by Cach, Lisa
He scowled over his knee at the digit in question, then looked away.
She gave the bare skin on top of his foot a quick, encouraging rub, taking surreptitious enjoyment from the feel of his skin under her palm, the sparse, crisp black hair near his ankle brushing the edge of her hand. She could feel the structure of his foot, the tendons and bones larger and nearer the surface than on her own feet. His feet were remarkably well cared for, nothing like the yellow, horn-clawed things on Bugg that had gouged her calves in the night. “Come into the cottage. I know how to treat this.”
“I’m fine,” he said, giving his toes another brief, unhappy look. “You really don’t think I broke any?”
“No, but this bleeding should be taken care of. It’s the pressure of it under the nail that’s making it hurt so badly. Hilde showed me how to relieve it.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t like the sound of that. I think I’d be better off leaving it alone.”
She lightly tapped his toenail, and he flinched. “It’s only going to hurt more if you leave it. It’ll turn black and fall off.”
He retracted his foot and took a quick look at the splotch of darkness under his toenail, wincing at the sight of it. He started to pull his stocking back on. “I’ve seen others with black nails. It will go away eventually.”
Konstanze gave a noisy sigh. “You’re suffering needlessly.”
“I like it that way.”
She rolled her eyes. He sounded like a stubborn five-year-old, and she had half a mind to tell him so. She watched him carefully pulling up his stocking, then loosening his shoe and trying to put it on over the swelling toes, his face going through all manner of contortions and grimaces. “You think I’ll make it worse, don’t you?” she asked.
“It’s not that.”
“You don’t trust me to know what I’m doing. You think I couldn’t possibly know how to help you.”
“It’s not that,” he repeated, getting testy.
“Then what is it?” she asked, her own ire rising. Try to do something nice for the man and look what you get: distrust and rejection.
“It’ll be fine. Just forget about it.”
She shifted on her heels, her jaw tightening. She glared at him.
He glared back.
“Fine,” she said, and stood up. “Suffer all you want.” She turned and marched back toward the cottage.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To make myself a pot of tea,” she said without turning. She needed it to soothe the frustration of dealing with him. “You may do as you like.” He could leave if he liked; that would suit her just fine. He could limp away, weeping over the pain in his toe, and she would laugh. Yes, laugh!
When she got to the stairs she stopped and turned. “Just you think about this, Tom Trewella. People don’t like to be helped without the opportunity to return the favor. If you can’t let someone do something nice for you, they’re left feeling very low indeed.” And with that she tramped up the stone stairs and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.
Tom’s toe pulsed with agony. Damn it all, he should have stayed clear away from the Penrose farm. The farm had not been on his way back to Penperro from the Failes estate, not by a mile, but his feet had pointed him in this direction as surely as the needle of a compass pointed north.
He’d succeeded for all of five days at staying away from Konstanze, a feat he had thought admirable and to their mutual benefit. His last visit had proved that he could not be trusted with her and that whatever his noble intentions, his body had a way of circumventing them. As did his mouth. He had no trouble maintaining diplomatic relations with even the most pugnacious of Penperro inhabitants, yet with Konstanze he found himself constantly treading off the safe path and into the mire.
There was something about her that damaged his ability to think. She gave off an energy akin to the charge in the air before a storm, capable of winding him tight and sluicing anxiety through his veins. It wasn’t much like the warm, intoxicated bliss he had felt in the presence of the half-forgotten Eustice. With Eustice he had been full of the impetuosity of youth, placing no floodgates on his passion. There had been no reason to, as there had been no obvious barriers to their future together.
No barrier, except that she didn’t care a rotten fish head for him.
He knew the situation was different with Konstanze. He knew all the reasons he should curb his desires, all the reasons he should not let his interest in her grow, but it was as if his passions had a will of their own, and they waged a bloody, ruthless war against his common sense. No, this was not warm, intoxicated bliss he was feeling. It was more akin to a bout of cholera.
He tried to shove his foot farther into his shoe and yelped. He let loose a string of curses under his breath, easing his foot back out.
He didn’t want to like her as much as he did. He didn’t want to wish to be inside her mind, to see what thoughts so often gave her that look of secret amusement, as if she lived half in another world to which he was not privy.
He climbed unsteadily to his feet, his injured foot barely touching the ground, and picked up his shoe. He started the long hobble toward the cottage.
She was wrong in thinking he did not trust her to care for his toe. She had perhaps hit upon a hidden truth when she said he did not like to accept help from others. He had at least enough self-awareness that he could admit that he liked to be the one others came to for assistance, rather than vice versa. That wasn’t the reason he had refused her offer, though.
The truth was much less complicated, and far more humiliating.
He was afraid of the sight of blood.
One of his earliest memories was of being a small child and falling, skinning his knees rather badly. He couldn’t remember the pain, only the hysterical fit he had thrown at sight of his bloody knees, and his mother’s frantic attempts to calm him. His reaction to the sight of blood—especially his own—had grown quieter with age, but no less severe. There was no rhyme or reason to it: he knew perfectly well that a bit of leaking blood was no danger, and had grown up seeing animals slaughtered, noses bloodied, and fingers cut.
