Sweeter Than Sin

by Andrea Pickens

  Ha! His kindness and gentle humor were special beyond words. But as she shouldn't—nay, couldn't—say so, she merely averted her gaze. But strangely enough, in that blink of an eye, Kyra thought she saw a skirl of sadness flicker beneath his show of good cheer, as if he too, were masking some inner remorse or regrets.

  Surely it must have been just a quirk of the light, for the handsome Spaniard was the very soul of honor and integrity.

  Unlike me.

  What possible pain could be tormenting his peace of mind?

  He gave her no time to ponder the question. His smile firmly back in place, Rafael kept up a light-hearted commentary on all the sights, peppering his explanations of the various sections of the markets with droll observations that kept her chuckling despite her inner turmoil. By the time the last items on Rafael's list had been purchased, they had navigated nearly all the twisting turns of the produce section.

  "Sorry," he apologized. "I fear I have worn you out chasing down these vanilla pods from New Spain."

  "Not at all," responded Kyra, though fatigue was starting to slow her steps. When she grew tired, her injured leg ached abominably, but she was determined not to show it. "I have learned more about New World botany from the last two fruit sellers than I have from a shelf of my Father's scholarly books."

  "I don't know about you, but I am famished." Rafael spotted a nearby costermonger hawking his wares. "Ah, meat pasties! Just the sort of sustenance we need after trekking through the stalls."

  Kyra was about to protest that she wasn't hungry when she realized that she was. Indeed, the scent wafting up from the man's barrow was making her mouth water. She started to follow Rafael when a sudden tangling of her skirts nearly caused her to trip.

  Looking down, she saw a dark shape wiggle free of the muslin folds. With its matted fur, torn ear and oversized paws, there was nothing remotely cuddly about the gangly, overgrown pup, but as their eyes met, topaz mixing with emerald in the wink of sunlight, she felt a lump form in her throat.

  "Oh, sweetheart. You're hurt..." As her fingers grazed its mud-encrusted tail, a stone thumped against the dog's ribs.

  "Cripple!" An urchin, nearly as filthy as the animal, scampered around one of the stalls and hurled another stone. "Cripple!" Two other lads appeared as well, and added a peltering of rotten apples.

  "Stop!" cried Kyra, shifting to shield the dog as the leader of the pack raced in and aimed a kick at its rump.

  The blow glanced off her shin, causing her to lose her footing and fall to the ground.

  With a frightened yelp, the dog bolted off and squeezed through a gap between two big wooden casks just as its tormenter lunged for its tail.

  "Don't let it escape!" yelled the urchin to his friends. Slippery as eels, they darted through the gathering crowd and chased after their quarry.

  Chapter 7

  Rafael spun around at the sound of Kyra's cry. He saw her tangle with the urchin and go down, but what with the jumble of crates and the press of onlookers crowding in, it took him a moment to reach her side.

  "What happened—" he began as he reached down to help her up from the muddy ground.

  She brushed away his hand. "Never mind me—please, you must save the dog!" she gasped. "They mean to harm it!"

  "Those little spawns of the devil are always making trouble," added the man at the neighboring stall. "They hared off that way." A wave of his pipe indicated one of the alleyways heading toward Seven Dials and the rookies of St. Giles.

  "Please!" repeated Kyra.

  Gentlemanly scruples made him hesitate, but the note of emotion in her voice persuaded him. It was far more than anger, far more than outrage.

  It was desperate need, as if saving a forlorn little animal was a sort of penance for the past.

  "Stay here," he ordered. Dropping the heavily laden basket beside her, he turned and pelted off after the urchins.

  Pushing his way free of the crowd that had gathered around them, Rafael swerved through the parade of shoppers, ignoring the aggrieved curses and the pain shooting through his own injured limb.

  Dios Madre, it if would bring a smile to her face, he would run to the very depths of Hell and back.

  The alleyways began to narrow and twist like the Devil's own tail. Clenching his teeth, he lengthened his stride. The uneven cobbles gave way to malodorous muck, making it even harder to keep his footing. His boots were slipping and sliding, yet still, through the grimy shadows he could see that he was managing to close the distance between him and the three urchins.

  The leader of the pack ventured a glance over his shoulder and, seeing their pursuer closing in, he squeaked out an order to abandon the chase and darted down a side passageway, his companions following hot on his heels.

