by C. J. Archer
“I want what he’s got,” the man said.
“You mean you want his charm and wit and good looks? Sorry, I can’t do that. Would you like an apple instead?”
The bulging brow crinkled again then cleared as the big man realized he’d been insulted.
“Rafe,” James warned from the corner. “Don’t kill him. Not here.”
The ogre grunted. “Him kill me? Ha!”
Rafe sighed. “Just move aside so I can leave.”
The prisoner puffed out his chest, stretching his jerkin to its limits. “You get past me and I’ll open the door for you.”
Rafe didn’t want to be the one to swing first. He usually liked to wait and let his opponent take the initiative. It was a good way to get him off balance immediately so that Rafe needed only one well-placed blow to finish the fight before it got out of hand. But the man wouldn’t budge unless Rafe made him.
He stepped forward and grinned. As the prisoner thought about whether to grin back or not, Rafe landed a punch just below the ribs. He didn’t pull back and it must have hurt, but the man merely grunted.
“That all you got?” he snarled.
Rafe shrugged one shoulder and half-turned, but kept the ogre in his sights. The big man rolled up his sleeves to reveal thickly muscled forearms.
“What are you doing?” James yelled. “Fight him!”
“How can I?” Rafe said. “He’s bigger than me.”
“You’re giving up? I thought you were a mercenary.” His voice turned shrill. “I thought fighting is what you did best. I thought it was the only thing you were good at.”
“Now, that’s not fair. I haven’t got a weapon on me. Mercenaries don’t fight without weapons.” The disbelief on James’s face almost made Rafe laugh. His poor little brother was working himself into a panic. Time to put him out of his misery. “Oh, wait, I do have a weapon,” Rafe said.
James sank to the floor with relief. “Thank God,” he murmured.
“You’re gonna need more than a knife,” the prisoner said. Out of the corner of his eye, Rafe saw him cracking his knuckles as he advanced.
“I haven’t got a knife,” Rafe said. “No blades, no hammer, not even a pin.” Confused, the oaf paused and his eyes narrowed at Rafe. “But I do have this.”
Rafe swung round and landed a punch on the man’s jaw that sent him stumbling back into the door. He recovered and with a roar of anger, ran at Rafe. Rafe ducked and, as the giant lumbered past, tripped him. The prisoner tumbled to the dirty rushes like a felled tree, landing with a thump that shook the floorboards. It all happened without Rafe really thinking. In moments of combat, his mind seemed to empty and switch to another level. The motions were effortless, instinctive, and he could see his opponent’s weaknesses as clearly as he could see the shape of him.
Perhaps James was right and fighting was the thing Rafe did best.
He pressed his boot to the back of the man’s neck, not hard enough to crush anything vital, but hard enough to induce fear. The trunk-like arms flailed about trying to grasp Rafe’s leg and his feet kicked aimlessly. It looked comical, but no one laughed. James and the other prisoners had to live with him once Rafe was gone and weren’t stupid enough to make an enemy of the giant.
Rafe removed his foot and held out his hand. The oaf glared at it for a long moment, then he took it and heaved himself to his feet.
“Help yourself to an apple,” Rafe said. He still held the man’s arm in a grip that would leave bruises. “But that’s all. I’m not an almshouse. I can’t afford to feed everyone in here.” He stepped up to the prisoner and lowered his voice. “Touch my brother and I’ll kill you.”
The ogre said nothing but he didn’t seem as cocksure as before. It wasn’t a promise, but it would have to do. Rafe let him go.
James edged around the cell to avoid the big man and sidled up to Rafe. “You’re mad,” he said.
Perhaps he was. Rafe sometimes felt he wasn’t in complete control of his mind and body when he fought. A kind of shadow passed through him, sucking out his essence, leaving behind all the things that made him a good assassin—ruthless efficiency, a heightened awareness of his surroundings, and instinct.
He opened the unlocked door and stepped out with a nod at the nearby guard. In the cell, the ogre was busy demolishing an apple from James’s pack. Perhaps he was simply hungry. It must take a lot to fill up that big body and hunger can do terrible things to a man.
