by Nancy Butler
There was also among the ranks of the ‘Thrush’s daytime residents one Argie Beasle, a wiry, shifty-eyed little squib. In spite of his air of poverty—the threadbare coat, dingy shirt, and greasy, slicked-back hair—he always had a supply of coins to spend at the ‘Thrush. And his currency was as welcome to Joe Black, the pub’s owner, as any other man’s, even though his noisome presence in the taproom might not have been.
By way of profession, Argie claimed he rode up and down the riverfront on his ratty gelding, doing odd jobs for the landowners. But the local scuttlebutt was that he was more involved with the animal population along the waterfront than with the human one. Poaching was illegal, but it paid exceedingly well. Especially so close to London. But Argie always laughed off any hints that he might be engaged in such nefarious work, grinned with narrow-eyed amusement, displaying his broken, discolored teeth.
Romulus stood for a moment in the open doorway of the pub, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. Three men seated at a table stopped their card game to gawk. Perrin was infrequently seen on the streets of Treypenny, but he’d never, to anyone’s knowledge, set foot in the ‘Thrush. The cardplayers turned to Joe Black, to see whether he would serve the madman. He noted their look of inquiry and shrugged. He’d serve grass to bloody Nebuchadnezzar himself, if the barmy old king offered him good English pence.
Rom nodded curtly to the publican as he crossed the taproom to where his quarry sat.
“Beasle,” he said in a deep, low voice, as he approached the table, “I need to have a word with you.”
The man didn’t even look up. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you, Perrin,” he muttered.
“I’m not interested in your conversation, my friend.” Rom leaned forward. “But you will be very interested in mine.”
When Argie refused to raise his eyes, Romulus tipped out the contents of Argie’s mug; the dark ale ran across the tabletop. Argie scrambled to his feet before the spreading liquid could saturate his breeches. Not that it mightn’t have been an improvement, Rom thought. The little rat smelled like Portsmouth at low tide.
“Hey!” Argie whined. “You owe me for that!”
Romulus grabbed him by the throat, thrust him back against the paneling, and lifted him off his feet. “I owe you for a great deal, my fine fellow,” he said, gazing into the man’s darting, anxious eyes, which were now level with his own. “And you shall have every last thing that I owe you. Starting with this.”
Rom leaned all his weight on the hand that held Argie off the floor. “Feel that?” he growled softly just before he decreased the pressure. “That’s what the cob felt when I cut his throat. Not very pleasant, is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re on about. I swear!” Argie began to kick violently against the oak paneling.
“Not in here, Perrin,” Joe Black admonished him from behind the bar. He’d been willing to allow Perrin to have his way with Argie, until his pub’s decor was placed at risk. “I’ve only just cleaned up after the blasted cattle drovers from Dorset who stampeded through here last week. Take your business outside.”
Romulus nodded curtly, and then half carried the struggling man across the room and out the open front door. No one in the pub made any attempt to aid Argie.
There was an alley beside the inn, piled high with casks and crates. Romulus strong-armed his captive some distance down the alley, and then swung him up against one wattled wall.
“I swear I don’t know what you want with me!” Argie cried piteously.
“You were out on the river last night, Poaching swans. I saw you before you threw down your lantern.”
“I was here last night,” the man protested feebly. “Here in the ‘Thrush. Ask anyone.”
Romulus shook his head. “I doubt they would lie for you. And maybe you were here, maybe before and maybe after. But at nine of the clock you were skulking through the river grass with a shuttered lantern and a poached swan. And I tell you this, Beasle…if you ever go near my section of the river again, I will spit you.” Rom let his fingers drift meaningfully against the thin ribs. “I know where to stick a knife, so that you would take a week to die. There are places where I could hide a man’s body…. There is sucking mud, Argie. Deep mires that can swallow a man whole. Think on that the next time you are tempted to poach one of my birds.”
Romulus turned abruptly from the man, tossing him aside as one would discard a rag doll.
