by Deb Marlowe
She felt fairly certain he’d flirted with her, too—and she had no idea how to feel about that.
“He’s out and about in the city.” She gave Angus a twisting grin as he approached. “Likely tryin’ to avoid me.”
“We’ll find ‘im,” Angus answered with confidence.
But it wasn’t easy. One of Angus’s crew had spotted the man near St. Giles, but there was no sign of him there when Francis arrived. Another street boy heard talk of an artist sketching at the castle, but no one had managed to spot him.
At last, Francis got lucky and they found her quarry on Cockburn Street. She paid the boys their fee and they melted away, while she tucked herself into a recessed doorway to reconnoiter.
Caradec had found a stool somewhere and was perched on it, right at the entrance to a narrow close. He was facing away from the alley, though, and staring intently at the rounded windows of a coffee shop.
Was he watching someone inside? She waited a while, and then began to ease slowly toward him, using the occasional pedestrian and successive entryways to conceal her movements.
She needn’t have bothered. He had his sketchbook out and was utterly absorbed in whatever or whoever he was drawing. Gradually she drew close enough to see that he was focused on a gargoyle perched atop the decorative lintel above the windows. Not the usual, distorted human figure, this gargoyle depicted a cat with demonic blank eyes, huge fangs and enormous, clawed feet. Its likeness took shape on the page beneath his rapidly moving fingers, and she leaned against a nearby wall to wait.
It gave her the chance to observe him undisturbed—and she took full advantage of the opportunity. He truly was stunningly good looking. She’d never seen such long hair on a man. It fascinated her. He wore no hat and his long locks were the brightest thing in this dim spot tucked between tall buildings—blonde like Hestia’s, but streaked with highlights honeyed by the sun. He wore it tied back in an untidy queue, but it would surely reach his shoulders when loose. Softly, her hands rubbed against her breeches, even as she imagined her fingers exploring that thick mane.
Almost. She was nearly close enough to catch his scent. She sidled a little closer. There. Linseed oil and a faint whiff of . . . trees. Like the faintest aroma of pine. She studied his long form, bent almost protectively around his sketchbook. In profile, his strong jaw stood out and when he looked up to study his subject, she could see his eyes had gone smoky in the shadows.
She’d just leaned forward to study the graceful movement of his hands when he suddenly stopped. Straightening, he gently blew on the page, then closed the book and tucked it away. He stood and gave a mighty stretch—and Francis swallowed.
He was so big, his shoulders so broad—and yet he was lean at the same time. Long and strong and lanky, like some Viking warrior of old. The combination was . . . tantalizing.
So many times she’d seen it—the tug of attraction. Everywhere from Covent Garden, to the ballrooms of the ton. She could certainly recognize it. Had put it to use more than once. She’d never fallen victim to such things herself, though. But now—Rhys Caradec had started something blooming inside of her and with each glimpse of him it stretched and awakened further.
He bent to catch up his bag—and caught sight of her.
And now she found herself the object of that intense focus. Their eyes met. Her breath caught. A prickle of sensitivity spit and sparked and traveled all through her like a flame following a long and winding fuse.
A slow, ironic smile started in the corner of his mouth, then widened to light up his whole face. “I wondered when you would find me.”
She lifted her chin. “I wondered when you would notice me.”
“Been here long, have you?”
“Long enough.” Abruptly, she grinned. “Although I will admit it took a while to track you down. You did a good job of avoiding me.”
“I wasn’t avoiding you, precisely.”
“No?”
The smile twitched again. “No. But I didn’t try to make it easier on you, either.”
She laughed. His eyes were still running over her, their weight almost alive, as his gaze darted about, assessing all the finer points of her disguise.
He looked away, picked up the stool, then glanced back at her. “Are you hungry, then?”
She shrugged.
He placed the stool just inside the coffee house door, before continuing on down the street. “Well, come on,” he called. “I’m starving.”
She hesitated. None of this was going as she’d imagined. There was something alive in the air between them. It wasn’t simple. It was . . . distinct. New. Unexpected. She found she wanted to know more.
A strange ache started up in her chest, watching him walk away—and she shook her head and chided herself for succumbing to dramatics. Scrambling, she hurried to his side as he walked on. “Where are we going?”
“Just up here.”
She followed, silent—and feeling decidedly dainty beside his large form. Surprisingly, she didn’t resent it—as she sometimes did at home, when a hulking man from the streets stomped about, throwing his bulk into the faces of smaller mortals. But Caradec moved quickly and lightly on his feet. He carried his strength with ease and she found herself appreciating the difference.
They’d nearly reached Market Street when he stopped at the wide steps leading upward and into Warriston’s Close. At the base stood an old woman tending a steaming cart.
“Have you had a bridie, since you’ve been in the city?” he asked.
“A what?” She watched him exchange a coin for two handfuls of something in flaky-looking crust. “Meat pies?” she asked. “We have those in London.”
“Not like this.” He handed her a pie, fragrant and warm, and bit into his.
Francis blinked—then quickly grew caught up in the sight of his enjoyment. She hadn’t even been truly hungry, but watching him, she was suddenly starving.