  Rafael slowed, and then swore as a rotten apple sailed out from the gloom in a parting shot and knocked his hat into a mound of foul-smelling garbage. After taking another squishy step or two in its direction, he decided to leave it where it was.

  Chest heaving, he sucked in a lungful of the fetid air and slowly looked around.

  Now that the predators were dealt with, time to find the prey.

  "Imps of Satan," exclaimed Kyra in a ragged gasp as she stumbled to a halt behind him. "Oh, I fear your hat is quite ruined."

  "My hat is not my primary concern at the moment," replied Rafael. To his eye, she appeared too pale beneath the flush of exertion, and she looked to be favoring her bad leg, though she was taking great pains to hide it. "You should have stayed in the market." He knew it would only add to her agitation to mention her injury. "This area is not safe for a lady."

  "Be damned with my safety," she uttered under her breath. "It's horrid that a defenseless little dog be frightened half to death by those boys." Tears pearled on her lashes. "And now the poor thing is hopelessly lost—"

  "We'll find him." It was, he knew, a reckless promise to make but at that moment he was ready to take apart the surrounding rookeries brick by crumbling brick.

  Kyra looked around uncertainly. "B-but I don't see how, sir."

  "Nonetheless, we shall try." Taking her hand, he led the way a little farther into the stygian depths of the alleyway. All around, the shadows seemed to take on menacing shapes, and the creak of the overhanging eaves bounced evil echoes off the sooty walls.

  The threat seemed so palpable that it seemed like a fist pressing against his chest. But he was not afraid of confronting physical danger.

  He let out a little whistle and called to the dog in Spanish. "Hallooo, Amigo!"

  Was it his imagination, or did a faint woof sound in answer?

  Kyra, too, cocked an ear. "Did you hear something?"

  Rafael called again.

  The sound was a little louder, and seemed to be coming from just beyond the next turn.

  "This way." Keeping firm hold of her hand, he edged forward, muscles tensed, his senses on full alert for any lurking menace. They rounded the bend, only to find the tumbled-down ruins of a wood and brick storage shed blocking half of the way.

  A timid bark, follow by a whimper.

  Kyra dropped to her knees, heedless of the ooze seeping through her skirts. "I think I see him," she said, peering between the splintered slats. "He looks to have fallen through a hole in the floor boards."

  Woof, woof.

  "I-I fear he may be trapped."

  One look at her stricken expression and without a word, he stripped off his coat. "Kindly hold this." The gap in the rotten boards was just large enough for him to try squeezing through it.

  "You mustn't, sir," she protested, casting a dubious look at the sagging timbers. "It's too dangerous."

  Crouching down, Rafael surveyed the wreckage. On close inspection there looked to be a way to crawl through the jumbled wood and brick without bringing the whole structure toppling down.

  "I'll be careful." He had already rolled onto his back and was inching under the jutting beam. Was he mad to risk his life for a mangy mongrel? Saving a nameless stray w
ouldn't bring Jack back from the dead.

  And yet, against all reason, the task had become a touchstone, a talisman of sorts to prove that hope could triumph over despair.

  Holding his breath, he slowly slithered through a treacherous tangle of broken rafters. The dog's woofs had stopped, and the ensuing silence only amplified the ominous cast of the ink-dark shadows shrouding the depths of the wreckage.

  Just a little farther, he calculated, making his way by touch rather than sight to the spot where the animal was trapped. Slowly, slowly. The mud was chill, the splinters sharp against his fingertips, but he dared not rush.

  At last, his hand brushed up against a coarse curling of fur. He felt the dog stir and as a wet warmth licked against his skin, he chuffed a sigh of relief.

  "Si, si, amigo, I am happy to meet you, too. But let us leave off formal introductions until I have you safely out of here." Rafael felt around and found where the dog's paw had become trapped within a crack in the floorboard. "Try to stay still."

  The dog whined but ceased its struggling.

  Splinter by splinter, he gingerly pried away at the half-rotten wood, slowly widened the opening just enough to release the prisoner. The dog scrabbled forward and nuzzled Rafael's cheek, and despite his bleeding palms and bruised shoulders, he couldn't repress a grin.

  "I've got him—all is well," he called to Kyra. Which was, he admitted wryly, a bit of an exaggeration. To retreat without bringing the heavy timbers crashing down on their heads would be no easy feat.

