His Wicked Smile

by Heather Hiestand

  Thankful that he hadn’t yet been noticed, he hovered in the shelves’ shadows as he took tiny steps forward.

  “It’s all your fault,” Jeremy sneered. “One of these days you’re goin’ to kill the entire family with some nasty Indian disease.”

  “I don’t even live here now. I live in London.” Ann’s hand disappeared into a shelf and Gawain saw it reappear behind her with a glass jar containing some kind of powdered substance. She pushed it against the edge of the shelf and unscrewed it slowly, rotating the jar.

  Was she planning to fling it into Jeremy’s eyes? He hoped she did it well out of reach of the knife. Gripping the revolver tightly, he moved again, attempting to close the gap between himself and Jeremy.

  A muscle in his thigh suddenly contracted. He bumped into a shelf on the south side of the aisle. A basket of apples swayed. He slid into the aisle, as Jeremy said, “Who’s there?”

  “No one,” Ann said soothingly. “We’re only talking, Jemmy. Just us.”

  Gawain peered out and saw Jeremy’s face contort.

  Jeremy swore at Ann again and rushed her. Ann brought up her glass of powder and flung it in Jeremy’s eyes but he kept coming. He screamed as his knife arm lifted. Reddish powder dusted his face. Cayenne. An image of Fern thrusting her fist into her chest flashed through Gawain’s mind.

  He stepped into the aisle, took aim at Jeremy’s left side, as far away from Ann as he could manage, and fired. Jeremy’s shoulder hitched. Ann screamed and sneezed at the same time, then stumbled back, but the knife kept coming. Gawain cocked the hammer back, going down hard on one knee as he fired again.

  Jeremy’s knife hand went to his chest. His eyes widened, dripping powdery red tears. The knife dropped to the planks. He swayed, his tortured gaze catching sight of Gawain.

  As Gawain staggered to his feet, preparing his revolver for another shot, Jeremy seemed to melt, his legs going rubbery. He sank down, then fell face first, his forehead landing on Ann’s boot. A fresh gust of red particles dusted into the air. Gawain felt the first sensation of cayenne on his tongue. He closed his mouth and uncocked his revolver, then grabbed for Ann’s arm.

  She still held the glass jar and her eyes were red, tears and snot dripping down her face. He found her hand, tugging her down the aisle and out of the building, then stumbled for the barn.

  “Horse trough?” he cried, mud making their running steps difficult.

  Ann fell, one foot coming out of her boot. Gawain thrust his gun into his pocket and picked her up, running in a shambling gait through the yard. Men stopped moving, their hands stilled on valises and pipes as he ran. Through his streaming eyes, he saw a rain barrel under a drainpipe and angled toward it, then set Ann down next to it and pushed her in.

  Men shouted as her head went down, her long braid flying into the air in reaction to her head dipping. He pulled her out and she came up gasping, clawing for her face.

  Grabbing both hands, he dunked them too.

  “Stop that,” someone yelled, and Gawain felt rough hands on the back of his coat, pulling him away from her.

  “Pepper,” he gasped. “Got to get the pepper off her.” He sneezed.

  “Crikey,” an old man muttered. “Look at his face.”

  A second later, he was being pushed face-first into the rain barrel. His mouth was still closed but he felt icy water fill his nose. He came up spluttering.

  Next to him, slim brown hands reached in. Ann cupped water and splashed her face.

  “Let me look at you,” said a voice with a strong northern accent. More water splashed. “There, Mrs. Haldene, the powder’s all gone but your eyes are going to be red.”

  Gawain and Ann sneezed simultaneously.

  “Call for the police,” Gawain gasped. “Jeremy Haldene tried to kill my wife and I shot him. Think he’s dead.”

  “Your wife?” the northern voice said.

  “I married Mrs. Haldene,” Gawain said, grabbing the edge of the barrel for support.

  “Did you now?”

  Gawain realized his eyes were still closed from his trip into the water barrel. He opened them and recognized one of the blacksmith’s cronies. “A couple of weeks ago. Look, Jeremy killed Wells Haldene.”

