“And this?” She reached out to touch his jaw, and for a moment he was taken aback. She touched him so fearlessly. That was another thing to which he was unaccustomed.
“That was from a woman I put in the stocks in Winchester.”
“A woman?” Desirée pushed a dark piece across the board.
“She fought me like a wildcat,” he said, rubbing a thumb over the scar, “afraid to be left in the stocks, terrified she might be violated in the night.”
“And was she?”
He smirked. “Nay.”
Desirée arched a dubious brow.
He confessed, “I...watched over her all night.”
Her knowing smile was irritating. And when he looked down at the board again, he would have sworn his pieces weren’t where he’d left them. “Whose turn is it?”
“Mine.” She reached his side with her next move. “Crown me.”
Grumbling, he crowned her piece, then made a quick count of his own pieces, committing the number to memory. He pushed one of his disks against the edge.
She studied the board. “So how many executions have you ordered?”
He gave her a withering glare. “I think ‘tis my turn to ask you a question.”
“But I’ve already told you everything about—“
“What’s your favorite color?” He sat back against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. He suspected she was cheating, and if she was, two could play at that game.
She picked up one of her pieces, prepared to move it. “Why would you want to know that?”
“No reason. Just curiosity.”
She took a moment to decide. “Blue. Nay, green.”
“What kind of green?”
“What do you mean?”
She moved her piece to a new square, and he saw her casually nudge one of his pieces off the board and into her lap. He pretended not to notice.
“Emerald green or pine green?” he asked her. “Moss green? Meadow green?”
A tiny crease furrowed her brow. Obviously, no one had asked her such a thing before. “I don’t—“
“Or,” he said, leaning forward to take her hand and gazing into her eyes with purposeful, sultry seduction, “maybe you prefer the smoky green of my eyes.”
She looked startled and aroused all at once. Her hand tensed in his grip, but she didn’t pull away. “I... I...”
“Aye, my little cheat?” he purred.
She blinked. “What?”
“Crown me,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Crown me.” He nodded to the board.
She followed his gaze and frowned. While she was floundering under his attentions, he’d used his forearm to slide four of his pieces to her edge.
“How did you...?”
He ran his thumb over the back of her hand and gave her a sly grin. “Distraction.”
“Bloody hell,” she muttered, slipping her hand from his and reluctantly crowning his pieces.
He laughed. “’Tis a foolhardy lass who’d try to cheat a lawman.”
“’Tis a foolhardy man who’d invite a cheat to play in the first place.”
“True.”
And yet Nicholas willingly made that mistake again.
And again.
And again, challenging Desirée to new games of draughts until the morn became afternoon. Rather than stop their play for supper, they nibbled on cold bacon and stale bread and shriveled apples. When afternoon became evening, and the candles began to gutter out one by one, still they played. Finally Azrael started on his nightly rounds, prowling the cottage for mice, but only after Desirée’s third yawn in a row did Nicholas reluctantly bid her good night, leaving the gaming box on the table and retiring to his bedchamber.
Never had he spent a more enjoyable Sabbath. What a delight the wicked lass had turned out to be. For her, it seemed the challenge of the game was not the game itself, but her ability to cheat at it without being caught. As for Nicholas, he couldn’t have cared less about the draughts. He simply enjoyed her company.
Desirée was a bright, charming, desirable woman, one of those rare creatures whose wit was as startling as her beauty.
God help him, he didn’t want her to leave. Not yet.
As she snuggled closer to the banked fire, Desirée smiled. She hadn’t had so much fun since the time she’d won three shillings off of a drunken lord in one afternoon of Three Shells and a Pea. Today she’d wagered nothing and won nothing. But because of the pleasant company, the hours had flown by at a delirious pace.
Indeed, it wasn’t such a bad existence, staying in one spot, spending cold morns making frumenty in a warm cottage instead of slogging down muddy roads with a tough crust of horsebread, sleeping on a feather-stuffed pallet rather than flea-infested straw. Having a partner for draughts and a friendly cat to weave through her legs while she did simple chores for a decent wage was far from a miserable life.
It wasn’t as much coin as she would have made at Fast and Loose, of course, but it was honest work. She never had to look over her shoulder, go hungry two days in a row, or wonder where her next lodgings would be.
Hubert had always said that outlaws could ill afford to let the grass grow beneath their feet. But even he would have to agree this was a rather lucrative situation for her. In fact, it was exactly the kind of situation he’d been pushing her toward for weeks.
And indeed, the fact that her benefactor was a shire-reeve might not be the liability it seemed. What woman wouldn’t want the protection of the most feared brute in town?
The only problem was Nicholas himself. He’d made it perfectly clear this was to be only a temporary arrangement. Somehow she’d have to convince him otherwise.
She grinned at the glowing coals. That shouldn’t be too difficult. The other thing Hubert always said was that Desirée could charm the braies off a monk.
Lady Philomena was wrenched from sleep with a hoarse cry. Her pulse pounded in her breast. The terrifying nightmare had left her shivering in a cold sweat.
Someone had stolen the key!