He had his eyes closed. His teeth looked strong and white as he took the first bite. His tongue darted out to catch the escaping juices. He moaned—and something fluttered in her stomach.
It wasn’t hunger pains.
“Come, sit down and try it.” He coaxed her over to the steps, still warm from the sun. They sat together. But not too close.
“Go on.” He gave her a nod and she lifted the pie and took a bite.
Her eyes widened. As with his, the juices ran. Without hesitation, she stuck out her tongue and licked them from her wrist and hand, unwilling to let a drop escape. “This is . . . wonderful,” she said fervently, before taking another bite.
He stared, watching her avidly, forgetting his own meal. She pointed with her chin.
“Oh, yes.” He bit in again. “Mab makes the best bridie I’ve ever tasted.” He smiled his appreciation at the older woman.
“The secret’s in the spices.” The older woman leaned in confidingly toward Francis. “Me darter moved to Italy with her husband. She sends me the freshest herbs—and fine stuff like you cain’t get ‘round here. Makes all the difference.”
“It surely does,” Francis agreed. She laughed suddenly. “You know, I knew a young woman with a baby, back at Ha—” She caught herself. “Back at home. When you gave the little tyke something particularly good, he would mumble the entire time he was eating it. Mmm, nmmm. Mmm, nmmmm.” She grinned up at Mab and cast a saucy glance at Caradec. “I absolutely understand the urge, now.”
He laughed and the old woman thanked her, then moved on with her cart. She and Caradec finished their meal, sighed and sat back, replete and happy. The stone radiated warmth, the street lay as quiet as the contented silence between them.
Now. This was the time that she should tell him. She’d met his challenge, now she could tell him why she’d come. Let him know about Hestia, how wonderful she was. How much she missed him. How much it would mean, if he could go back with Francis to meet her.
But that comment about not having roots—it still worried her and made her hesitate
. He’d sounded so adamant, almost defensive, about it. She suspected that it was going to be a job to convince him—and likely an argument.
And she—who had scrapped her way through numerous street brawls and traded insults with everyone from pimps and thieves to constables and even dukes—suddenly had no wish to fight.
“That was an unusual gargoyle you were sketching,” she said instead, surprising even herself. “I’ve never seen one quite like it.”
“This city is full of them, I’m finding. I saw a Green Man on the Royal Mile this morning. Someone saw me sketching it and directed me to St. Giles—but many of theirs are high and difficult to see. This street, though, hosts several interesting specimens.”
“Is that what you’ll paint next? Gargoyles?”
“Perhaps.” He yawned. “I nearly finished the river painting early this morning. I need a certain color to finish the sky, but I’m out. Now, while I wait, I’m ready to rest and explore again. I found the gargoyles interesting today—so I sketched them. They’ll bubble in the back of my brainbox, along with whatever else I find to store away. Eventually, an idea will pop up.”
Francis had never felt less like yawning. She thought about what he’d said as she watched the traffic on Market Street, visible from their perch.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked—and she turned to find him examining her again.
She blinked. “I was wondering what they would think.” She gestured. “The people of the city. Surely they are used to great artists coming here—but likely to paint the palaces, the churches, and the views. What would they say, if they knew you were thinking of painting their gargoyles?”
He shrugged. “I should think they’d be happy enough. They love their capital, and the gargoyles and grotesques are just another wonderfully unique aspect of it.” Eyeing her askance, he continued. “And in any case, the people here rather remind me of their gargoyles.”
She snorted. “Weathered?” she asked quietly, indicating old Mab’s retreating form.
“Enduring,” he corrected. “And unique. Fanciful, but practical about it, at the same time.”
Slowly, she nodded. “Yes. I think I know what you mean.” She gazed at him, sure that this must be the strangest conversation she’d ever had—and equally sure she wanted it to go on. “Is that always how you choose what to paint? Wander about until something strikes you?”
“Yes. That’s exactly how I do it.” He laughed. “Do you disapprove? I’m sorry to tell you that I am likely exactly what your elders always warned you about.” He waggled his brows. “The insidious, itinerant artist.”
He said it like she should picture him with horns. But in truth, he was a far cry from what she’d grown up worrying about. She had no desire to start that conversation, however. She let him continue, instead.
“I wander.” He threw an arm skyward. “I go where my urges take me and I stop when I find something interesting, beautiful or meaningful.”
It sounded . . . She wasn’t even sure how such an existence sounded, so opposite it was from her own. Wonderful? Terrifying? Free?
He was studying her again. “Sometimes,” he said softly. “Sometimes the thing that is interesting, beautiful and meaningful—is a person.”
Perhaps he was trying to unnerve her. Her. She almost laughed out loud.
Except, damn him, it was working.
She stood. She wasn’t a street rat any longer. Hestia was teaching her many things—including how to understand a situation and help mold it to suit her purposes. She hadn’t come all this way to let Caradec scare her off. She was here on a mission. She would tell him about Hestia, convince him to establish a relationship with her.
“You said yesterday that if I found you today, we could speak. I could tell you why I’ve come.”
He sighed. A big, massive breath full of resignation. “I did. And you could. But we don’t have to, do we?”
“We do. At some point.”
