by Unknown
Danielle sat back on her heels, massaging her bruised arms, her look sullen. "The blokes that collect promisin' young boys for Madam Gertrude's house, for the swells of that persuasion," she said bluntly.
Adrian was startled to feel his face heat, for although partly it was from anger, he was unaccountably embarrassed as well. But then it was, he thought wryly, disconcerting to hear a young female speak of such things. "So," he said finally. "Your masquerade wasn't so safe after all."
She shrugged. "Ain't nothin' safe. But I done better than I would have. Leastways, I didn't find myself flat of my back in the gutter with my skirts over my head ever time I turned around."
A pained look came to Adrian's face, followed almost immediately by amusement. "Must you harp on that continuously, Danny? I begin to think you must have a very high opinion of yourself or your charms. Or are you trying to interest me? It won't work, you know. I may, as you are apparently aware, have a very checkered past, but even I steer clear of potential pox carriers."
Danielle ground her teeth impotently, strongly tempted to land him a facer. She'd always had a strong sense of self-preservation, however, and merely got to her feet and stomped away, flopping down in the corner and glaring at the knees of her breeches.
"What? Speechless?" Adrian queried in mock astonishment. "I feel certain this is an unprecedented occasion."
"They don't care what you look like, long as your female. An' not even that if they're drunk enough to think you look good," Danny muttered under her breath in a tone that was perfectly audible. "And I'm that glad, I am, that you ain't interested. 'Cause I'm savin' myself . . . ."
"Yes, I know. For someone special," Adrian finished dryly, rising to his feet and striding across the room to the cabin door. He paused in the doorway and glanced back at her. "I take it, then, that you'll take greater care in future to preserve your masquerade?"
Chapter Five
Adrian paused on the threshold to allow his eyes to adjust to the deeper gloom of the cabin and finally moved to the table and struck tinder to light the lamp that hung above it. He glanced around then, noting Danny's absence with more than a touch of irritation. The girl's penchant for disappearing was beginning to try his patience.
In all fairness, he couldn't accuse her of shirking her duties. But it still rankled that, unless she had duties to perform, she made herself scarce when she must know he expected her to be available whenever he wanted her.
Coming to a decision, he crossed to the door. But as he was on the point of leaving, he cast his eyes about the cabin again and stopped, closing the door once more. A slight smile curled his lips as he spotted her curled into a tight ball beneath the table. He'd forgotten her habit of seeking her rest in whatever nook or cubbyhole seemed safest and handiest at the moment.
He crossed to the table and nudged her with the toe of his boot. She swatted it, and his smile widened into a grin. In the next moment, however, she mumbled in her sleep, and the smile disappeared to be replaced by a speculative frown.
"Go 'way, Jimmy," she mumbled sleepily, apparently still deep in slumber. After a moment, he nudged her again. "No," she said plaintively, her voice slurred with sleep. "This is my place. Find your own." She was silent a moment, then, "I know its the only dry spot. But I got it first."
Adrian crouched beside her. "Who's Jimmy?" he asked grimly.
Her eyes flew open, and, for a moment, only panic registered in her dark eyes as she hastily scooted further back to cower in the corner. Recognition dawned, and she scowled at him. "Must you slip up on a body like that?" she muttered indignantly. "I thought for a minute there you was the bleedin' watch."
"Who's Jimmy?" he repeated abruptly.
Her eyes widened in surprise, but she disliked the grim set of his lips. There was accusation in the glitter of his hard gray eyes. She lifted her chin a fraction. "Me pimp," she snapped mutinously.
His gray eyes narrowed dangerously. "I did warn you about lying," he said coolly, and, like a flash, his hand shot out to grasp her wrist, and he hauled her from beneath the table before she'd even realized his intent.