“So you’ll spit me, eh?” Argie’s tone had gone from whining to challenging in an instant. Perhaps that was because he now held a long, thin-bladed knife angled out toward Romulus. “Maybe I’ll be the one doing the spitting.” As he spoke, he feinted toward his adversary.
Romulus observed Argie with an expression of distemper on his lean face. “Don’t,” he muttered. “Don’t give me an excuse to kill you.”
“Ho, lads!” he called out. “This redheaded rogue thinks he can kill me—without so much as a blade.”
Romulus heard the sounds of men behind him at the mouth of the alley, but he dared not turn around. As long as none of them came to Argie’s aid, he knew he was in little danger.
“Put down the knife, Argie.” It was the publican speaking in a round, soothing voice. “If you kill him, it will go hard with you. And what of your work for Lord Talbot? We both profit from that. Think, man!”
Argie made a rude noise and flashed a warning glance past Rom to the pubkeeper. Romulus almost laughed—by mentioning Lord Talbot, Joe Black had just given Argie’s game away.
During Rom’s first month on the river, Lord Talbot’s head groom had approached him and had mentioned, ever-so-casually, that he might be interested in procuring the odd swan, at an inflated price, of course, to compensate for the risk. The only reason Rom hadn’t thrown the groom off the island, was because his hands had begun to twitch violently from the intensity of his anger. Lord Talbot’s groom had shaken his head at his waiting boatman, remarking cruelly that a fellow couldn’t do business with a “jibbering halfwit.” Lord Talbot had clearly taken his business to Beasle and Joe Black.
Argie was still making feinting motions with the knife, and Romulus thought it was time to end the farce. As the man lunged at him, Rom’s hand flashed out and his long fingers closed hard over the bony wrist. In an instant he had twisted Argie’s scrawny arm up behind his back, pressing on his fragile wrist bones until the knife dropped to the ground. Romulus swept up the knife and tucked it into his boot.
Argie wailed, “He’s busted my arm!” as he cradled the limb to his narrow chest.
Romulus stalked from the alley—the men who had gathered there instantly cleared a path—and went up to Joe Black. He jabbed his forefinger into the startled publican’s wide chest.
“Don’t cross me,” he snarled as the man wilted back. “Do I make myself clear?”
Joe Black licked his lips and nodded. “It weren’t like you think—” he began. But Romulus was already out of earshot, his long strides carrying him in the direction of the Gypsy camp.
“I owe him,” Argie muttered, while Joe examined his arm. “And I’ll get my own back. See if I don’t.”
“It’s not broken,” the publican pronounced, releasing the weedy limb. “Not but that you don’t deserve a busted wrist for pulling a knife on an unarmed man. Christ, Argie, have you got dung for brains?”
The little man squirmed away from him. “I’ll get him, you’ll see. Argie Beasle don’t let no man use him ill. I’ll find some way to make that redheaded cockerel pay. Some way.”
Argie looked thoughtful for a moment, his eyes narrowed beyond their normal squint, and then he turned to the ferryman. “Ho there, Wald, want to earn a few coins today? I have a yen to be out on the river.”
The ferryman looked dubious until he saw the half-crown in Argie’s sweaty palm. “You can have my boat, an all, for the week,” he said as he snatched up the coin with a wide grin. “I’m officially off duty, lads.”
“You got to row me, Wald. C
an’t do nothin’ till my arm mends.”
“For this much blunt,” Wald replied, “I’d tow you to London Bridge with the rope between my teeth!”
Joe Black left his two customers to sort out their questionable deal and returned to his taproom. He was beginning to rue the day he’d agreed to act as middle man between Argie Beasle and Lord Talbot. Even if the extra money had allowed him to give his eldest daughter a fine send-off when she wed. There were times a man danced with the devil at his own peril. Though Argie was less of a devil and more of a greasy, whining imp. He wondered if he should warn Perrin of Argie’s incipient revenge. But then he recalled how effortlessly Romulus had disarmed the little bugger. No, the river warden didn’t appear to need anyone’s help.