“It’s bound to be unpleasant,” he warned. “And this—this has been exceedingly pleasant. I’m very aware that you must have come from one of two persons—neither of whom I’m interested in hearing from. I’ll be irritated and you’ll be frustrated.” He shook his head. “Instead of ending our . . . acquaintance . . . on a sour note—wouldn’t you rather put it off, and perhaps . . . do this again?”
Search him out again? Meet the challenge he’d thrown out at her? Sit in the sun and talk with him? Share a meal and learn a bit about him, again?
She stood up. Perhaps that’s what she needed to make this work. It might help to know more of him. She could gauge the best way to approach what was sure to be a sticky subject.
She wasn’t intimidated. Or intrigued.
Oh, saints. She was a little of both. But she’d handled far more difficult situations.
“How old are you?” he demanded, looking up at her.
She sighed. “Older than my years.”
He nodded, as if he approved of this answer. “Going somewhere?” he asked.
“Home.”
Silence stretched out for a few moments. It felt heavy with . . . what? Disappointment? Expectation?
She straightened. “Not to worry, though, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He laughed. “Perhaps.”
“Oh, don’t doubt it,” she said loftily, and then she turned on her heel and walked away.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
“Flightly!” he called.
She looked back.
He was on his feet.
“Are we going to do this?” His voice carried down the curve in the street. “Enter into this . . .” His hand waved in the air.
She pressed her lips together. He was asking about more than just their game of hide-and-seek. But how much more? She had no idea—was suddenly afraid that she couldn’t even yet conceive of all that he meant—but she burned to know.
She nodded.
“I won’t hold back,” he warned. “I’m going to give you a run for your money.”
She tossed her head. “You can try.”
Then she blended into the traffic and disappeared.
Chapter Five
In the end, I decided I needed a mentor. Not just any woman, but one of elegance and grace, intelligence and beauty. But how to find such a paragon?
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Rhys found himself making a special effort with his neck cloth the next morning—and cursed when he realized what he was doing. Tying it off, he abruptly quit his room, throwing his bag over his shoulder as he strode downstairs.
“Weather’s changing, Mr. Caradec.” The landlady approached as he headed for the door. She followed him and peered at the sky. “Rain coming midday. Mark my words. If you will just hold a moment . . .” She turned and went to a cupboard behind the desk that held the register, returning with a folded length of brightly colored wool. “Take a spare plaid, it’ll keep you dry enough.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Beattie. I’ll be sure to return it.” Pausing, he looked from the tartan to the sky. “If you don’t mind, might you have one more to spare?”
“Aye. I do indeed. Wait here.” She shuffled off and returned with a similar fold of fabric. “Found a friend, have you, Mr. Caradec?” she asked knowingly.
“I hope so, Mrs. Beattie.” He grinned at her. “As you appear to have your finger on the pulse of the town, perhaps you’ll let me know?”
Her laugh rang out, a peal of delight. “Oh, go on with ye, lad—and enjoy yer day.”
Chuckling, he left the inn behind. He wandered a bit, letting the flow of traffic take him where it would, watching the people and the scenery with a casual eye. The city was old and venerable—and pulsing with life. From ancient kirks to new public spaces, it bustled with energy but contained plenty of quiet spots for reflection, as well. He quite liked it. He continued on, absorbing the city’s atmosphere, and keeping his eye peeled for a sign of Flightly.
It was a point of pride, not to let her find him too easily today. And after the multiple challenges she’d thrown at him, he was due one of his own. But he had to admit, he was looking forward to seeing her again—and seeing how this all played out.
He was a man who enjoyed women, it was true. And they liked him in return; he was not loath to admit. Fair dealings, openness and honesty—it was his way. Women were no different.
Except, he was forced to acknowledge, this one was different. He didn’t even know her real name. He did know that she was an appealing mix of innocence and worldliness—and he wanted to know more.
Impatience tugged at him, but it was more than his usual anticipation of some easily scored, good-natured bed play. This girl had depth. She would require finesse.
It wouldn’t be easy. She was like a finely formed puzzle box. One wanted to trace gentle fingers all over her, probing until all of her secrets lay open. But for her, he would proceed slowly. Show patience. If he let her set the pace, he felt certain that the reward would be . . . substantial.
But first, she must find him. And he had work to do—and inspiration to seek. Looking around, he realized he was near Holyrood Palace. The entrance to the park lay just ahead—and a few bars of discordant music sounded from that direction. Curious, he followed the noise.
The park was surprisingly full. Perhaps everyone had Mrs. Beattie’s weather eye—and hoped to absorb the last rays of the sun before the rain came again, for the rough, open field had taken on the air of an impromptu fair. A couple of tinker’s wagons were set up, doing a steady business. Students sat in groups, holding precious books and earnest discussions. A baker wandered, selling sweet buns. Men played chess around a couple of portable tables. Children ran with hoops and balls. Women watched them and sewed in contented circles.
He cast an eye to the skies—there were definitely clouds moving in—but for now Rhys followed an ear-numbing chorus of unrelated notes to a group of musicians beneath a spreading chestnut tree. He took a seat with his back to sun-warmed rock and settled in to watch.