Her eyes grew wide with alarm. In vain, she struggled to break the steely grip on her wrist and, failing that, struck out at him with her fist. It too was captured, and, as she aimed a kick at his shin, he jerked her into his arms and tossed her onto the bunk. Before she could recover, he was atop her, pinning her arms and legs so that she couldn't strike out at him. She struggled anyway, too angry and frightened to give in, straining against the hands that gripped her wrists like iron manacles, bucking against him in an effort to dislodge him until finally she lay panting with exhaustion beneath him. She glared at him for several moments before she turned her face away. "Bleedin' sod," she muttered, swallowing convulsively on the hard knot of fear in her throat.
His eyes narrowed. "Now I can't decide whether I should beat you for lying or wash your mouth out with soap," he said musingly, and she looked up at him in wide-eyed apprehension. "Perhaps I should do both. I did warn you that I would tolerate neither your lying nor your verbal abuse, and I'm not in the habit of repeating myself."
The brown eyes that gazed up at him were fearful, but her jaw was still set mutinously. "Didn't seem to me as how there was much point in tellin' you the truth when you'd already made up your mind about it."
One dark brow rose. "You read minds then?"
"I didn't have to," she snapped. "You already called me a whore. An' I could tell by the way you was lookin' at me that you'd already decided he was either me lover or me pimp, an' it didn't seem to me as how you was gonna believe me anyway."
He studied her for several moments in silence, realizing with a touch of unwelcome surprise that she'd struck very close to home. Despite the fact that he'd accused her of lying about it, he'd suspected just that. He released her. Since he also became aware that his body had responded to her with a disconcerting will of its own, he rolled off her to his side, propping on one elbow. "Suppose you tell me the truth this time," he suggested mildly.
She massaged her wrists gingerly when he'd released her. "I expect I'll be black and blue tomorrow," she said with an injured sniff. He said nothing, and, after a moment, she glanced at him warily and sat up. "You ain't exactly no lightweight neither," she added, inching towards the edge of the bunk. His hand stopped her, and she glanced back at him warily and finally sighed, her shoulders slumping. "He was a friend."
"Was?" Adrian prompted. "You no longer count him among your friends?"
She turned towards him, but her eyes were far away. "They killed him," she said simply.
"Who?" he asked, one dark brow lifted questioningly.
She blinked, jerking herself back to the present with an effort, and her lip curled derisively. She shrugged. "The young lords," she replied and scooted off the bed.
He sat up and grasped her arm before she could turn away. "Why?"
She glanced down at the hand that restrained her then back up at his face and shrugged again. "Why not? He wasn't nobody. Just a nasty little street urchin nobody cared about and nobody'll miss. ‘Cept me," she added in a whisper, then looked at him again consideringly. "For fun, maybe?" Her lips curled. "Maybe he tried to steal somethin' to eat."
Adrian's eyes narrowed a moment, hardening with cynicism. "Or perhaps he tried to palm someone's watch or purse?" he suggested coolly.
She cocked her head to one side, regarding him in silence for several moments, then uttered an unconvincing chuckle. "Sure. I expect that was it. Me an' him always lived high off the hog for a bit after he'd palm some fine gent's purse. We'd lord it over all the street whores and drunks," she paused. "I should say the other whores," she corrected herself. "Act like lord and lady bountiful, we would, tossin' out halfpennies here and there, an' holdin' our fine hankies to our noses so's we wouldn't have to smell the stinkin' offal what litters the streets."
Adrian studied her in frowning silence for several moments, ashamed of the call
ous remark that had prompted so obvious a prevarication. He was vexed as well, both with himself and her for causing his discomfiture. And still more than a little skeptical. He released her, sliding to the edge of the bunk and throwing his legs off the side. "I expect you found it rather difficult to pose as lady bountiful dressed as a boy," he said coolly.
She grinned impishly and dipped low in a curtsey, spreading an imaginary skirt, then rose and lifted her head regally. "Why no, my lord," she replied, mimicking the tone and diction of the aristocracy to perfection. "I have my fine silks and satins for that."