Seized by sheer, unmitigated panic, she threw back the covers, whimpering as she became entangled in the bed curtains. Tearing the silk aside, she frantically dressed in the dark, throwing on her underdress and surcoat with uncharacteristic carelessness.
For days now she’d scoured the hall for that infernal key. But neither her own meticulous searching nor charging the flinching steward with its recovery had borne fruit.
At first, she’d been convinced it was only misplaced. It must have fallen from its hiding place atop the display of crossed swords in the great room and gotten kicked under the cupboard or behind the wall hanging or wedged in a crack of the stone floor. She’d forbidden the servants to sweep out the old rushes, for fear the key might be lost among them.
But after hours of forcing Godfry to root among the rushes in the hall like the pig he so resembled, to no avail, she’d come to the conclusion that the thing must have been found by someone, probably a naughty kitchen lad who didn’t know what it was, a child who’d thought it a comely prize.
In that instance, she had only to apply pressure through the steward to extract the necessary information and convince the culprit to surrender what he’d pocketed. So far, that pursuit had yielded no results.
But now her horrifying dream raised a third possibility.
Perhaps someone knew exactly what the key fit.
Someone in the Torteval household.
Someone with keen ears. Watchful eyes. And, she decided, a wish for death.
Worse, they might even now be foiling her perfectly laid plans.
She had to assure herself that wasn’t the situation. She had to be certain nothing had been compromised. And she had to do it now.
Time was of the essence, forcing her to take matters into her own hands, which struck terror into her soul. Her plans, after all, required that she remain aloof, discreet, unconnected to anything even remotely nefarious. It was risky enou
gh that she was slowly poisoning her own father-in-law. What she was about to do was as treacherous and foolhardy as a fox waving its tail under the noses of a pack of hounds.
Still, what other choice did she have? She could trust no one else with the task.
Quickly, before anyone could question her purpose, she swirled her maidservant’s drab brown cloak about her shoulders, pulling the hood far forward over her face. As dawn began to lighten the sky from black to iron gray, she passed through the gates of Torteval, making her way toward the village proper and the dank, foul, hellish place she’d glimpsed only once, half a year ago.
For Nicholas, the day passed in a blur. After the pleasure of Desirée’s company yesterday, he could hardly keep his mind on his work. All he could think about was getting home to her as soon as possible.
But at twilight, when Nicholas hurried home and swung open the garden gate, his smile of anticipation faded and his heart lurched with misgiving.
No smoke rose from his chimney.
No welcoming glow emanated from the cottage.
The shutters were tightly closed.
Had Desirée betrayed him? Had she shown her true colors and turned on him? Had she run off with the coin he’d given her to go to the market this morn?
It was his own fault. He knew better than to trust a woman who trafficked in deceit. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a sharp pang of disappointment. Curse the wench, in only a few days he’d grown accustomed to coming home to the sight of her pretty face and the smell of something burning on the fire.
There was no question. The damned imp had definitely stolen a piece of his heart.
Sighing, he closed the gate behind him. He slipped off the hood of his cloak and raked back his hair, then plodded toward the cottage. He wondered what else she’d stolen.
The moment he opened the door, he knew he’d been mistaken. Desirée was there. Her womanly scent lingered in the air, and in the dim light of the cottage, he saw a plucked chicken sitting on the counter, a full sack of flour on the shelf, and new flagons by his keg of ale.
“Nicholas?” she called from his bedchamber. “I’m in here!”
As ridiculous as it was, his heart actually fluttered at the sound of her voice. She hadn’t betrayed him, after all.
And as he closed the door behind him, an even more wondrous thought crossed his mind, a thought that fired his blood and roused his loins. Why was she calling him from his bedchamber? Was she waiting for him there? In his bed?
Irrational hope quickened his pulse as he stepped into the dark room. “Desirée?”
A flint sparked as she lit the candle beside his pallet.
She wasn’t in his bed.
But someone else was.
CHAPTER 13
Nicholas’s large satchel of tools hit the floor with a heavy thud. “What the...”
“’Tis the master of the mews from Torteval Hall,” she proudly announced.
Indeed, sprawled across Nicholas’s huge pallet, his arms and legs bound with rope, his mouth gagged, his eyes rolling in fear as he glimpsed first Nicholas and then the wall of torture instruments, was the man Desirée had cheated at dice.
“Lucifer’s ballocks, wench! Are you mad?”
She frowned, irked by his question. “Mad?”
“What the devil is he doing here?”
“I brought him here.”
“How?”
She shrugged. “I may have said something about letting him take a peek under my skirts.”
“What!”
“Well, I didn’t let him.”
Nicholas shook his head. He glanced again at the man bound to the bed. Desirée couldn’t have overpowered him. The fool must have willingly let her tie him up.
“Why did you bring him here?”
“He’s a witness. I told you, he’s from Torteval. He likely knows something about the mur-“
“Don’t!” He glanced at the master of the mews, who was listening with far too much interest. “Don’t say another word.”
