“Don’t apologize. It happens sometimes when—”
“I know. It used to happen with my father. He’d have a bad night and come home in such a state. Giddy and anxious.” She shook her head, as if shaking free of an old memory. “But it’s never happened to me before.” She blew out a long breath and sat up properly. “I suppose I’ve never been exposed to that sort of violence. Not even when I worked with my father. Some of Gage’s men liked to posture and threaten a bit, but none of them ever tried to strangle me. I suppose that’s—”
“What did you say?”
“I… Which part?”
He didn’t answer. He just pulled down the collar of her gown to reveal the red, swollen skin beneath. “Jesus God.”
“Yes, my thoughts at the time were much the same.”
Carefully, he ran his fingers beneath the injury as rage returned, boiling under his skin. Until now, he’d never understood the need of some men to seek vengeance. He’d suffered all manner of injuries at the hands of others in his line of work, but he’d never answered those insults with more violence than was necessary to subdue his attacker and bring him to justice. That had always been enough for him.
It wasn’t enough now. It wasn’t anywhere near sufficient to appease his rage. He wanted blood.
“You look very fierce,” Esther said softly.
“He hurt you.”
“And you.” She drew his hand away from her neck, but he kept hold of her fingers when she would have pulled away completely.
“Did you punch your attacker?” he asked, studying the reddened knuckles.
“I did.” She flexed her fingers experimentally. “Hurt me more than it hurt him, I’m afraid. I’m quite out of practice.”
Cautiously, he bent her thumb this way and that, searching for signs of damage.
“I know how to make a proper fist.” She pulled free and demonstrated, placing her thumb on the outside. “I didn’t break anything.”
“So I see. Did Will teach you how to fight?”
“A little. A person can only carry so many daggers. At some point, you’ve thrown them all, and then where are you?”
Throwing punches at men twice your size, he thought. The image did nothing to settle the roiling fury. “Did you often have to put the practice to use?”
“No. Never, thank God. I don’t care for it, particularly.” A hint of smile emerged. “I did a fair job of it tonight, though.”
He thought of the man with the dagger in his leg, the other man groaning on the ground. She damn well had done a fair job of it. “You sent a man off limping and—”
“Limping. Oh. Oh, I just realized…” She shifted awkwardly and bent down to pull up the hem of her skirts to her ankles. “My dagger. He took my dagger. That rotter.”
Her indignation surprised a laugh out of him. “I don’t think it was intentional.”
“It’s not funny,” she grumbled, her shoulders slumping. “It was my favorite one. My absolute favorite one.” She slumped even farther. “And he broke my rope.”
Ten
Esther would have been content to pass the night in the carriage. Everything she wanted was there. Safety, comfort, privacy. Samuel. She wished she had the nerve to wrap her arms around him once more, lay her head down again, and let the sound of his steady heartbeat soothe away the shadows of fear that remained.
All too soon, the carriage came to a stop outside Samuel’s house. She thought longingly of her rooms at the hotel and her wonderful bath but said nothing as Samuel escorted her up the front steps.
For all they knew, the men at the park had followed them from the hotel. Samuel’s home was closer, and safer.
She was a little surprised, then, when he motioned her to stay behind him as he cautiously stepped into the foyer.
“Do you think they might have come here?” she whispered as laughter, muffled but lively, floated up from downstairs. She glanced around his shoulder for a peek into a lavishly decorated parlor that looked undisturbed. “It doesn’t appear as if there’s anything wrong.”
He cocked his head, listening. “Must be in the garden.”
“Who? The men from the park?” She reached down for her second dagger.
“No.” Samuel pulled her upright again. “No, it’s all right. We’re safe. I was only—”
His explanation was cut short by the appearance of a stout elderly woman. The housekeeper, by the looks of the perfectly enormous chatelaine attached to her belt. Stopping two feet inside the foyer, she took in their disheveled appearances with an air of great disapproval. “What was it this time?”
“We were accosted in the park,” Samuel supplied.
The woman didn’t so much as bat an eyelash at the news that her employer had been cavorting with a strange woman in Hyde Park after dark. “Are you injured?”
“He’s been…” Unwilling to say shot and possibly incite panic, Esther waggled her fingers at her own cheek and nodded at Samuel.
Though the woman was nearly as short as Esther, she still managed to somehow look down her nose at Samuel’s wound. “It doesn’t appear to be serious.”
“It isn’t,” Samuel returned. “Mrs. Ellison, however, has sustained an injury to her neck.”
Ah, Mrs. Ellison—the name she’d used at the hotel. “I’m quite all right.”
“Her neck?” the woman echoed, one brow winging up. “Shall I send for the physician?”
Esther took a quick step closer to Samuel. “Certainly not. I assure you, there is no need.”
Samuel’s hand came up to move in a soothing circle at the small of her back. “At least let Mrs. Lanchor have a look at it. She’s a fair judge of these things.”
Esther hesitated. She knew the damage to her neck was minor, but it was tender and sore. It made her feel vulnerable and more than a little defensive. Any injury, no matter how small, was a weakness. She wasn’t in the habit of exposing weaknesses to strangers.