He liked to think that he could brave a hundred dangers, take a thousand necessary risks without flinching, but cruel fate had given him this inexplicable weakness over which he had no control. How could anyone have expected him to admit that to Konstanze, after already making a fool of himself trying to move the plow?
He’d always been better at laboring with his mind than with his body, and it was nothing of which to be ashamed. Even a hen-brained half-wit could see that the better life in smuggling and privateering was on land, organizing, rather than out on the ocean, making oneself a target for a bullet or vulnerable to one of the miscellaneous, dreadful sailing injuries that took fingers and limbs from the unlucky.
He reached the steps and braced his hand on the cottage wall for support as he climbed them.
Konstanze knew none of that. She was probably sipping her tea right now, thinking he was an uncoordinated pansy who was too stupidly proud to let another ease his suffering. If he let her help him, at least the impression of unmerited pride might be erased. If he did not disgrace himself utterly while she tended him, even the pansy part might be somewhat amended.
There were a few ways he could think of to show her he could use his body with adequate coordination, as well, but those methods would tear down the last tattered hangings of nobility he was trying to keep upon the walls of his soul. It was better not to dwell on those thoughts, however pleasantly distracting from one’s throbbing toe.
He gave the door a rap, and a moment later Konstanze opened it, her expression one of blank surprise.
“If the offer still stands, I would appreciate your help,” he said.
He watched her expression transform to one of knowing, secret delight. He felt a moment’s trepidation at that evil glee, wondering just what exactly it was that she had in store for him. On the other hand,
at least she was smiling. If he could make her happy by sacrificing his toe to her ministrations, so be it.
“Come sit by the fire,” she said, and came around beside him, her side pressed up to his, her arm around his waist. He laid his own arm over her shoulders, tilting his head down to brush his nose and lips against the top of her head as she tried to help him over to the chair. He all but forgot about his toe, his senses distracted from pain by the feel and scent of her. He could hobble all the way to China if she were helping him like this.
She turned her face up to his when they reached the chair, their cheeks nearly brushing. Her gray eyes were wide, the cheery energy there for a moment softening to something else, her pupils large and black. Whatever pull he felt toward her, he understood in that momentary gaze that she felt at least some of the same in return. Whether she knew it or not, she was making eyes at him. He wanted very much to take her up on the offer.
He should have limped home.
It took a determined effort to pull away from her, his body and hers separating with the slow tearing of a plum in two. He forced himself to sit down, breaking their contact, her arm sliding free of his waist as she bent to ease him down. He caught a faint scent of her body, warm and musky, coming from the neckline of her gown. He closed his eyes against the primitive reaction that rushed through him, images of lowering her to the floor and making love to her cascading unbidden through his mind.
“What is it you’re going to do?” he asked.
“I have to relieve the pressure of the blood under the nail. I’ll heat an embroidery needle in the fire and—”
“Don’t tell me,” he said, grimacing. Oh, God. Blood, a red-hot needle, and his toenail. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying intentionally now to think of Konstanze naked, Konstanze with her legs spread wide, Konstanze with her skirts pushed up as he lay between her thighs—anything to get Konstanze with a red-hot needle out of his mind.
“Are you sure—”
He opened his eyes. “Please do it, but don’t narrate.”
She gave him a curious look, then shrugged. “All right. I’ll go get the nee—” She caught herself. “I’ll get what I need.” She gave him another look, then disappeared into the sitting room.
Tom slouched in the chair and pressed his hand over his brows. There was a fine film of sweat there, and he was feeling queasy. It was too late to back out now, though. She was as pleased as if he had given her a gift, happy to be able to “help.” He spread his fingers and peered through them at the back door. He could make a run for it.
Footsteps heralded Konstanze’s return and the end of his opportunity to flee.
He wouldn’t watch. If he kept his eyes averted, everything would be fine. He wouldn’t think about it; he wouldn’t pay any attention at all to what she was doing. He turned his face from her and stared at the bare wall across the room.
She moved around, arranging he knew not what, her dark red dress moving in and out of his peripheral vision. Each second of anticipation felt a dozen times as long, her preparations both endless and too brief.
At last he felt her fingers upon his stocking, pulling it carefully down his calf and off over his foot. Her touch was gentle, almost tentative. An unsettling suspicion popped into his tense mind.
“You have done this before, haven’t you?” he asked, risking a glance at her where she knelt by his bare foot. He avoided looking at his injured toe.
“I’ve seen it done a few times. Stagehands used to get their fingers smashed with fair regularity.”
That was not the answer he had wanted to hear. “But you do know what you’re doing.”
“Oh, yes. I’m all but certain of what to do.”
“Splendid,” he muttered. He shouldn’t have asked.
“Are you ready, then?”