* * *
After the cygnets were fed, Diana decided to gather some of the wildflowers that grew in profusion in the backyard. She had unearthed a blue and white pitcher from under the trestle to use as a vase. As she wandered along the edge of the yard, snipping off the stems of narcissus and cornflower with a knife she had appropriated from the kitchen, she was again struck by the mesmerizing beauty of the island. The wild vines that laced their way up the trunks of the towering trees were as untamed as the jackdaws and ravens that cawed raucously from their ariel perches. In this place, nature was unconfigured by the hand of man—with the exception of the rustic lodge and the outbuildings, the island appeared almost primeval.
Though she loved the bleak, treeless landscape of the Yorkshire moors where she had been born, this wild abundance of green foliage, with its vivid scattering of blossoms, spoke to her soul. Back in Bothys, she’d had to use her imagination to conjure up settings for her idyllic fantasies. Here, she merely had to observe the lush landscape that enfolded her, for dazzling tales to arise in her head. Tales of bravery and courage, of tenderness and compassion. Dark tales of loss and betrayal as well as thrilling ones of passion and possession. And every one revolved around the mysterious man who dwelled alone on this island. He had become the centerpiece of her life and her imaginings, and yet she was not certain how it had happened.
Romulus was a striking figure, to be sure. His melodic voice, with its slight hint of foreign shores, spilled over her like warm honey when he spoke. The flash of his golden eyes, or the tilt of his wide mouth set her senses spinning. And his physical splendor was matched by a nature that was compassionate and wise. But he was a man of secrets, who guarded his emotions behind a perpetual shield of gruff sarcasm. She needed to keep reminding herself of that fact. She dared not feel anything more for him than gratitude.
“Hang gratitude,” she muttered as she plunked the flowers in the pitcher and set it on the table. Secretive or guarded or armed to the teeth with sarcasm, Romulus had won her heart. Maybe precisely because of his secrets—a man who was an enigma was prime fodder for a young lady’s errant imagination.
Once the flowers were arranged to her satisfaction, Diana wandered into the sitting room, where her gaze fell on Rom’s disordered bookshelf. Here was a task that fairly begged to be tackled. Not that she had any intention of rearranging his books, mind. She knew from her father that some men balked at the least notion of order in their libraries. So she merely removed the books that had been shoved haphazardly onto the shelf and realigned them, so that they stood upright, with their spines facing out. By the time she reached the bottom shelf, the bookcase was looking quite tamed. She sat back on her heels, admiring her work.
“He’s going to have your head on a platter!”
Diana turned abruptly. A young man lounged in the doorway of the sitting room, one arm raised up to the frame. She was alarmed at first until she saw the bright clothing he wore and the golden earring that glinted in one ear. This must be Rom’s gypsy friend.
“My head?” she echoed. “Surely you are exaggerating.”
He came toward her, frowning ominously. “I myself have been warned away from those books any number of times. Not that I can read, mind. But there are some topping pictures of horses in the brown one.”
Diana climbed to her feet and held out one hand. “I expect you are Niall. I am Di—delighted to meet you. My name is Allegra.”
She winced at her near mistake, but the Gypsy boy just continued to regard her outstretched hand with misgiving.
“Gypsies don’t shake hands with ladies.” He spoke so ponderously that she missed the twinkle in his eye. “At least not if they want to keep their…um, privates intact.”
“Oh,” she said, dropping her hand. “I was just being polite. And I should certainly like to thank you for these clothes.” As she spoke, she moved forward into the pool of light that spilled in through the window.
“Jiminy,” Niall breathed, as he took in her face and figure. Especially her figure. “He told me you were a fetching little thing, but I had no idea.”
“Who told you what?” she asked in confusion.
“Romulus. He said I was likely to tumble into love with you.” He grinned at her. “Would you mind very much if I did? You’re far and away the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
“Ho, you should see my sister,” Diana trumpeted. And then immediately cursed herself. Oh, Lord, not again! “I mean,” she sputtered aloud. “That if I had a sister, which I cannot be sure I do, I expect she would be even fairer than I am…because she would be older, you see.”