  “Did he now?” the man said patiently.

  “He’s not lying,” Ann said. She shivered hard.

  Gawain remembered it was still March, much too cold to be outside while soaked to the bone. He unbuttoned his coat, which wasn’t entirely wet, folded down the damp part, and laid it over Ann’s shoulders. She turned to him and he put his arm around her.

  “Mind the gun,” he said in a low voice. “In the right pocket.”

  “Where’s the body?” the man asked.

  “Around back. In the storage building.”

  “Go inside,” the man said, then stepped away. “Mrs. Haldene, do you have a telephone?”

  “No,” she said, teeth chattering.

  The man clicked his teeth.

  “They’ve got one at the butcher shop,” another man said.

  The first man raised his hand in acknowledgment and kept walking. Three men escorted Gawain and Ann back into the inn. They started to steer them toward the dining room and its huge fireplace, but Ann protested.

  “I need to put on some dry clothes.”

  “She didn’t kill anyone, I did,” Gawain said.

  The men separated and two took him into the dining room as the third escorted Ann back to the family quarters.

  Gawain felt like he was walking onboard a ship as he climbed the steps toward the room Harry had assigned him late that night, after hours of questioning by police. He hadn’t seen anyone except Harry, but had been promised that Ann was fine and had corroborated everything he’d told the police. Harry had received assurances that no charges would be filed.

  Gawain pushed open the door of the room, his thoughts flashing to the moment when he entered the storage building. Since he’d never had any emotional trauma over the battles with the Pathans in India, even the battle where he’d been wounded, he was surprised to find himself already troubled by the events of the morning. Just one more way to be wounded.

  He shut the door with a groan and sagged against it, desperate to finally remove the shoes and stockings that had never fully dried.

  “Let me help you,” said a soft voice. A hand led him to a cane-backed chair next to a small table.

  He heard a flutter of skirts as she knelt on the floor and began to work on his shoelaces. “Ann?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where is Noel? Is Fern okay? I promised her I’d come back but then the police kept me with them all day.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Fern knows you saved my life. You can see her tomorrow. Noel just ate and he’s asleep.”

  “You must be exhausted,” he said, his own weariness seeming to coat his voice with molasses.

  “I’m not so bad. Your shoelaces are a disaster. I don’t know if I can undo the knots.”

  Gawain squinted down at his shoes. This was one area where his bad eye definitely didn’t help. He pulled one foot up to the chair and began to pull at the sodden mess. “I’m surprised you came up here.”

  “You’re my husband.”

  “You left me.” He felt a little give in one lace and concentrated on pulling there.

  “My actions may have been ill-considered.”

  “I’m amazed you would take Noel here.”

  “He was perfectly well again.” She said something low in an Indian tongue he didn’t recognize.

  He had never realized she spoke anything other than English, since she’d left India so young. Perhaps just curse words. “In future, I would hope you realize it is easier to bar me from our home, rather than remove my son from comfortable surroundings when I am beastly.”

  He heard a hint of a smile in her voice when she answered. “I will remember that.” He felt a tug. “There. I think I can get this one undone.”

  He focused on his shoe unt
il the knot had given up its secrets and a minute later pushed it off his foot with a sigh of relief. Someday his toes might be warm again. He pulled off his black silk sock and tossed it on the floor, then wriggled his toes. “Heaven.”

  “I am almost done.” A moment later, Gawain felt the other shoe give way and soon that foot joined its partner in nudity. “Your trousers are a disaster.”

  “I agree.” He stood and shed the offending wool, then reseated himself.

  “Did you bring any fresh clothing?”

  “One set of clothes, yes. But I’m not sure where they are.”

  “Where are your pajamas?”

  “You cannot expect me to remember everything.”

  “Take off the rest of those damp things then, and get into bed. I’ll stir up the fire and run a warming pan over the sheets.”

