She set the heavy pot on the counter. “Someone has to keep the larder full.”
“The larder is full.”
Desirée nodded toward the corner of the kitchen. Azrael perched guiltily atop the grisly remains of the fortnight-old bacon that had hung in the kitchen. The cat’s belly bulged grotesquely, and he licked his chops with unadulterated pleasure.
Nicholas didn’t want to know how his cat had managed to climb up to unhook an entire haunch of meat.
Nor did he want to know how Desirée had paid for the new bacon sitting atop the counter.
He was weary.
His head hurt.
And he wanted a drink.
CHAPTER 10
Desirée skewered Nicholas with a hate-filled stare as he headed for his keg of ale. She was furious with him—furious! She detested him for hanging Hubert. She despised the way he made a cruel spectacle out of a flogging. And she hated how he pretended to be merciful when it was obvious he didn’t have a morsel of compassion in him.
But damn it all! Even as she glared at the nefarious brute whom she’d cursed all the way home, the moment he slumped down guiltily onto the bench—his shoulders hunched, his head lowered, his brow furrowed—she felt her ire start to fade into grudging pity.
Despite her cross words, Desirée had always had a strange capacity for understanding the very worst of humanity. Perhaps it was because she’d lived among thieves and learned to forgive their foibles and failings. Indeed, by strict moral standards, she herself was part of the dregs of society.
It must be wretched work, this occupation of his that drove him to drink and lie about the severity of his punishments just to ease his guilty conscience. She supposed if she spent her days applying thumbscrews and scold’s bridles and stocks to outlaws, she’d work up a thirst for oblivion, as well.
She studied him as he moped over his ale. How could she stay angry with him, when he kept looking so irresistibly miserable?
Even with shadowed eyes, furrowed brows, and a grim frown, he was handsome, in a pathetic sort of way. Indeed, it was a pity he was a lawman. If it weren’t for his hateful profession, he’d likely have the ladies swarming after him like bees after honey.
Maybe then he wouldn’t be so melancholy.
But while her heart softened fractionally toward him, she couldn’t turn off her calculating mind. She realized she might be able to play upon his guilt to get something she wanted. As she’d learned from Hubert, one had to look after one’s own interests, because nobody else would.
Sensing she’d have better success with honey than verjuice, Desirée waited till he was on his fourth cup of ale, then filled the trencher of maslin with bacon pottage and set it on the table before him.
Still staring into his cup, he murmured, “I’m a lawman, Desirée. I do what I have to do. If you can’t—“
“I know.”
She casually swept Snowflake up from where he was licking his paws—no easy feat, since he seemed to have gained several pounds. She cradled the purring beast in her arms. Surely Nicholas wouldn’t bellow at her now, not while she was holding his beloved pet.
“Nicky,” she ventured softly, then corrected herself. “Nicholas. I’m...sorry. I didn’t come to the town square to spy upon you. I had no idea there was a flogging today. I came to purchase a new slab of bacon. That’s all. But...there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
He sniffed and stared into his ale.
She began sauntering back and forth before him, scratching Snowflake behind the ears. “You see, I haven’t lived in a proper house for years. I’m not accustomed to being closed up behind walls. I’ve always come and gone as I pleased.”
That wasn’t precisely true. She’d usually come and gone as Hubert pleased.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she continued. “Perhaps Hubert did ask you to see to my welfare because he...he cared about me.” She pretended to wipe away a tear with the edge of her thumb. “But I’m certain he didn’t mean for me to be kept like a slave.”
“A slave?” Nicholas scowled.
She shook her head sadly. “I might as well be chained to the hearth.”
His eyes closed down to smoldering slits. He clearly wasn’t moved to pity by her speech. But he was at least listening. “What is it you want?”
She gave Snowflake one last pet, then lowered him to the floor. “I want to go out. I want to go into town. I can do the shopping.” She sat down across from him and continued enthusiastically. “Surely after a long day of...” Flogging thieves? Torturing prisoners? Cutting off thumbs? “Work,” she decided, “the last thing you want to do is shop for provender.”
She could see by the pensive twist of his mouth that he was considering her offer.
“I can go while you’re out,” she said, “keep the shelves stocked, learn the latest gossip, breathe a little fresh air—“
“Play a few games of chance?” He stirred idly at his pottage.
She frowned. “Certainly not!”
Indeed, the idea had occurred to her briefly. She could make double her maidservant’s wage in a few hours at Fast and Loose. But watching the thief suffer under Nicholas’s whip hand today had convinced her to lie low and make an honest living for a while.
He swirled the contents of his cup. “How do I know you won’t take my coin and leave Canterbury?”
She shrugged. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
He chuckled humorlessly into his ale. “A lot of men have made that mistake, I’d wager.”
He was right. Nonetheless, she chided him with a frown.
“Very well, then,” she proposed, “make it worth my while to return.”
He stopped middrink, peering up at her over the lip of his flagon. “Worth your while?” A hint of smoke entered his eyes. “What did you have in mind?”
What Desirée had in mind completely flew out of her head when his gaze slipped lower, touching her lips, her throat, her bosom with subtle speculation.