The two smaller prisoners moved past them and headed for the central courtyard that all the prisoners were free to use during the day.
“I’ll bring more food tomorrow,” Rafe said to James.
“Thanks.” James clasped Rafe’s forearm. “I do appreciate it.”
“I know.”
He followed the guard through the warren of tunnels past the other cells to the front office and out into daylight. London was bathed in autumn sunshine. He turned his face to the blue sky and breathed deeply. It was good to be a free man in a free city. Except he wasn’t completely free. Not while his brother was locked away in that hell, and not while Barker was alive, biding his time until he’d learned the best way to make Rafe suffer.
He set off on the long walk to Lord Liddicoat’s house on the Strand on the other side of the river. With Hughe’s initial payment all gone and most of Rafe’s money too, an advance payment from Lord Liddicoat was increasingly necessary, especially if he needed to feed James’s dangerous cell mate too. At the bridge, he almost detoured to the Rose to see Lizzy but decided against it. He liked it there and had enjoyed helping her in the storage room above the tiring house. If he visited again he might not want to leave. Right now he had business to conduct.
He was almost at the bridge when he realized he was being followed.
CHAPTER 5
Rafe studied his surroundings. A mixture of shops and lodgings, coaching inns and brothels lined Borough High Street, the street leading up to the bridge. It was as busy as always with late-morning traffic heading into and out of the city proper on the other side of the river. The figure blended into the crowd with his simple, dark clothing, but Rafe saw him—first in the doorway of the saddler’s shop and again exchanging words with a leather seller farther along the street.
Once Rafe was over the bridge, he took the smaller, quieter lanes instead of the main thoroughfares in the hope of drawing Barker out. But no one approached him or tried to kill him despite the many opportunities. By the time the city wall was behind him and the grand estates of the Strand ahead, he began to wonder if he’d been mistaken and it hadn’t been Barker. Perhaps no one followed him.
But he couldn’t be wrong. As with fights, his instincts in such moments were sharp and never failed him. It must have been Barker. And drawing him into the open for a confrontation was not going to be as easy as Rafe thought.
Lizzy left the tiring house soon after the performances. Most of the players went to the Two Ducks Inn but their mood was somber and their conversation filled with dire predictions. She couldn’t stay at the Rose because the Admiral’s Men needed the tiring house for their late afternoon performance, so she took some mending home with her. She was about to turn into her street when she met Rafe coming from the opposite direction.
“Let me carry the sack for you,” he said.
“That’s not necessary.”
“I know.” He held his hand out and she gave him the sack. “I need to be of some use or I’ll go mad.” At her quizzical frown, he added, “Don’t mind me. I wanted to begin my new job early but was refused. Lord Liddicoat doesn’t return to London until next week, so there’ll be no work until he’s back.”
What would someone like Rafe do for that illustrious nobleman? Work in the stables or grounds of Liddicoat Hall? Perhaps, but the lord himself didn’t need to be in London for Rafe to begin those kinds of duties. Surely a steward would direct him. Same with working in the house, unless he was groom of the chamber for Liddicoat himself. No. She couldn’t see Rafe dressing a
nyone, no matter how much they paid him. She stifled a giggle but a little snort escaped.
Rafe cocked his head to the side and a half smile tugged at his mouth. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Were you laughing at me?”
“No!” She hurried ahead but he easily caught up to her. The man had a stride twice as long as hers.
“You were,” he said.
She dared to glance at him and was relieved to see he was still smiling. They arrived at her house and he didn’t give the sack back, which meant she’d have to invite him in. The neighborly thing to do would be to ask him to stay for supper, since he was on his own.
Before she could dig up the courage, the front door opened and her father squinted out at them. “Lizzy, I’ve been…Oh. You brought company.”
“Papa, you recall Rafe Fletcher.”
“Yes.”
Rafe cleared his throat. “I have Lizzy’s mending. May we come in?”
