. Instead he’d looked . . . fascinated. And that was nearly as alluring as the kindness in his blue eyes—or the appealing height and breadth of him.