by Amber Lin
More than pretty.
Her lashes were fine and lush. He imagined how they’d feel beating against his chest, opening and closing in close proximity, her cheek pressed to his skin.
His body responded with a rush of heat that embarrassed him. He wasn’t some young sailor. He didn’t get a cockstand at the thought of a pretty young woman. Quite young. The difference between them was marked.
But not too young.
No, his desperate care of her that night had proven, without a doubt, that she was neither a boy nor a girl. She was a woman—one his body wanted to take as a man would do. Ever since, he had requested that Mrs. Wheaton handle her needs. That helped his sanity, but it did nothing to erase the images in his head. Soft skin, pale skin, wet skin. And pink in places, like the color of her lips.
He stood up abruptly, almost knocking over the chair in his haste. He righted the chair and eyed it with distrust. It creaked whenever he sat down. Or moved. Or breathed. And now it was tripping him.
Even so, he considered sitting in it.
He could watch over her. For the good of the company.
The excuse felt a little too thin, especially remembering Adrian’s amused expression. The girl could sleep without him hovering like a mother hen. Julian. He grinned, suddenly, without knowing why. He would definitely keep calling her that.
Chapter Four
The next time she woke, it was dark. A tray sat beside her table, proving someone had come and gone. Her stomach rumbled violently, and the next thing she knew, she had downed the entire bowl of lukewarm broth. The thin soup was seasoned well and tasty.
She drank the cocoa more slowly, savoring it. It tasted sweet enough to make her throat ache, an indulgence, even though it had cooled. Expensive. There was that sense again, of a luxurious life she had lived before this. Was there a gilded apartment with extravagant meals somewhere, which she kept with the proceeds from her thefts?
Or from other, darker proceeds? If she was walking around London in shirt and pants, if she was conversing with a pirate late at night, it wasn’t a stretch to think she could be a prostitute as well as a thief.
Unease trickled through her.
The fire had petered out. The entire room was cooler now, as if the pirate had taken all the heat in the room with him when he’d left. As if his presence alone could fan the flames in the hearth…or raise the temperature of her cheeks.
Some of the chocolate had settled at the bottom of the mug. She reached a finger in to scoop it out. A beat of longing had started up inside her, deeper than the hunger of her belly, and more painful. She wanted more broth and more cocoa. She wanted more fire.
She wanted to see the pirate again.
But that was folly. Her position was precarious. At any moment he could hand her over to the authorities. Or if he were a violent man, he could exact some sort of punishment upon her himself. She didn’t think he would do such a thing, but she had to admit she didn’t know him. At this point, she didn’t even know herself.
And that terrified her.
It was terrifying to move in her body and not recognize it. Terrifying to think with a mind that wouldn’t tell her its secrets.
She needed to get out of this house. Then maybe she would remember where she’d come from, who she was. Even if she didn’t, it would be better than waiting for the pirate to decide what to do with her.
She suspected she wouldn’t like his decision.
In the small pile of clothes still sitting on the table, she found a chemise. At least one of the garments was meant for her. It slipped on easily, like a second skin, the cotton butter-soft. The shirtsleeves and pants fit her well, also. They hung a little loose and stretched a little long at the hem—but then, she hadn’t eaten in days. She could have lost weight.
The bars of the window were firmly clamped shut. Most likely, a guard still stood at the door. She could try to overpower him. She had a fighting chance, especially if she took him by surprise. However, she might get hurt. More to the point, he might get hurt, and she wouldn’t be comfortable with that, no matter what amoral life she might have led before.
Instead, she felt along the bricks of the chimney. Cool to the touch.
Her bruised muscles and swollen ankle protested the idea of any physical activity. Even walking across the small room had taxed her energy reserves; climbing all the way up a chimney might prove too much.
But she had no choice. Staying here like a lamb to the slaughter was not an option. If there was one thing her questionable profession proved, it was that she was no innocent lamb.
Taking a deep breath, she painstakingly climbed up the chimney, slipping only twice.
On the roof, a heavy mist blacked out the stars. Moisture condensed on her skin and inside her lungs, surrounding her. The salt in the air told her they were near the docks. Of course her pirate lived near the water.
She should have been planning where she would go next, but all she could think about was him. What would his expression look like when he found her room empty?
The roof slanted sharply on the steeple where her chimney opened, the slope leveling off onto a wider shallow roof area. She stepped carefully, wincing as her foot landed on something sharp. Her ankle had been too swollen to consider wearing shoes, and since she couldn’t climb while holding them, she’d left them behind. Balancing herself on two steady tiles, she peered over the edge.
A long drop.
She would need a different way down, a wall with trellises or tree limbs to help her down.
“Where could you be going?” came a voice from the darkness.
It sounded so low and sinister, so familiar, that she stumbled backward. The roof was just as slick as her skin, and she slipped, sliding forward and halfway off the roof. A hand grabbed the neck of her shirt and yanked her back. She skidded to a halt on the incline of the roof, breathing hard.
He looked furious. “For someone whose profession requires them to traipse up and down rooftops, you aren’t very good at it.”