“Uh…well…” Somewhat reluctantly he opened the door. It seemed his manners were stronger than his uncertainty of Rafe.
“Do you mind, Lizzy?” Rafe asked.
She shook her head. What else could she do? At least her parents would do most of the talking so she wouldn’t have to think of something to say. No, that wasn’t quite right. She could think of many things to say to him, she just didn’t know how to say them. Most of the time when he was near her throat went dry and her tongue grew fat. Speaking had become torture.
“Why is no one coming in?” Croft asked, sticking his head forward and screwing up his poor eyes more. “You’ll catch your death out there.”
“It’s not cold, Papa.”
He grunted. “It is when you’re my age.” He kept his wary gaze on Rafe as he entered. Lizzy shrugged and mouthed an apology when she passed him, but he didn’t seem to see it. Up ahead in the kitchen, Lizzy’s mother gasped.
“Mr. Fletcher!”
“Sorry to startle you, Mistress Croft. And please, call me Rafe.”
“Of course. Whatever you wish. Lizzy?” Her mother lifted her face to receive Lizzy’s peck on her cheek.
“Be calm,” Lizzy whispered in her ear. “Treat him like a regular neighbor.”
Rafe set the sack down in the corner then gave her mother a respectful bow.
“I can’t help you with the mending tonight, my girl,” her father said with a wave at the sack. “My eyes are tired.”
“It’s all right, Papa, I don’t need help,” she said, stirring the beef stew warming in the pot over the fire.
“That’s it, make an old man feel useless.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Ignore your father,” her mother said. “Will Shakespeare came by today and told him about Mr. Gripp banning The Spoils of War.”
“Selfish little toad.” Her father lowered himself carefully to the bench seat running the length of the table. “Worse than Style. If I were younger I’d knock him flat, make him—” He glanced at Rafe. “I’d talk to him,” he muttered into his beard.
“I’m not sure talking would work,” Rafe said. If he felt uncomfortable, he showed no sign of it.
“Let’s speak of other things,” Lizzy’s mother said with false cheerfulness. “So James has gone away?” she said to Rafe.
“Ah, yes. Just a word on that,” Croft said before Rafe could answer. “Shakespeare asked me for the name of a good tailor, so I directed him to Cuxcomb, but he told me a most curious thing. He said Cuxcomb has gone out of business, shut up shop.”
“That’s not right,” Lizzy said. “James works there. Will must have been mistaken.”
They all looked at Rafe. He shrugged. “Supper smells delicious. I remember the wonderful cooking smells coming out of this house in my youth. My stomach growled every time I passed.”
Lizzy’s mother’s smile turned genuine. Complimenting her cooking was always an effective way to get into her good graces. “Shall we go into the parlor to sup?”
“No, please, no need to trouble yourselves on my account,” Rafe said. “It’s more comfortable in here. Warmer.”
Lizzy spooned stew from the pot into four bowls and handed them to Rafe, who placed them on the table. When they got to the last bowl, he suddenly smiled at her but it was the oddest smile, sweet. It was very disarming coming from such a rough man and her stomach did a little somersault.
She turned back to the pot and stirred vigorously.
“Come sit with us, Lizzy,” her mother gently chided. But the only spare stool was next to Rafe.
She sat. No one spoke as they ate, and the awkward silence was made heavier by the furtive glances Lizzy’s parents shot Rafe when he wasn’t looking. They didn’t seem to know what to make of him eating at their table. When her father mopped up the last of the juices with a slice of bread, he patted his belly. “Time for you to retire, my dear,” he said to his wife.
“I’ll just clean up first,” she said, hauling herself to her feet with some difficulty.
“No, Mama, I can do it.”
“I’ll help,” Rafe said and began collecting bowls. “Do you have any water?”
“Out the back,” Lizzy said.
Once he was out of earshot, Croft said, “You should’ve refused his help.”
“I didn’t want to be ungracious,” Lizzy said.
“Don’t worry about manners.”
“Now, Husband, that’s enough,” his wife said. “He’s been polite all evening and he certainly doesn’t seem bitter and resentful anymore. I wonder what happened to bring about the change.”