She glanced at Samuel, who gave her a gentle, reassuring smile. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “You can trust her.”
Esther didn’t trust her. She didn’t know her.
But she trusted Samuel. Reluctantly, she pulled her collar down.
To her relief, Mrs. Lanchor didn’t poke and prod at the spot. She kept her hands to herself and inspected the injury with the cool detachment of a surgeon. “Any difficulty breathing or swallowing?”
“No.”
“Then a cold compress should be sufficient,” she announced and stepped away, giving Esther some much desired space.
Esther looked to Samuel and found his eyes were still focused on her neck. His expression darkened a second before his gaze snapped away.
“Right,” he said a bit hoarsely. “Right. See to it please, Mrs. Lanchor.” He nodded toward the woman, who took Esther’s hand in a firm grip and led her upstairs.
* * *
Sitting on the foot of his bed, Samuel studied his injury in a hand mirror. He was going to have the devil’s own time explaining the damage to the curious and nosy.
He deserved it, both the injury and any discomfort that followed. He’d earned it and more. What the devil had he been thinking, taking Esther to Hyde Park? Indulging in a child’s game at the expense of Esther’s safety?
He should have heard the men coming sooner. He should have paid closer attention, taken better care. He should have protected her.
“Has the mirror done something to incur your wrath?”
Esther’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. Turning, he found her standing in the doorway.
“You should be resting. Where is your cold compress?”
“Sitting, warm and useless, next to a bed. I used it, and now I’m better. Why are you scowling at the mirror?” She came toward him, frowning at his cheek. “Is it the injury? Does it pain you?”
“You shou
ldn’t be in here.”
“Bit late for that, I’m afraid,” she replied pragmatically. “Unfortunately, there will be talk now no matter what I do.” She stood in front of him, her skirts brushing his legs. “Why haven’t you taken care of that yet?”
“I was busy.”
“Doing what?”
Berating himself, primarily. But also cursing their attackers, Will Walker, and the world at large.
He set the mirror down and said nothing.
“Well, we’ll see to it now.” Leaning down, she ran a dainty finger beneath the injury. “The rest of the beard will have to come off.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
She straightened and went to the bellpull, giving it a firm tug. “It will grow back, Samuel.”
“I said no.”
“And you lot accuse women of vanity.” Returning to the bed, she grabbed the hand mirror and held it up to him. “Look at yourself. You cannot walk around with only part of a beard. You look as if you’ve…I don’t know…half a dead monkey on your face.”
Despite everything, despite the anger and fear, amusement bubbled to the surface. He reached up to scratch at the offending facial hair. “I’ve had this beard for nearly fifteen years.” He felt his lips curve into a smile. “A monkey?”
She tossed the mirror on the bed. “It sprang to mind.”
“But half a monkey?”
“Well, some monkeys are quite large.” She hitched up her shoulders. “A baboon, for example.”
He was fairly certain half a baboon would make several full beards. “Does this mean that before the bullet, it looked as if I’d an entire dead monkey on my face?”
“No, of course not. And to be fair”—she gripped his chin and turned his head for a closer look—“it doesn’t look quite so much like half a dead monkey as it does an injured monkey. Or a cat, if the monkey bothers you. Or a ferret. Or a pair of small squirrels. Or—”
“Must we use animal imagery?”
“No,” she replied and released him with a grin, “but I am enjoying the exercise.”
He was as well, admittedly, but he still didn’t want the shave. In a matter of moments, however, Sarah was sent off in search of the necessary tools. She returned in short order, carrying a tray filled with everything they would need to get the job done. “Here you are. Shall I fetch a footman or one of the grooms to assist?”
Esther picked up a pair of scissors off the tray. “I’ll do it. I shaved my father a time or two.”
Panic flared, and he caught her wrist when she stepped near and lifted the scissors to begin.
“Don’t worry.” She gave him a teasing smile. “I’m quite good with blades.”
“That’s not it.” He flicked a glance at Sarah. “Thank you. That will be all.”
“Yes, sir.”
Esther wiggled her caught wrist lightly as Sarah left. “You’ve nothing to fear from me. In truth, I assisted my father quite regularly, and someone had to teach Peter how to go about it. I am perfectly capable—”
“I have a scar,” he blurted out. In part because he wasn’t certain how long she might go on reassuring him, but mostly because it was easier to say it quickly.
“I’ll be careful of it. Where is it?”
He drew the line of it with his finger, an inch below the injury, all the way from ear to chin, and watched her eyes widen. He couldn’t help but wonder if those wide eyes would fill with revulsion once she saw the scar itself.
“That is quite large,” she said softly. “How did you acquire it?”
“My father.”
“Your…?” Realization and horror dawned on her face. “The fire poker?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” She set the scissors aside and regarded him through warm, thoughtful eyes. “Are you embarrassed, Samuel?”
“No.” Only he was a little. Worse, he was embarrassed to be embarrassed by the scar. It was an old anxiety, rooted in a few ugly childhood memories. He should have outgrown it years ago.