Her eyes fell shut as she struggled to even her racing heart. “Well,” she said with feigned calm. “You’ve caught me. Again. I think it’s pretty well established I’m awful at robbery.”
His laugh was sharp as a whip. “Indeed.”
“It doesn’t help that my ankle’s the size of a bowling pin,” she added defensively.
“So are you admitting your role, then? Are you ready to tell me what I need to know?”
Tiredness cloaked her as thick as the fog swirling around them. There was no way out. He had obviously anticipated she would attempt to escape, and that she would go through the chimney. She couldn’t even hate him for it. He was skilled in this game; she was not. He had something to lose; she had nothing at all.
“I can’t remember anything,” she admitted.
Now his laugh was more deliberate. It mocked her. “That’s convenient.”
“Yes, of course. I am stuck on the roof of a man who wishes me ill because I seek out what’s convenient.”
“There’s any easy way to fix that. All you have to do is tell me who sent you and what you were after.”
“I don’t know any of that! I don’t even know my own name.”
Her words were having the opposite of her intended effect. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils widened. He looked ready to charge, and her body braced for impact.
But when he spoke, his voice was deceptively soft. “Don’t you, Julian?”
When he moved, his steps were slow and careful. She scooted backward until she hit the side of the chimney. Blocked in. Cornered.
“I swear to you—” Her voice trembled.
“What do you swear, Julian? That you’re telling me the truth?”
“Y-yes, I—”
His hand on her waist felt like a shock to her body, a jolt of pure surprise. The fear came in the seconds after, when she thought about what it meant. An escalation from words to the physical. A threat. A caress. How could she convince him she was
telling the truth? She couldn’t. And that meant whatever he did to her, she couldn’t make it stop.
“A damned trick,” he muttered, more to himself, it seemed.
He stared at her clothes…at her body. She couldn’t read his expression, precisely. Disdain, frustration? He looked pained, as if maybe he didn’t like her wearing boys’ clothes—or the lie they represented.
“They were all I had,” she rushed to explain. “And I needed to get away. I don’t know you or what you have planned for me—”
“You must have thought it would be terrible, to go running off into the night. And according to your story, with no one to run to. What did you think I was planning to do to you?”
Her mouth opened. She closed it. Answering seemed too much like giving him ideas.
His voice grew impossibly lower, smoothing out like the surface of a puddle, deceptively flat. “Did you think I would touch you?”
He was touching her now. The warmth through the thin shirt was undeniable. And as she focused all her attention there, he touched her again. But not through her clothes this time. Just two fingers beneath her chin, raising her up.
His gaze locked on hers. “Did you think I would kiss you?”
“No,” she said desperately, because she hadn’t, really. Even if he’d have used her, she wouldn’t expect it to feel like this, like sudden heat, his desire simmering around them. She would have expected him to be cold—but she didn’t know why, when everything he did, and said, and made her feel, was fever-pitched.
And then he did kiss her, his mouth a warm breath across her lips. He was like the fog around them, wet and weighty and impossible to grasp. As soon as she jerked her head back, he followed, maintaining the same light pressure. When she opened her mouth to protest, he straightened away, his eyes churning with depths unknown.
“Did you think I would fuck you?”
His stark words broke the spell. Whatever strange alchemy his suggestions had made inside her, she returned to her old self—to metal, to coal.
She meant nothing to him. He only wanted to get information from her, to punish her. She didn’t wait for him to follow through on his threat this time. First the kiss, and then…
Fear bubbled up inside her, followed by desperate anger. She jerked away, thumping into the brick wall before scuttling around it. He could overpower her, she knew. If he wished to harm her that way, he would harm her. Her heartbeat quickened.
“Please, sir. You have every right to be angry with me, but I swear, I am being honest now. I know not who sent me nor what I was there for. The first thing I remember is you. If you keep me here, you will find out nothing. But if you let me go, I will find some way to earn the money and pay you back.” She steeled herself, even as tears sprang to her cheeks. “I swear it.”
He looked at her with a hint of bemusement. “What do you intend to pay me back for?”
“For the cocoa,” she said. And then quickly amended, “And the broth. And your care of me. I promise that if—when I remember who sent me, I’ll tell you his name.”
A long, deliberating silence passed.
“It happened once to a shipmate of mine,” he said with an air of reluctance. “He took a fall overboard and we pulled him back up. When he woke up, he couldn’t remember his own name.”
She couldn’t keep the anxiety out of her voice. “Did he ever remember?”
The seconds ticked by. “No.”
“Oh, no. Oh, God.” She had assumed her memory would return. She’d needed that assumption to move forward. But now— “What will I do?” she whispered. “I don’t want to be a thief.”
“Christ,” he muttered.
She let herself slide to sit on the roof and wrapped her arms around her legs. She made herself small, by instinct, curled up to shut the world out. He wouldn’t let her hide, though. He knelt in front of her, invading her desperation, filling her sight.
He waited until she looked up at him. “Come back inside,” he said, too gently.