  “Why are you taking such good care of me?” he asked, complying as she fussed around the room.

  “I don’t want you to take sick.”

  No, then he would remain here at the inn. With that mordant thought, he climbed into the soft bed and tucked two pillows behind his head. Ann handed him a teacup. His fingers closed around it and he let his eyelids close as he drank the spicy, milky concoction. It warmed him as well as the fire did, and he was half asleep by the time he felt the left side of the bed dip. He set his teacup on the side table and turned. A curvy body smelling of jasmine and cloves curled against him.

  He hadn’t been expecting this. His hand curled around her naked shoulder. He ran his fingers along her arm, then dropped to her flank. No clothing anywhere. Despite the events of the day, his manhood stirred with interest. He pressed himself along her back.

  “If you intended to warm me up, you’re succeeding.”

  She didn’t answer, just put her hand behind her back and wrapped her fingers around him. He hardened completely in a moment and slid down deeper into the sheets. When his head was resting just above hers, he found one breast with his hand and tested the weight. He touched the nipple and it hardened as quickly as he had for her. She gave a little gasp, moved a fraction of an inch away, then settled again.

  Feeling confident now, he let his fingers dance down her abdomen, nearly as flat now as it had been when they met. When he quested into her curls, her grip tightened on him. He rotated his hips, thrusting against her palm, then found her lips and parted them with his fingers.

  She was as hot as a cauldron and dampened enthusiastically as he moved his fingers through her sweet heat. He dipped into her opening then traced the moisture up again, circling her pearl. Her bottom pressed against her hand and his erection.

  He drifted his fingers through again, then pressed the hood above her pearl. She gasped and turned over, pulling him down over her body.

  “This will warm your toes.”

  He pulled her thighs apart, his knees finding cool places on the sheets. Any thought of cold vanished a moment later when he slid into her hot, welcoming sheath. Her own warm feet found his thighs, then she locked her legs around his waist as he moved in for another long thrust.

  The stoked fire cast firelight and shadows in turn across her lovely, exotic face. He pushed tendrils of hair away from her temples and kissed her on each side as he moved inside her.

  “Why do we ever fight when we have this?”

  She tossed her head and ran her fingers along his back, gently abrading him with her nails. “In bed we have a shared goal.”

  “Passion,” he agreed. Now he felt very warm. He tugged down the blankets, exposing his torso to the fire, and lifted himself on his elbows so he could see her amazing breasts. Her throat needed a kiss so he touched her tenderly there, then buried his face between her globes and reached for her thighs.

  She gave him everything, but it only worked here at the inn. An hour or two later, Ann rebraided her hair, which had come undone when they made love a second time, with her on top. She smiled at the soreness of her inner thighs as she slid out of the sheets, recalling how she’d ridden him like a jockey at a race, urging him on. How could he be so adventurous in the bedroom and so old-fashioned out of it?

  He was her hero, and her lover, but she didn’t know if she could keep him as her husband. Leaving her shoes wherever they’d fallen, she quietly opened the door and tiptoed into the corridor and down the stairs, until she reached the family quarters. She checked on Noel, breathing quietly in his cradle, and then went to her belongings. A few minutes later she sat by the fire and opened the small rosewood box containing her mother’s ring, the last jewel she possessed. How could something so small have such power? Jeremy hadn’t even known it existed, yet he’d died in hopes of obtaining it. For her, it had been her last remaining bit of security once the necklace and chance of a second inn had evaporated along with her husband and dream of a child.

  Now, she had a husband again, and Noel, and the cache of money Harry had found hidden in the loft of the storage building that afternoon. Not the price of an inn, but enough money for a house of her own. Jeremy should have taken it and gone. She picked up the ring and let the thin, worn gold band slide down her finger. If she wanted she could have a house and a maid-of-all-work and practice her medicine for expenses. What she didn’t want was this ring. Her mother’s jewelry had brought her nothing but pain, and her mother had never intended that.