She should clout him for his straying eyes. Desirée never suffered the leering of lechers. Unless, of course, there was profit to be gained.
But Nicholas’s attention engendered a different response in her altogether. Her breath caught, her skin tingled where his gaze alit, and suddenly the air grew uncomfortably warm.
At her continued silence, he lowered his cup, running his thumb slowly back and forth across the lip. She wondered how it would feel brushing over her own lip.
Then she gave her head a shake. God’s blood! What was wrong with her? Was she mad? This was the man who’d hanged Hubert. A man who flogged people for a living and flaunted his power before bloodthirsty crowds.
It didn’t matter that he had a handsome face.
And sad eyes.
Unruly hair.
And the body of a god.
Flustered and angry with herself, she snatched the cup from him and marched over to the keg to refill it.
By the time she returned with the brimming flagon, she’d regained most of her composure. It was time for real bartering. She might despise what Nicholas Grimshaw did for a living, but it had its uses.
“There is something that will make it worth my while to return.” She took and released a deep breath. “I’d like your assistance with my investigation.”
His eyes flattened. It was clearly not the exchange he’d had in mind.
“Your investigation?” He took the cup from her. “What investigation?”
“The murder at Torteval Hall. Hubert didn’t do it. I know he didn’t. I intend to find the one who did.”
“Ah.” His tone was predictably patronizing. “And what do you want from me?”
“I want you to help me question witnesses.”
“By help, you mean...”
She avoided his eyes, running a finger casually along the edge of the table. “Coerce them to talk. Persuade them to—“
“You mean torture them?”
She shrugged. “If need be.”
> He sniffed, then blew on a spoonful of pottage. He took a bite, then nodded. “This is good.”
She bit her lip in impatience. Of course it was good. She knew how to cook. It was only evil intent that had made her burn the first supper. “So will you?”
He rested the spoon in the trencher. “You’re wasting your time.”
“’Tis mine to waste.”
“According to the law, a man has already been hanged for the crime. Justice has been served.”
“Justice!” she burst out more vehemently than she intended. It would do her cause no good to engage Nicholas in an argument. She forced her voice to calm. “I only wish to discover the truth for myself, to put Hubert’s soul to rest.”
But he wasn’t easily gulled. “And perhaps exact a bit of personal vengeance?”
She didn’t know how to answer him. It would be hard to convince him she wasn’t seeking retribution, particularly since that first day, she’d come after Nicholas with a dagger.
He chuckled.
Vexed, she turned her back on him and walked away, tempted to dump the remainder of his pottage over his head.
His mouth half-full, he said, “I’ll make a bargain with you.”
Steeling herself, she faced him again.
He pointed to his trencher. “You make supper this delicious every night, stay away from my work, and stop calling me Nicky, and I’ll question your witnesses.”
Nicholas wasn’t overly concerned about keeping up his end of the bargain. Desirée had no authority to summon witnesses. And it was unlikely she’d find anyone foolhardy enough to follow her to the house of the shire-reeve. If she showed up at the gates of Torteval Hall, Lady Philomena would simply throw her out.
But he wasn’t about to tell her that. Not if it meant he could leverage her cooperation with a harmless promise.
“Done,” she agreed.
The way her eyes lit up, he couldn’t help but give the wench a grudging smile.
It was a strange thing, but for all the broken crockery, burnt supper, ruined clothing, destroyed bacon, and general havoc she’d caused, coming home to Desirée somehow seemed like the bright moment in an otherwise bleak day.
He’d never noticed before how cheerless his existence was. Perhaps it was all the years armoring his heart in impermeable chain mail and drowning his pain in drink. But now that he shared his cottage with a beautiful woman who stood up to him as an equal instead of screaming in terror or spitting at him in derision, something inside him was softening. He began to think he might miss the lass when she was gone.
As for the lust that kept bubbling to the surface when he set eyes on Desirée’s inviting lips and full breasts and swaying hips, he tried to pay it no heed. It would serve only to frustrate him. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept with a woman, and he’d be a fool to imagine there was any chance of it happening in the near future, not so long as he wore the mantle of the shire-reeve of Kent.
He finished his pottage, then let Azrael scramble up on his lap, stroking the overfed cat while Desirée cleaned up the kitchen.
Soon, between the several ales he’d consumed, the pleasure of a purring cat on his lap, his sated appetite, the soft crackle of the fire, and the strangely calming comfort of a woman moving about the cottage, a veil of contentment descended over him. So easy was his mood that his eyelids drifted closed, and he was gradually lulled to sleep.
The next thing he knew, Desirée was standing over him, jostling him awake.
The memory of their first encounter flashed through his muddled brain, and he instinctively grabbed her wrist.
“Nicholas!” she scolded, trying to pry loose.
He blinked the grogginess from his eyes. This time, she wielded no dagger. But he was amazed that he’d let down his guard so completely. He must have been relaxed indeed.
He released her. “Sorry.”
She clucked her tongue. “You should get into bed.”
He nodded. Then he smiled. Usually it was Azrael who nagged him to bed when he was passed out on the bench, brushing up against his legs till he roused.
Sleepily, he murmured, “Want to curl up at the foot of my pallet?”