She crossed her arms and skewered him with a glare. “You aren’t going to try to slither out of this, are you? We had a bargain. You promised me you’d—“
“God’s wounds! I didn’t think you’d actually—“
“What? You didn’t think I’d find any witnesses?” She narrowed her eyes to slits, then shook her head in slow comprehension. “You son of a... You never intended to hold up your end of the bargain, did you...Nicky?”
He straightened to his full height, highly offended, and stabbed a finger toward her nose. “Listen, you impertinent wench, whatever else you may think of me, I am a man of my word.”
She studied him with a sulky gaze. Behind her, Azrael twitched his tail, as if mirroring her irritation.
Certainly the damsel had no cause to disbelieve him. He’d kept his word to Hubert Kabayn, after all.
At long last she let out a sigh of reluctant trust. “You’ll do it, then? You’ll torture him?”
A muffled squeal came from the pallet as the panicked prisoner tried to thrash free.
Nicholas caught Desirée’s elbow to steer her out of the hearing of the poor wretch tied to the bed. “I’ll question him,” he whispered. “I never agreed to torture.”
She scowled in disappointment and hissed, “I thought you were a cold-blooded lawman.”
“And I thought you were a sweet-natured lass.”
She let the remark pass. “How do you expect to get the truth out of a man like that if you don’t torture it out of him?”
He frowned. “You have a lot to learn about interrogation.”
Instead of taking umbrage at his remark, she picked up the three-legged stool perched against the wall and strode to the middle of the room, planting it at a safe distance from the bed.
“Teach me,” she said, taking a seat.
Nicholas thought he’d never met a more dauntless woman. But here, she was over her head in perilous waters. She might be able to cheat men out of their silver without blinking an eyelash, but squeezing information out of them was another matter.
“Have you ever seen a man tortured?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Nay, but—“
“I thought not.” He jerked his thumb toward the doorway. “Go.”
“I have a strong stomach. I can—“
“Now.”
The wretch on the bed began struggling hysterically against his bonds, flapping his arms like a hen cornered by a fox.
“See?” Nicholas said. “He wants you to stay. Do you know why? Because he knows there are certain vile things I can do to him that I won’t undertake in the presence of a lady.”
Nicholas rubbed his hands together, as if relishing the torment to come.
“If you leave,” he continued silkily, “he fears my violence will know no bounds.” He turned to the man. “Isn’t that right? You want her to stay, don’t you?”
The man, blinking in confusion, rapidly nodded.
Desirée sighed. It wasn’t that she was bloodthirsty. On the contrary, she was rather averse to violence. The only reason she’d ever attended public floggings and executions was to cut the purses of distracted onlookers.
But she wanted to make sure Nicholas questioned the man thoroughly. She needed to get as much information out of him as possible. After all, she could hardly lure a different servant home each day without arousing suspicion.
Still, Nicholas was probably right. With her looking on, he’d likely stay his hand. She glanced at the sinister tools on the wall. Maybe she didn’t want to watch him, after all.
“Very well.”
The master of the mews wagged his head frantically back and forth, telling her nay, but she rose to go.
Before she left, she caught Nicholas by the sleeve and murmured, “Ask him what the murderer looked like.” She turned to leave, then thought of something else. “And find out what weapon was used.” She took a step away, then back. “And try to—“
“Don’t tell me how to
do my work.”
She furrowed her brows at him, then stalked from the room. “Come on, Snowflake.” The cat dutifully followed her.
She set about preparing supper, trying to pretend nothing unseemly was happening in the next room. She started a fire on the hearth. She poured a small dish of cream for the cat. She began chopping greens for pottage, all the while listening for telltale sounds that Nicholas had broken the witness.
All she could hear was the low, indistinguishable rumble of Nicholas’s murmuring. She hoped he knew what he was doing.
At the first horrible shriek, Desirée almost chopped off the ends of her fingers. The knife clattered on the cutting block, and her heart leaped into her throat. Dear God, what was Nicholas doing to the man?
“Nay!” came a scream.
Murmur, murmur.
“Nay! For the love of God, nay!”
Murmur, murmur, murmur.
“Please, my lord, not that!”
Murmur.
Desirée’s stomach wasn’t quite as strong as she’d thought. She gripped the counter, feeling sick.
“Nay-nay-nay-NAY-NAY!” he cried in increasing panic.
Bloody hell! What vile instrument was Nicholas employing?
The man screamed again, a long scream that turned Desirée’s knees to custard. She clapped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut.
After a moment, there was only silence. She cautiously opened her eyes.
God’s wounds, had he killed the man?
She carefully peeled her fingers away from her ears.
Nay, Nicholas was still talking to him, in words too quiet to discern. The man had stopped screaming, and he seemed to be gasping out something.
Desirée wanted to know what he was saying, but she dared not move from the spot. She didn’t want to hear that scream again at close range.
With trembling fingers, she resumed chopping the cabbage, then leeks, then onions. But when she reached for the chicken, she heard a scuffling at the doorway.
What she saw almost made her drop the knife. Nicholas was escorting the master of the mews, looking none the worse for his ordeal, toward the door, and the lawman’s arm was wrapped around the smaller man’s shoulders, as if they were old companions.
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