Bitterness swelled inside her. “I told you. I don’t have the information you want.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not going to do… that either.”
His eyes darkened. “I know.”
She felt on the verge of tears. “Then what do you want from me?”
He looked away and then back. “I want to help.”
She had no reason to trust him. For all his kind treatment, he had still locked her up. He had threatened her and bullied her. He made no argument to persuade her now, either. He simply held out his hand and said, “Come with me.”
The mist cleared for a moment, revealing the expanse of sea, the spires of ships at port. To her back, all of London waited, crouched in shadows. Neither forward nor backward offered her shelter or food or help. The only man on her side was the enemy she had made.
Because he was noble? Or because he was using her? She didn’t know. It might not matter.
She placed her hand in his. He helped her negotiate the pitched roof until they reached a flat overhang above a balcony. From here the drop would be manageable, though he didn’t climb down. Instead he released her and sat with his legs dangling over the side, looking out toward the water, tacitly inviting her to do the same.
Gingerly, she settled beside him, careful to keep from touching him in any place. Careful because her body inclined toward him, without her consent. The early hour chill, the darkness, the height of the building—which seemed to emphasize her isolation, apart from the world—it all conspired to draw her closer to him, away from the yawning blackness and toward the flame.
But not too close, or she would get burned.
The mist obscured the glittering water again, but she could still see the moisture, droplets glittering in the moonlight. She breathed in the sea and bathed in it, sitting still.
He looked into the mist as he spoke. “There are boys who work on my ship. They come from all over London, but many of them were thieves. Pickpockets or apprenticed thieves. Sometimes they were trained to do so. Other times it was an act of necessity. Once they’ve served their time, they will only go out and steal again. An act of survival.”
An act of survival. A kind way to put her criminal misdeeds. And not entirely inaccurate. How would she eat, even if he deemed fit to let her leave? She didn’t want to steal. But she didn’t want to starve.
She remained silent.
“The officials know this, so they send them to me, if the boys are willing. There is always room on my ships for sturdy hands and an agile mind. They pick it up quickly. Climbing and ropework. Most of them don’t have formal schooling, but some of them have an aptitude for letters or the geometry required for navigation.”
“You help them,” she said. “Charity.”
“They help themselves,” he said sharply. His voice evened out as he continued. “These boys never had a chance. The circumstances of their birth and childhood…it was that or the workhouse.”
“And you think I was from such circumstances?”
“No,” he admitted. “Your speech is refined. Your hands are soft. You weren’t born to this life. But fortunes rise and fall every day.”
“And does being poor pardon stealing?”
“Poor.” He laughed softly. “Poor doesn’t describe the pain of starvation, the way your body feels like it’s being ripped apart. It doesn’t explain the fear of being attacked for whatever pence you found that day. Or just for sport. It doesn’t show the fight that accompanies every day. There’s a war being fought in the slums of London. I couldn’t fault anyone for trying not to die.”
She stared at him, taken aback. The fervor in his voice proved he spoke from experience. He had felt starvation once. He had been attacked. He had fought not to die, and her heart ached with a useless, boundless sorrow.
But underneath she felt a surge of worry. He wanted to absolve her of her crimes. She must have been desperate, he assumed. Except nothing he described seemed familiar. Perhaps what he
’d said was true—she could have been wealthy and taken a turn. But how could it have happened so quickly?
Her voice came out rough, raw with hope. “Could I find work on one of your ships? I would learn quickly and work as hard as any boy. I could pay you back that way.”
He grimaced, as if he didn’t like her mentioning her debt. But she didn’t want to forget it. She didn’t want to forget how low she’d fallen, or who had helped her back up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Not on one of my ships. We have employed a woman before, but that was an experienced sailor on a long range ship. On the Nightingale, it would only be a distraction to the boys.”
Disappointment sliced through her. “All right. I’ll find something else. They accept day workers on the dock, don’t they?”
“No!” His sharp voice made her flinch. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “They accept only half the men who appear at the gates, and only the strongest and largest, at that. Besides, you shouldn’t go around in those clothes anymore.”
She looked down at her pants. “They’re all I have.”
He looked pained. “I’ll order proper clothes made.”
“Then I would owe you even more. I can’t be in your debt.” It was untenable to her that she had attempted to steal from him. Every bit of kindness he gave her only added to her guilt.
“I’ll inquire about positions for a young woman. Perhaps there is something domestic…or in a shop. In truth, I don’t know what would be best. I’ll ask Mrs. Wheaton for advice.” He paused. “You are in no position to work now, though. Or to be running around on rooftops. You may stay here until you’ve recovered. I swear not to turn you over to the authorities.”
“But why?” she asked, mystified.
“As I said, they don’t have any solutions. They’ll only lock you up, and then—”
“No, I mean why would you help me?”
He was quiet for a long time, looking out over the dark harbor. “Because no one helped me.”
Chapter Five
He had been so sure she would attempt to escape him, and he’d been right. He’d been so sure she would attempt to evade his questions, and he’d been right about that too. The excuse about losing her memory had to be fake, it must be.