The Leading Lady (Half Moon House Series)

by Deb Marlowe

  He did not. Instead he released her as soon as she was steady on her feet and grinned when she finally caught sight of the thunderclouds bearing down on them.

  “Now you see why you’ll have plenty of time for your work, my dear Chloe.” His grin widened as she winced at the name. “The captain says she shows all the signs of being a graver.”

  “A graver?” She shivered.

  “Yes, and I gather it is every bit as bad as it sounds.”

  She raised a brow. “How far back will that put our arrival?”

  “Perlott says the captain has decided we’ll never make Cherbourg. He’s angling for Le Havre and the protection of the peninsula instead.”

  They made their way to the port side rail. “It is frightening,” she said, holding on against the rising swell. “I wouldn’t like to think of sailing into it.”

  Tru was glad enough to avoid it as well. Even at this distance, great, jagged lightning strikes could be seen striking the water’s surface and arching amongst the roiling clouds.

  “But it’s beautiful too,” she said on a sigh. “Isn’t it?”

  Tru eyed her where she stood, caught rapt as the gusting wind whipped her skirts and alternately tugged at the bodice of her loose gown and pressed it tight against her. “Indeed.”

  She shot him a chiding glance and he shifted to face the storm. “Apparently it will lose strength and speed when it crosses land. We’ll be safer in Le Havre than we would be trying to ride this out.”

  “Lord Stoneacre must be upset at the delay?”

  He snorted. “Lord Stoneacre’s constitution turned upset at the first sign of choppy seas. I think he’ll be glad enough to reach a port in the storm.”

  She pressed her lips together then, though her dark eyes shone with appreciation and amusement. And yet, not at poor Stoneacre’s expense, he thought.

  He mimicked her earlier expression and raised a brow at her.

  “Forgive me. I don’t mean to disparage the earl.” She gave up and let loose a grin that held him rapt. “It’s just that—it’s a name we often call Hestia, back at Half Moon House. Port in a storm. Because no matter what kerfuffle comes up or what degree of chaos erupts, she’s always so calm and unflappable.”

  Tru nodded. “I can easily see that.” He glanced again between her and the roiling horizon. “And if she is the port, then I’d lay money that you are often the storm—or that you at least find yourself in the midst of it.”

  She laughed out loud. And about them all the ceaseless activity paused, just for a fraction of a moment, as the husky, rough-edged sound carried delight and shared camaraderie about the deck and out into the wind-tossed sea. There it was—the siren’s call. Irresistible and designed to send a shiver down a man’s spine and a jolt straight through to his cock.

  “I have to laugh—because it’s true.” She sucked in a breath of restless sea air and lifted a shoulder.

  “Well, I know I’ve been unwise enough to stir you up into a tempest in the past. I have to confess, though, that part of me enjoyed it.” The part that appreciated passion, intelligence, flashing eyes and the rapid rise and fall of a magnificent bosom.

  Her mouth quirked. “Most people don’t.”

  “That fearsome, are you?”

  “I’m afraid I can be quite merciless.”

  He considered his own roiling temper of late, the anger, frustration and impatience set off by the situation with Marstoke. “It begs the question, what gets you stirred up?” He grinned. “Besides me endlessly disagreeing with you, I mean.”

  The question sobered her a little. “There is so much injustice in the world we deal with every day. It builds up, sometimes, and I get frustrated.”

  “There’s a truth I can relate to.”

  “Sometimes it’s because someone will refuse to be helped. Or because they make strides in bettering their lives, and then slip back to the old ways.” Darkness crept across her expression. “The worst, however, is usually due to Letty.”

  “That’s an encouraging thought.” He made a face.

  She laughed a little, as she was supposed to. “The worst was when Hestia first discovered Letty had been taken up by Hatch, a notoriously brutal pimp. She had a hint that it wasn’t the usual relationship, that Hatch was working with bigger fish and they had something special planned for Letty.” She might have been in the confessional, her tone had grown so quiet and dispassionate. “She didn’t tell me right away because she wanted to learn more. I was furious when I found out. I didn’t want Letty in there for a second longer than necessary.”