“He grew up.”
“Perhaps. Or fell in love.”
Croft scoffed. “You women think falling in love solves everything. It doesn’t change all men.”
“It changed you,” she said. “And it’s only when a man meets the right woman that he becomes a better man.”
“Off to bed with you, Wife. I’ll stay here until he goes.”
She shuffled off just as Rafe returned carrying a pot of water. He hooked it onto the iron rod over the fireplace.
“Thank you,” Lizzy said.
“It’s the least I can do in exchange for supper.” He found a cloth and began wiping the table.
“You don’t need to do that,” Croft said, settling back down on a stool in the corner. “Lizzy can.”
Rafe shook his head when she put her hand out to take the cloth. “I don’t mind. I’ll clean, you mend, Lizzy. That sack was very full.”
It would take her some time to work through it all, and Rafe didn’t look like he was going anywhere. With the cloth slung over his shoulder, he moved about the kitchen with purpose, as if he cleaned up all the time. That went some way to disproving her mother’s theory that a woman had changed him. Clearly he was used to taking care of himself.
Why wasn’t he wed yet? And where had he been and what did he do? Did he keep house for just himself or a group of other men? The questions burned in her brain and she even formed the right way to ask, but just couldn’t do it. What if he got offended? What if he thought she was accusing him of being womanly?
A bubble of laughter burst out before she could control it, not loud enough to disturb her father, snoring softly into his beard, but Rafe noticed.
He straightened, that curious half smile playing on his lips again. “You are laughing at me,” he said. “I knew it.”
Her laughter shriveled up and she shook her head. “No! I would never laugh at you.”
Still smiling, he edged closer. She backed up and plopped down on the bench seat near the sack of mending. “Not even when I make a joke?” he asked with mock offense. “I tell the funniest stories. They’d have you rolling on the floor, crying with laughter.”
“Er…” Should she laugh again? That might make him stop teasing her. He was teasing. Wasn’t he? Or perhaps he truly was offended but was pretending not to be…Her stomach twisted itself into a painful knot.
“But I won’t tell you any jok
es since you don’t find me in the least amusing,” he said.
“I do! Only when you’re pretending to be amusing.” She winced. That came out all wrong. “I don’t mean pretending, I mean when you are amusing. Deliberately, that is. When you’re not, then I don’t. Find you amusing.” Tongue, be still!
No problem there. Rafe had come even closer and her tongue suddenly refused to work at all. He leaned down and his merry eyes met hers. But slowly, slowly, the merriment died away and his smile disappeared and everything shifted. He kept looking at her but now it was with heavy-lidded curiosity. And then even the curiosity became something else. Desire. She recognized it deep in the pit of her stomach. His gaze lowered to her mouth and he sucked in a long, measured breath.
Her heart skipped wildly and her skin grew hot and tight. He was going to kiss her. On the lips.
God help her, she wanted him to.
Her eyelids fluttered closed and a kind of madness welled up inside her. How else to explain why she leaned forward?
But nothing happened. She opened her eyes to see Rafe standing, the sack of mending in hand. He dumped it on the table then began wiping down the surface around it with vigorous strokes as if he could polish the aged oak to a high sheen.
“So were there any more problems with Gripp today?” he asked, turning to the fire and the pot of water.
It took several heartbeats for Lizzy to begin to think clearly again and realize Rafe had not only not kissed her, but he’d probably never intended to. She must have misread him. What sort of man would kiss his brother’s intended?
What sort of woman would want him to?
Poor James, he didn’t deserve such a fickle girl as his future bride.
“Lizzy?” He glanced at her over his shoulder but quickly turned away again. The water seemed to be the most interesting thing in the room.
“Uh, no. No problems with Gripp today.” She removed a Roman tunic from the sack and her mending kit from a basket tucked under the table. It was growing dark and she needed to light some candles to see the fine stitches required on the garment, but the candles were all near the fire. Near Rafe. She would just have to dispense with them until he left.