Niall took this nonsense in stride. Intellectual stimulation was not yet something he required from his conquests. “Lost your memory, did you? Rom told me all about it. Don’t tax yourself on my account. I can’t abide a lass who rattles on about her past.” He motioned toward the storeroom. “Cygnets all bedded down?”
She nodded. “That’s why I was straightening the bookshelf, since I had run out of chores.”
Niall gave a sultry laugh. “Well, I can think of something a lot more fun than sorting through old books.”
Diana looked at him dubiously. It wouldn’t have surprised her to learn that women all up and down the river were like putty in this gypsy boy’s hands. It wasn’t only the rich, olive-hued skin, or the glistening black curls—there was something sensual in his posture and his movements, like a languorous, feral cat.
She drew herself up to her full height. “I’m sure I haven’t any interest along those lines.”
Niall touched a finger to her nose. “I wasn’t suggesting sporting, my little prude. Only fishing.”
Before she could utter a word of protest, he had taken her by the hand and dragged her from the house.
“Rom’s got the best fishing hole on the river in that creek of his,” he remarked enthusiastically as they crossed the yard. “The finny creatures come up to the edge of the boat and fairly beg to be taken.”
“But I don’t know how to fish,” she grumbled as he hurried her along the path.
“It’s like falling off a log,” he said.
They stopped at a low rise which overlooked the inlet that bisected the island. Willow branches hung lacelike over the dark water and frogs chorused in the May heat.
“I’ve never been here before,” Diana crooned. “It’s beautiful.”
Niall led her down the incline to a weathered work shed, which was nearly obscured by vines. Two boats, a narrow punt and a small dory, were beached beyond the shed. “Rom keeps his boating supplies in here,” he said as he threw open the warped door. “Ropes, lines, oars. And…fishing poles.” He drew out a long bamboo pole for each of them, put a handful of lead sinkers into the pocket of his buckskin knee breeches, and then stuck a few hooks in his shirt placket.
“Never put hooks in your breeches pocket,” he warned her, and then cast a glance at her skirt. “Though I daresay you won’t ever have that problem. Now let’s dig up some bait.”
“Niall,” Diana said as they dug for earthworms beneath the base of an uprooted tree, “would you make a trade with me?” She recalled what Rom had said about Gypsies loving a good trade.
He eyed her meaningfully as he drawled, “Depends on wha
t you have to trade.” He ruined the studied effect of this languid, seductive statement by then crying out in boyish tones, “Look, there’s a nice fat one!”
Diana dropped the squirming worm into the tin bucket. “It’s not what you think, I’m afraid.”
He gave a cocky toss of his head. “And how would you know what I think?”
Diana sniffed. “Something highly improper, I shouldn’t doubt.”
Niall nodded merrily. “And you’d probably be right, in the normal way of things. But Romulus is my friend, and friends don’t poach on each other’s territory.”
Diana looked bewildered at first. Did Niall truly consider her Rom’s property? She lowered her head over the worm can to hide her furious blush. Whatever had Rom said to the boy to give him such an idea?
“The trade?” Niall prompted.
Diana sat back on her heels. “If you teach me to fish, then I will teach you to read.”
She saw the eagerness light his eyes, and then watched as it was immediately replaced by blasé unconcern. He shrugged. “It makes no difference to me if I can read or not.”
“But you will let me try?”
“If it will please you,” he said. “But I’ve a hard head, as Romulus will tell you.”
Diana grinned. “Not any harder than mine.” Helen would have happily vouched for her on that score.
* * *
By the time he reached the Gypsy camp, Romulus had walked off very little of his anger. He’d hoped the poacher was working alone, but hadn’t been surprised to find the publican in on the deal. A contraband swan could fetch five pounds from a wealthy buyer. More than enough profit for two men to split.
He feared that even if Argie laid low for a while, the publican might simply enlist a new accomplice. Argie’s reputation as a poacher had made him the logical suspect when the swans began to disappear. But if Joe sought out another man to snare the swans, it might take weeks for Rom to track him down.