  The wind teased her hair while she stared out at the white caps.

  “I quite lost my mind for a bit, I believe. It still frightens me, the memory of my anger. I was white hot and reckless with it. I caused quite a ruckus.” She ducked her head. “I almost got people hurt.”

  “Almost?”

  “Thanks to Hestia. She calmed me, eventually, and defused the situation.” Turning, she raised her chin. “I’ll take the opportunity to tell you now what I told her then. Letty is mine. My responsibility. Then—and most especially now, on this mission—she is my focus. You and Stoneacre can do what you wish with Marstoke. Kill him, drag him back to face justice, whichever. But managing Letty and getting her to England is my task and I’ll thank you not to interfere with it.”

  He wondered if that unwise girl knew what a champion she had in Callie Grant. “Understood.”

  “Good.”

  He endured a few moments of her cryptic, contemplative gaze before she must have decided he measured up. “Since I’m being bold and shocking today, I shall ask something of you.”

  He held up his hands. “Might as well go for broke.”

  “I shall ask you to keep watch for me. Hestia says my mere presence can set a pot of trouble to boiling.” Turning, she faced him fully. “I do get swept up in my own temper at times, and need to be pulled back from the brink. For a long time only Hestia would challenge me. Then Brynne Wilmott came along. She never scurried away when I began to blow hard. Instead she told me to stop stirring the scandalbroth or she would take my own spoon and brain me with it.” Her mouth quirked. “That was the moment I knew we would be friends.”

  Tru stilled. Her words brought them instantly to mind—all the images of their terse confrontations over the last weeks. They rustled in his head, one by one, a slowly turning picture book of frustration—and other feelings too, all ruthlessly suppressed and unacknowledged.

  “No one else has stood toe to toe with me. No one else showed the courage to face me with hard truths.” She gestured toward the horizon. “Or label me the tempest that I can sometimes be.” Their eyes met, gazes direct and unshuttered. “Until now.”

  Between them the air thickened with tension. It hung heavy with a certain solidifying fascination, and sparkled with potential—until Tru remembered that he had a goal to accomplish, and that they had a job to do.

  “So, all I had to do was compare you to a dark and deadly squall and you decided to trust me?”

  The edges of her mouth turned up. “Perhaps just a little.”

  “Well and good. Perhaps you’ll share a thing or two with me, then?”

  Her humor vanished. “What things?”

  The ugly vision of her facing those two thugs in the alley raised again, enough to make him slightly queasy. “That alley fight we interrupted when we found you—how often do you find yourself in situations like that?”

  Her shoulders fell a little, and sighing, she turned to face the rail again. The rolling swell had lessened a bit as the ship raced out of the path of the storm and into more sheltered waters. “It happens occasionally. I should think you’d know the sort of thing we see every day. Children abandoned and growing up in packs. Servant girls accosted, then tossed out when there are consequences. Women beaten to within an inch of their lives by their husbands or their pimps, with no recourse and no one to help. Sometimes it gets physical.” She frowned. “Do I need to go on?” />
  “No.” That was the ugliness that she faced every day, with nothing more than a pocket pistol, a knife, her temper, and the resolution to make things better. “But I will say that when one is facing such horrors on a regular basis, then a cleansing storm might occasionally be just what’s called for.”

  He ignored her suddenly arrested expression and continued. “And now I’ll ask you to show me something—that technique you mentioned. Do you remember? Something about immobilizing an opponent’s arm?”

  “Yes, of course. But I didn’t think you were serious.”

  He sighed. “I thought we’d covered this ground. If you’ll share that nugget, I’ll show you some tricks of my own.”

  “Here, in front of everyone?”

  “There’s space for us to move in the stern, where we’ll be out of the way, and we can call it work, if it will ease your conscience.”