Adrian's dark brows snapped together, a mixture of anger, surprise, and speculation mingling in the eyes that regarded her, for he found it difficult to decide whether she was only playacting or issuing a subtle insult. But amusement touched him as well as she minced about the cabin imitating a lady of the haut ton. And burgeoning curiosity as he wondered at her ease in adopting the mannerisms of the gentility. He was on the point of questioning her about it when a knock fell on the door. She whirled at the sound, the facade vanishing abruptly.
With a touch of annoyance at the interruption, Adrian rose and strode to the door. It was the cabin boy with his supper tray. Adrian took it and dismissed the boy, closing the door and turning towards the table where he set the tray down and removed the cloth that covered it. Taking a seat, he stared musingly at the food on the tray before him while his thoughts wandered to the girl behind him.
He found her a curiously intriguing creature. There was an air of innocence about her even with the worldliness that was so startling in one so young, though the latter would, naturally, have been unavoidable considering the life she'd undoubtedly led. The admix of boy/child and budding woman aroused his curiosity as well, and something else within him that he could put no name to and had no real desire to pursue. And all of those things, with the inconsistencies of her manner and speech, made him wonder at her origins and the forces that had produced so intriguing a creature.
Certainly it was those things, combined with the budding beauty of face and figure, that produced this fascination in her. And he freely admitted to himself that he was fascinated, curious because of the puzzle she presented him with. Though, of course, nothing more. Except compassion and an unwonted protectiveness towards her that both surprised and irritated him.
He hadn't known her even a full week, and yet she possessed his thoughts with disconcerting frequency. And that annoyed him too.
On the other hand, it was insane to chafe over the one spark of interest in this whole tedious voyage. She was a stimulating, entertaining, and frequently irritating puzzle. Not the least because she dared challenge him as no one before her had. He really should strive to enjoy it while he could. For it would certainly pass, this fascination. It always did. And when it did, the deadly, suffocating boredom crept back until he found some other source of distraction.
He shrugged mentally and picked up the cutlery to carve a piece from the chicken before him. But, before he'd even taken a bite, it occurred to him that he'd failed to see that she was fed, and he wondered if she'd eaten today or yesterday. He felt his own appetite vanish and replaced the meat on the platter, frowning thoughtfully.
Why the sudden qualm when he wasn't in the habit of concerning himself with servants? He didn't find the answer and tried to shrug it off.
He found he couldn't, not once it occurred to him that she was probably far hungrier than he was. After a moment, he turned towards her, intending to send her in search of her own dinner.
She was huddled in the corner, studying him with an intensity in her deep brown eyes that was almost a touch. He was startled at the heat that rose involuntarily inside him, and more than a little irritated at the effect she had on him.
He regarded her in frowning silence for several moments, puzzling over the circumstance and unable to explain it away. Regardless of the fact that he'd noted her budding beauty, she was still entirely too thin for his taste, too young, and of a class that had heretofore held no appeal for him. And didn't now except . . . . He allowed his eyes to wander over her speculatively, then forced a mental shrug. No doubt it was the ever present boredom. It certainly had nothing to do with a lack of female companionship or an outlet for release. Lavinia Johnson adequately assuaged those needs.
He was bored with her though, he realized with sudden insight. Perhaps that was the answer. And Danielle did belong to him, to do with as he pleased. On the other hand, he only had her word for it that she was old enough to take a man to her bed. Nor, to swing in the opposite direction, could he be completely certain that she hadn't been selling herself for years in order to survive on the streets. And, as he'd told her before, he had no desire for the french pox.
Shrugging his momentary interest aside, he summoned her with a gesture of his hand, turning back to the table as she surged to her feet and approached him warily.
She stood beside him, shifting nervously and trying to ignore the abundance of food set before him.
"Sit," he ordered curtly.
She sat obediently, though she scowled darkly at his abrupt command, wondering indignantly if he thought she was some kind of performing animal. She forgot her anger, however, and gaped up at him in surprise as he carved a leg and thigh from the chicken and extended it towards her, waiting expectantly. She glanced from the piece of meat to his inscrutable features, swallowing hard on the saliva that puddled in her mouth as the aroma wafted past her nostrils. But she made no move to take it.