  But if she sold it for a house and servant pay, choosing that life, she wouldn’t have the fire and passion she’d experienced upstairs in Gawain’s bed. She stood up and went to the small desk where she and Harry did accounts and wrote Gawain a note. She’d let him decide. What would his response be?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gawain woke the next morning when the door shut. He struggled to an upright position and noted a small, steaming teapot on the bedside table. The curtains had been drawn and he saw his trousers and shoes had been dried and brushed. He might be family but was being treated like a guest. Ann had still been there when he’d fallen asleep but she was long gone, tending to Noel, most likely. Had their lovemaking mended their problems enough for her to pack for the return trip to Battersea?

  His manhood stirred, but he’d already woken with an erection. Remembering the use to which it had been put the night before, he experienced a moment of disappointment, especially because he could still smell the lingering scent of jasmine in the room.

  For now, he should restore his energies with a cup of tea and think about breakfast. When his fingers quested for the teapot, they brushed against a piece of paper. A note? He picked it up and limped to the window so he could see clearly.

  The inside of the pane was fogged with cold. He rubbed at the glass and was rewarded with little more than a view of rain and dirt. At least the light was good enough for the note. He opened it and read, “Dear Gawain, Jeremy was correct. I did have one more gem of my mother’s. It is in the box on the tray. Please dispose of it as you will. The royal jewelry needs to be out of my life. I want the rumors about it to end in my lifetime so Noel isn’t plagued by it as I have been. If my mother had not left it to me, perhaps Wells and Jeremy would still be alive.”

  Gawain rubbed his chin. Why was she blaming the jewelry when Jeremy’s greed was the culprit here? He walked back to the tea tray and picked up the finely carved Indian box that was also there. Inside, he saw a gold filigree ring with a large sapphire. He picked it up, noting someone had worn it for many years since the band was much thinner on the back then along the sides. Lord Judah would know what it was worth. Would Ann like it if he reset the gem in another setting, one that appeared more English? Then she would still have something of her mother’s, but it wouldn’t resemble a “royal” treasure. He’d give her the price of it too, so she knew he didn’t covet her material possessions as Jeremy had. Nor did he need to spend her money like Wells had. He could afford to keep her in style.

  While he drank his tea he dressed, hoping Ann would reappear. Eventually, he went to the dining room and ate eggs and sausages. No Indian breakfast was on offer, which
he took as a good sign that Ann hadn’t settled back in. When he was done, he knocked on the door of the family quarters.

  Ann answered the door, looking harried. “You are still here?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Are you packing to return?”

  “Fern’s sick,” Ann said.

  “Is Noel all right?”

  She pushed frizzy curls off her forehead. “For now, but Fern is too ill to travel.”

  He checked her clothing for signs of feeding gone wrong. “Is Noel at risk?”

  “I’ve tucked Fern into her little room, away from him.”

  “I don’t suppose you will come home with Noel and leave Fern here.”

  “Who would take care of her?” Ann asked sharply.

  She sounded like an irritated doctor now, rather than the sensually pleasing wife of the night before.

  Harry, but he couldn’t suggest that, not with the trouble of Jeremy’s burial still to come. “I understand. Can I get you anything? Medicine, or could I purchase Fern a little gift? A book or something?”

  “You should go,” Ann said. “Before you take ill yourself. And if you stay here, the police may come looking for you again.”

  He reached for her hand. With a reluctant look, she allowed him to take it. “Don’t worry about the police, Ann. I have nothing to fear in a clear case of self-defense.”

  “You are probably correct.”

  “Well?” He squeezed her hand. “What can I get you?”

  She pulled her hand away. “Nothing. We’ll be fine. I know you have business to take care of in London.”

  If he hadn’t noticed her lips trembling slightly, he’d have thought he meant nothing to her. “How is Harry doing?”

  “He’s trying to find out if he can bury Jeremy. Penning the letters to the rest of the family was difficult too.”

  “This must be hard for you as well. I am suddenly taken by the realization that you didn’t know what he’d done until just yesterday. Only Fern knew.”