  She narrowed her eyes for a moment. Suddenly he reached out and covered her hand where it rested on the railing. “I’m not judgmental, Callie, or high in the instep. Remember, I’ve spent some time in the world you just described. For months I collected the data for the Love List, and moved about many of London’s stews and back alleys. I saw some of the unattractive things you mentioned—but it isn’t entirely ugly, just as the world of higher society is not all pretty. I’ve learned not to judge people before you begin to know them.”

  He looked out at over the rail, but saw the worn and tired streets around Covent Garden instead of the swollen seas. “I met a woman once. A prostitute, cultivating my acquaintance so she could get a spot on the List, like so many others. But she wasn’t like anyone else. She was young, yes, and she’d never had much formal schooling, yet she had a head for figures and percentages like no one I’ve ever met. She far outclassed most of the men I knew at university. And she’d turned that talent toward her business, had calculated her best chances at raising enough blunt to buy a stake in a coaching inn.” He shook his head. “If I’d had the money, I’d have handed it over to her. She’d end up owning half of the East side within a decade.”

  “Margaret Fee,” she said quietly.

  “Yes!” He grinned. “You know her?”

  She nodded.

  “And what of Simon, the old tapster at the Three Peacocks, the one with the fingers so arthritic he can barely pour?”

  “Yes, you’ve heard him sing?”

  He shook his head in wonder at the memory. “That gnarled and dusty old character, almost permanently bent over that tap, and he opens his mouth and the songs of angels pour out. I’ve never heard anything so beautiful in my life.”

  “I know,” she breathed.

  He met her gaze squarely. “So you see what I mean, do you not? We’ve had our differences, and I think we’ve both misjudged each other. Why do we not clean the slate and move forward with more open minds?”

  Perhaps he could not change the world’s opinion of him. His greatest fear, the one that he’d been pushing relentlessly away, was that even Marstoke’s capture would not do the job. But he had the sudden notion that his salvation could begin if he could but sweeten just one person’s view—hers.

  She stared a long, assessing moment. But then she straightened her spine, adopted a business-like demeanor and led the way astern.

  He took that as a good sign and settled to the task at hand. First he asked her to move about the slight open space for several moments. He nodded approval as she began to grow accustomed to the occasional, irregular sharp pitch of the deck and he tried not to focus on the quick flash of an ankle or calf as the wind snatched at her skirts. A few times she sent swift, searching glances towards the crewmen, but she appeared to be relaxed enough to focus on what they had to learn from each other.

  Tru listened intently as she illustrated the spot where one could slip a knife in under a man’s clavicle and leave his arm hanging unresponsive. He showed her how, if a man had a hold of her, she could put him down with a well-aimed thrust of her blade to his kidney.

  “You use your left hand?” she asked once. “I could have sworn I’ve seen you write with your right hand.”

  “A necessary evil, beat into me by tutors and at school. But I shoot and fence and fight with my left hand.”

  She shrugged and they went back to it. Gradually, as they discussed scenarios and practiced mock blows, the winds grew steadier and the seas grew calmer. The watch bell rang, a new set of crewmen took up duties on deck, and they picked up a few spectators.

  One of the men quickly roped a short plank to the stern railing and Callie and Tru took turns throwing knives at the target. She was damned good, too. His respect for her grew. Again.

  “I’ll show you something else,” she said, “if you’d care to see a trick.”

  He raised a brow.

  “First thing—throw your blade at the board a few times. Aim for this spot.” She indicated a spot low on the target.

  He did, and she stood to the side about midway between him and the board, watching his preparation, his technique, and the spin of his knife in the air.

  Then she stepped forward. “Now throw it at me.”

  “What? No.”

  “Yes. You won’t hurt me. I promise.”

  He shook his head.

  “Listen, I’ve been watching you. I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

  “I can’t throw a knife at you!”

  “If you don’t do it, I’ll get one of the crew to throw, and I’m not as familiar with them. Trust in me. I can dodge if I need to.”

  He felt like he was being put to some test. And they would have to trust each other if they were going to make this mission work. Slowly, he nodded.