“Is that why you grew the beard?”
Initially, yes. He’d been young and insecure, desperate to escape the taunts of his peers and eager to please the pretty young ladies. But he’d kept the beard because it suited him. He’d not given the scar much thought in recent years. He’d probably not give it a second thought now if it was anyone other than Esther standing before him.
She was so lovely. Surely, there wasn’t a man in England who wouldn’t take a second look at Esther Bales.
Strange how the beauty of one person could make him feel the lack of his own so much more powerfully.
“Samuel?”
“Beards are fashionable.”
She twisted her lips at that nonanswer. “Is it the reason you don’t want the shave?”
He didn’t feel like answering that either.
“If you’ve had the beard for fifteen years,” she said, “then you’ve not seen the scar for fifteen years. It might not be quite as awful as you remember it.”
“I have a keen memory,” he reminded her.
“I suppose you do.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, but the beard must come off. Would you prefer to do it yourself? I could hold the mirror for you. Or I could fetch someone else.”
“No. No, that won’t be necessary.” He wasn’t a child anymore. And Esther was not one of the young, shallow, spoiled sisters of his friends. She was the beautiful, fascinating younger sister of his friend’s wife, which was entirely different. “Let’s just get on with it.”
She nodded and reached for the supplies.
Five minutes later, he couldn’t decide if allowing Esther to shave him was the best or worst idea he’d ever had.
It all began in a perfectly unremarkable, even mundane, fashion, with Samuel trimming the excess beard himself while Esther sharpened the blade and worked the soap into a lather. But then she was standing over him, applying the first brush of the soap, and everything changed.
Her fingers rested lightly against his jaw, keeping him still while she applied the lather. Her face loomed close to his as she worked around his injury, and her breath passed over his lips, soft and sweet. He caught a hint of roses and woods through the soap.
She was close enough to touch, near enough to reach out and pull into his arms. All he had to do was turn his head and lean, just an inch or two, and their lips would meet. He wanted to turn his head, and he might have, if he’d not been certain it would break the spell.
It was one of the most sensual experiences of his life. Every touch, every breath, every brush of her skirts against his legs warmed his blood and heated his skin. It was bliss. He wanted to draw out the moment, tease every sensation out as long as possible.
But eventually, she stepped away and traded the soap for the blade.
He knew a moment’s fear. It wasn’t the blade that worried him—it was what the shave would reveal. It was an irrational and juvenile fear, but he was powerless to stop it.
His hesitation must have shown, because Esther paused before him and offered a gentle smile.
“I won’t hurt you, Samuel.”
It was impossible to know if she was aware of his thoughts. More than likely, she meant to assure him that she’d not do him a physical injury. But he liked to think that she understood the nature of his fear. He liked to think that she understood him.
“I know you won’t.” Rationally, he did know it. Believing it was another matter.
“Close your eyes,” she suggested. “It might help.”
“I don’t need to close my eyes,” he muttered, mostly because pride demanded he at least make a cursory show of courage.
“Try it anyway. It will help me. It makes me nervous, your staring.”
“Liar.”
She held up the blade and feigned a tremor in her han
d. “You don’t want me doing this, do you?”
The woman had hurled a knife in near darkness in the midst of an attack and hit her mark. Next to Gabriel, she had the steadiest hands of anyone he’d ever met. Still…
He eyed the sharp edge of steel aglow in the lamplight. It couldn’t hurt to be cautious.
“I’ll try it.”
“Excellent.”
He took a mental picture of that lovely smile to hold in his mind, then closed his eyes and motioned her to begin.
Not surprisingly, having a blade passed over one’s face proved to be slightly less arousing than being lathered with soap. While it may have been less of a sensual delight, however, it felt infinitely more intimate. It was the trust involved. His throat was exposed to Esther Walker-Bales and her blade, and she was being extraordinarily careful.
Her small, clever fingers tipped and turned his face, searching for just the right angle. The blade scraped softly against his skin in evenly pressured strokes, over and over again.
He held perfectly still under her ministrations, moving only at her command.
The entire experience made him feel like a green boy, caught between arousal, wonder, and the terrible certainty that, any second now, things would go horribly, horribly wrong. She would be repulsed by his appearance. He’d say the wrong thing or make the wrong move. Someone would barge in and break the spell. Her fingers would slip.
He was sixteen again, struggling with the buttons of a woman’s gown for the first time. Only this was worse, so much worse. It wasn’t some sweet country lass who had offered an afternoon of her time for her own pleasure. It wasn’t just any pretty woman touching him now. It wasn’t just any woman he was trusting. It was Esther.
“Nearly done.”
Esther’s voice floated above him as a warm, wet towel was applied to his cheeks and jaw. The sensation sent pleasant shivers across his skin.
“There we are.”
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and watched as she stood back to appraise her work.
“You’ll not have a second scar, I think,” she commented. “The injury is mostly superficial.”
“Good. That’s good.” Devil take the recent injury. What did she make of the scar?
A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) Page 13