He waved his hand for her to proceed, then brought it up to tent it loosely over his eyes, needing the extra protection against the gruesome urge to watch. He felt her lift his foot onto her lap, onto what felt to be a rough towel spread over her skirts. She shifted, and between his splayed fingers he saw her lean toward the fire, removing one of several needles that had been heating there. She held it in a scrap of cloth to protect her fingers, and with her other hand he felt her get a firm grip upon his foot, down near the toes.
He shut his eyes, fingers pressed tightly over the lids. He felt a slight increase in pressure directly on top of the throbbing nail, instead of at the end of the toe as he’d expected. He kept waiting for the burning feel of the needle. And waiting. He could feel slight movements of her body through his foot. She was doing something, but what?
She shifted, the pressure easing for a moment; then it started up again. Curiosity got the better of him, and he lowered his hand down his nose enough that he could peer over and see her.
Her dark head was bent to her task, her concentration absolute. He flicked his eyes downward, and at that precise moment the needle she held finished boring its way through the center of his nail, releasing a tiny spurt of blood like a miniature red fountain.
“There!” she cried in triumph.
He barely heard her, stars appearing in his blackening vision. He felt the strength drain out of his limbs, and his body swayed to the side as he began to tumble from his chair.
He slowly came to his senses as Konstanze patted him lightly on the cheek. He was flat on his back, on the floor. “Tom, Tom, can you hear me? Tom, wake up!” she was saying. He opened bleary eyes to see her unfocused face above him.
He lifted his heavy arms and enfolded her within them, pulling her down so that she rested against his chest. She was stiff against him, her forearms caught between them, her backside in the air.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice squeaky.
“Shhh. Lie still.”
“You fainted,” she said, tilting her head and speaking to his chin. “Did I hurt you so badly?”
He spared an ounce of internal attention for his toe. “No. Actually, it feels much better,” he said. There was still a dull throb, but nothing like what it had been.
“Then what happened?”
He didn’t want to tell the truth; he didn’t want to say anything at all. Maybe she would believe it if he claimed he’d been ill and hadn’t eaten for three days? But no, he couldn’t lie to her. He sighed. “I watched.”
She was silent for a moment; then he felt her begin to quiver against him. She tucked her face down into her hands, shaking atop his chest.
“Are you laughing at me?” he asked.
She gasped for air. “No, no, of course not.”
“You are.” The humiliation of it was too much to even try to escape. He lay supine, letting her laugh on top of him.
She raised up, and he let her. She held his face between her hands and looked down into his eyes, her own teary with laughter. “Oh, Tom,” she said, and then she kissed him.
It was a kiss masquerading as friendly affection, but in the soft touch of lips that lingered a moment longer than necessary he sensed the desire beneath. He moved his lips briefly against hers, just enough to let her know that he responded.
She pulled back, laughing again, as if to preserve the shield of humor that made her action acceptable.
He smiled and let her go, the previous humiliation a worthy price to pay.
Chapter Fourteen
“If you start to get tired, I want you out of the water,” Tom said urgently.
Konstanze nodded, her own nerves making her limbs quiver. She was shivering, although she was not cold. The day was overcast, but temperate.
“It should be no more than an hour—but remember, your safety comes first”
“I know,” she said, appreciating his concern but getting frustrated now with its repetition. She didn’t want to dawdle any longer. It was time to set aside the stage fright and begin.
Tom had surprised her at the cottage thirty minutes ago, riding bareback on a borrowed draft horse. Someone in his network had sent word
that Foweather and some of his crew were searching caves that they had searched two days earlier: caves that had been empty that first time, but one of which was now full of smuggled goods worth nearly seven hundred pounds.
Tom explained that it had seemed a safe bet to use a cave that had been so recently checked, as it was unlikely to be searched again so soon. Alas, Foweather had either managed to think of that as well, or simply did not mind the repetition of tasks, as a dog did not mind the repetition of fetching a stick again and again and again.
He had given her only a moment to grab her costume; then with Hilde hurling German insults at his head he had dragged her out of the cottage. They’d pushed the heavy horse to a faster pace than it was used to, skirting Penperro and tearing down the coast on the southwestern side of the village, stopping about a mile before where Foweather was searching.
With a stone fence and the horse making up the meager walls of a makeshift dressing room, Konstanze had changed into the mermaid outfit, letting her hair fall free. There had been no time for any preparation but the most basic, which was something of a disappointment after the hours she had spent dressing herself so precisely in her mind.
Tom gripped her shoulders, looking her in the face for long moments as if there were things he wanted to say. At the end he just gave her shoulders a squeeze and nodded. “Good luck,” he said.
She tried to look confident and smiled, and then he was leaving, mounting the tired horse and heading down the coast to Foweather. He would tell the Preventive man that he had heard that the mermaid had been sighted, and bring Foweather and his crew to this part of the coast to hunker down and watch her antics. It was late enough in the day that if she could keep the Preventive men distracted for an hour, likely they would head back to Penperro at the end of her performance rather than continue their search of the caves. Tonight Tom’s network of inland workers would remove the goods, and a couple weeks from now she would be fourteen pounds richer.