  She stood halfway to the target, but off to the side. She met his gaze and nodded.

  He threw it. Just as he’d done before, because that seemed to be part of whatever this was going to be.

  His mouth dropped when she snatched the blade out of the air, turned in one swift motion, threw it again and sunk it nearly hilt deep into the board.

  The crew roared in approval. Tru shut his mouth and then opened it again to ask what they all wanted to know. “Where in seven hells did you learn to do that?”

  “My mother believed that a girl should know how to defend herself. We knew a footman who used to be part of a traveling troupe of performers. We had lessons.”

  The crew gathered around then, offering Callie advice, teasing Tru and calling out slightly ribald suggestions. An atmosphere of light-hearted fun and camaraderie spread as evening set in, making it obvious when only one of the watching men failed to take part in the hilarity. Short and swarthy, he held silent and kept a brazenly intent gaze fixed upon the girl.

  Tru longed to pitch his arrogant arse right over the rail. Even the man’s crewmates cast curious and warning glances in his direction. Callie betrayed herself completely by never looking in his direction at all.

  “I’ve another useful thing to show you,” Tru told her eventually. “Women have greater strength in their lower limbs, as a general rule, than they do in their upper. Learning to use it can give you an advantage.”

  “To run?” she scoffed.

  “If you can, it is often the smartest defense. But in point of fact, I meant in close quarters.” He beckoned. “Step this way.” Looking out over the gathered crewmen, he smiled. “This one needs a demonstration, lads. The lady will need a partner. Though I’ll promise we’ll have no permanent injuries at risk, you might get a bruise or two. Do we have any volunteers?”

  Callie blushed as men surged forward and a great chorus of offers rang out. Tru, however, stopped in front of the sullen sailor. “You look a likely candidate. What’s your name?”

  “Frederico,” the man answered reluctantly.

  “Come on up, will you?” He took up a stance beside Callie and waited for the man to comply. “There. Now, when I give the order, you attempt to put your hands on the lady.”

  “Attempt?” The word emerged along with a sneer. He said
nothing else, just watched her hotly as Tru fought the urge to knock the dark promise off his face and looked to Callie.

  “Now, you’ve some experience, and if I know Hestia, she’s taught you where a man’s most vulnerable, yes?”

  Lips pinched together, she nodded.

  “Good. Now, at this distance, you should aim there. Watch.” He demonstrated. “Turn slightly to the side, with your feet apart. Bend one knee. Keeping your balance, point your knee at your target and kick out hard with your foot. More than once if you have time and opportunity.”

  “Not fair, yer lordship, givin’ ‘er such a small target!” someone yelled from the crowd.

  His fellows hooted, laughing while Frederico flushed. “I would not be so foolish as to stop here,” he insisted belligerently. “I would be much closer.” He reached for Callie and she stepped back.

  “In that case, if he’s moved that close, but not close enough for the strike to his kidney,” Tru instructed, “then you use the same technique I just demonstrated, but you aim for his shin. Better yet, you steel yourself for a really hard blow and take out his knee.”

  She heard the command in his voice. Startled, she met his eyes. Frederico took advantage of her distraction to move in again. Tru nodded and pointed.

  And she balanced, aimed, and threw a wicked, thrusting kick right square into the dastard’s kneecap. It went out from beneath him. With a small, shocked sound, he toppled.

  A great, resounding cheer rang out.

  Callie flushed.

  Frederico groaned and began to curse low in Italian.

  Tru leaned down to clap him—hard—upon the shoulder. “A big wallop she packs, for such a little girl, yes? And that’s just what she can do unarmed.” He smiled darkly. “And I do make sure she is never unarmed. Ah, but you’ve been a good sport, Frederico.” He tossed the man a coin. “For your trouble. And your good nature.”

  And your distance in the future, he let his expression send the clear warning.

  The man understood. He glared a moment, but then nodded and picked up the coin. One of his mates helped him to his feet and he limped off.