“Certainly not.”
His grin widened. “I was talking to the cat.”
“Hmph.” She scooped Azrael off of his lap so Nicholas could get to his feet. “Do you think it wise to sleep with him? He seems the kind to steal the coverlet.”
“Azrael? He wouldn’t dare.”
She gave him a sly glance, cradling the beast against her breast. “I was talking to the cat.”
When Nicholas woke the next morn, he lay abed for a long while, staring at the timbers of the ceiling. Azrael, who despite Desirée’s predictions had been left plenty of the coverlet in which to burrow, slept blissfully on. But Nicholas was restless.
Today was the Sabbath.
Nicholas had never been comfortable in church. He knew the last thing the people of Canterbury wanted to see looming over their shoulders in the sanctuary was the shire-reeve of Kent, the enforcer of attendance at church. The congregation always cut him a wide berth, at the same time catching his eye to ensure they were counted among the adherents.
What they didn’t suspect was that Nicholas wasn’t the least bit interested in punishing that sort of sin. After all, whether a man attended or didn’t attend church did no harm to anyone save himself. Nicholas preferred to reserve his powers for far more serious crimes.
He wondered what the people of Canterbury would think if the enforcer of church attendance didn’t attend church this Sabbath. He sighed, throwing back the coverlet. That was what he wondered every Sabbath.
Desirée was probably already up and about, preparing for Mass, washing her face, combing her hair, smoothing the wrinkles from her surcoat. Nobody would look upon the lovely young Desirée with fear or disdain, even if the wicked lass cut their purses while they said their prayers.
Tying up his braies and slipping into a clean linen shirt, he crept into the adjoining room to find Desirée still dozing by the banked fire. The air was chill, and he was tempted to stoke the fire, but he didn’t have the heart to wake the lass, even for the Sabbath.
Loath to make any noise that might disturb her, he tried to sneak back into his bedchamber. But Azrael shot past him, and though Nicholas made a grab for him, the beast slipped through his fingers and headed straight for the sleeping beauty.
While Nicholas cursed the cat under his breath, Azrael brushed up against the peacefully slumbering maid, waking her with a rude sweep of his tail full in her face.
Nicholas winced as she sputtered to consciousness.
She seemed to forgive the cat for his transgression at once, stroking him affectionately. “Good morn, Snowflake.” Her voice came out on an endearing croak, and she looked at the cat with her one open eye.
Nicholas cleared his throat to announce his presence.
She blinked her second eye open, then rose up on one elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.” He strode to the hearth to prod the ashes to life.
Desirée sat up with a yawn, rubbing at her eyes to clear the cobwebs. “You’re up early.”
“’Tis the Sabbath.”
The Sabbath. Shite. Desirée felt a lump of dread drop into her belly.
She hadn’t been to church since her parents had sold her to Hubert. The last thing a pair of sinning thieves wanted to do was set foot in a holy sanctuary, where God would be most tempted to strike them with a bolt of lightning.
She didn’t regret avoiding Mass all these years. Desirée knew what she was. She knew she didn’t belong among the penitents. After all, she wasn’t sorry for what she did. It was a living. She figured it was a man’s own fault if he allowed himself to be cheated out of his silver.
And it wasn’t that she was godless. She believed in heaven and hell, and she expected she’d be joining Hubert in the latter one day. But she didn’t need a priest reminding her once
a week that she had no place among the angels.
The one concession she and Hubert had always made was that they never took coin on a holy day. It was an admirable sacrifice on their part. Crowds in their finery, their purses fat with silver, gathered at the churches every Sabbath. There would have been easy profit. But she’d resisted the urge, and that small gesture had become the sum total of her offering to the Lord.
Ballocks.
She didn’t want to go to Mass, especially not in that imposing cathedral that loomed over Canterbury like the fortress of God himself. Besides, it had been so long, she doubted she could even remember the Latin.
“St. Mildred’s is the closest church,” Nicholas said, adding a new log to the smoldering coals, “though if you’ve never seen the cathedral, ‘tis worth the walk.”
She bit her lip. “Actually...I’m not feeling well.”
He shot her a surprised glance. “Indeed?”
She nodded weakly, pressing fingers to her temple, reinforcing her claim with a soft moan. She sank back onto her elbows. “I think I had better stay abed.”
His brow furrowed slightly, as if he doubted her. “’Tis that serious?” It might have been her imagination, but she swore a hint of amusement flickered behind his eyes.
“Mm.” She tried to look as miserable as possible. “Perhaps,” she suggested, peering at him from under drooping eyelids, “you would be so kind as to say a prayer for me at church.”
“If you’re that ill...”
She sniffled.
“Maybe I should stay home to nurse you back to health.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t counted on that. “Oh, nay, I couldn’t ask that of you. ‘Tis only a...a passing ailment, I’m certain. You go to Mass without me. I’ll be fine.”
“Nonsense. I promised Hubert I would take care of you. ‘Tis what I intend to do.”
She opened her mouth to protest but could think of nothing to say. He’d caught her in her own deception. Now, instead of playing a penitent for the priest, she’d be playing an invalid for Nicholas.
She slumped back down onto the pallet with a little cough.
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