He frowned. "Take it."
She reached for it tentatively, half expecting him to snatch it back, having offered it only as a cruel tease, glancing from the chicken to his face in an effort to judge when he would make his move, then back to the meat again. When he didn't, she took the proffered food hesitantly, stared at it a moment, then looked up at him. He tore off a chunk of bread and handed it to her. "Eat," he said tersely and turned his attention to his meal.
She studied him a moment more and finally shrugged, scooting backwards so that she could rest her back against the bulkhead as she eagerly tore off a piece of meat with her teeth. It tasted every bit as heavenly as it smelled, and she closed her eyes, savoring the taste and texture of it on her tongue. He was studying her when she opened her eyes, and she blushed in painful embarrassment. But he looked away almost at once, and she was able to do tolerable justice to the food, carefully separating the thigh and leg at the joint and dividing the bread into two equal halves before she consumed the bread and stripped the chicken to the bone. Finished, she pulled a square of cloth from the pocket of her breeches and carefully wrapped the remaining piece of chicken and bread in it. When she glanced up, it was to find his eyes on her once more, his dark brows creased in a frown of annoyance.
"What are you doing?" he asked curtly.
She gaped at him then glanced back at her stash. "I'm savin' some for later."
His lips thinned. He held out his hand imperiously. "Give it to me if you aren't going to eat it."
She clutched it to her. "But you said I could have it," she objected indignantly.
He sighed in exasperation. "I'll see that you get something else when you're hungry again, but I'll not have you stashing food about the cabin to attract insects and rodents. Either eat it or dispose of it," he snapped abruptly.
She swallowed hard and looked up at him in dismay. She couldn't bear the thought of him disposing of it, and she wasn't at all certain he'd remember his promise when she was hungry again. "Then I'll hide it somewhere else," she said belligerently.
One dark brow rose imperiously. His hand remained outstretched however, and, after a moment, she favored him with a look of strong resentment, opened the cloth, and resumed eating. If he was going to be nasty about the thing, she thought, then she could at least have one full stomach, and they finished their meal in silence.
Finished, she laid the bones on the floor beside her and carefully wiped her mouth and hands on the square of c
loth, swallowing convulsively and wondering if he'd object if she went in search of water to wash her meal down. She looked up to discover that he'd extended his cup and, after a moment's hesitation, took it, sniffing at it suspiciously before she took a ginger sip. It was warm ale, and she shuddered as she swallowed, screwing up her face at the bitter taste. But she'd drank water that tasted every bit as bad or worse and took another sip to wash down her food before she returned the mug. He regarded her with amusement but took the cup without comment and refilled it before he settled back in his chair to study her over the rim as he sipped the ale.
"Tell me about yourself," he said abruptly.
She looked up at him in surprise, wondering if he was serious and, if so, why he wished to know. "What do you want to know?" she asked finally.
He frowned pensively at the dark liquid in his cup for a moment, then turned his piercing stare on her. "You can begin by explaining where you're from. And don't bother to spin me a tale about the London streets, since I'm well aware that that is not your origins. You misplace your cockney accent, you see, with fascinating regularity."
Chapter Six
Her eyes widened in dismay. She'd feared she'd given too much away, but it hadn't occurred to her that it was the way she'd said it and not what she'd said. Finally, she shrugged philosophically. "One foundlin' home and another in and about London anyway."
He studied her skeptically, but she'd leaned back against the bulkhead, staring musingly into space, and missed the look. The tale she related wasn't really an unusual one except as it pertained to the education, however rudimentary, that she'd received at the hands of her Vicar Pugh, the man who'd run the first foundling home she'd found herself in and apparently regarded in the light of a father. From the time the vicar died, things had gone from bad to drastically worse, and although Adrian wasn't surprised to hear most of what she related, he was surprised at how ill it made him feel, despite the fact that he'd been expecting much of what he heard.