  "Oh, please be very careful," she whispered softly, as if afraid the merest breath would cause the wreckage to collapse.

  "I—" One of the beams shivered at the touch of his boot, and emitted an ominous groan. "I assure you, I have no intention of sticking my spoon into the wall just yet."

  Holding the dog tight to his chest, Rafael backtracked with painstaking precision through the maze of debris. His shirt suffered several rips, his trousers were caked in mud, and his cravat caught on a loose nail and was lost along away. But somehow he emerged unscathed.

  "You had better keep your distance until my amigo and I have had a bath," he said dryly as he levered to his feet. "Or maybe two. Dios mio, it will likely take a hogshead of soap to scrub the stench—"

  Ignoring his warning, Kyra flung her arms around his shoulders. "Oh, sir, you are a true hero! You deserve a medal for valor!"

  A muffled bark seemed to second the accolade.

  Her smudged smile was reward enough. Rafael knew what an odd picture they must present, standing there spattered with grime, hugging a half-starved stray. Still, he couldn't help feeling absurdly proud of himself.

  "Hardly." Mindful of ruining her clothing, Rafael tried to gently fend her away. "There is nothing heroic about crawling around in the muck."

  Her eyes flared open at the sight his scraped and bleeding hand. "Dear Lord, you're hurt!"

  "Just a few scratches. It's nothing—"

  A strange heat suddenly thrummed against his skin as Kyra pressed her palm to his cheek. It was as if some powerful magnetic force was holding them flesh to flesh.

  He couldn't move. He couldn't speak...

  * * *

  "Y-Your face is cut, too." Kyra had only meant to brush a bit of dirt from the nick on his cheekbone. But an elemental current seemed to take hold of her, and before she could think, before she could react, it drew her closer, closer...

  Close enough to see the subtle play of hues swirling in the depths of his sapphire blue eyes. Close enough to be mesmerized by the sweetly sinuous shape of his mouth.

  Close enough to find her lips hovering just a hairsbreadth from his. "I've never seen anything more heroic in my life than what you just did. It was... quite wonderful."

  You are quite wonderful.

  Kyra wasn't sure whether it was Rafael or she who moved—or whether some invisible magic brought them together in a gossamer kiss. For one exquisite instant, she simply savored the sculpted contours of his mouth, strong yet velvet-soft, and the sense of gentle warmth that suffused her senses.

  Then, thank heavens, reason reasserted itself in the form of the squirming dog.

  Shame made the wondrous warmth turn in a flash to a wicked burn. Ducking her head to hide her flaming face, Kyra fumbled with freeing the rescued stray from the tangled folds of fabric.

  Through the scrim of her lashes, she saw that Rafael, too, was looking embarrassed. And with good reason. Though he was too gentlemanly to say so, he was probably horrified at having a wanton jade wrap herself around him. At that moment, she would have given all the tea in China to have the ground beneath her open up and drop her straight to Canton.

  "Halloo, sweetheart," she crooned, stroking the dog's floppy ears to keep from meeting Rafael’s gaze.

  "He needs a proper name," he murmured.

  To Kyra's surprise, he didn't back away from her, now that he was no longer ensnared.

  "My guess," Rafael went on, "is that this ragged little imp will grow into those big, ungainly paws. A Spanish hombre would be greatly shamed by being called 'Sweetheart.' I daresay an English one would feel much the same."

  "You are sure it's a male?"

  "Si." A twinkle of amusement lit in his eyes. "Very sure."

  Kyra did not ask him to elaborate. She thought for a moment. "Then I shall name him Hero. Surely no hombre could object to that."

  "Hero." Rafael reached out and ruffled his fingers through the dog's matted fur. "Perhaps he will grow into his name as well as his feet."

  "At least he will have a chance to prove himself." She hadn't really considered the ramifications of running after the half-starved dog. As was her wont, she had acted on impulse. But as Hero began to suckle and chew on her finger, the decision was oh-so clear.

  "But first I must get him something to eat. He's starving." After running a hand over his protruding little ribs, Kyra added, "And a blanket for the carriage ride home."

  She rather expected him to make all sorts of reasonable objections to adopting a scruffy stray.

  But instead, Rafael merely nodded as he plucked his coat from where she had hung it on a protruding nail and tugged it on. It was cleaner than his torn shirt, Kyra noted thankfully, and would provide him with some protection from the damp chill that was settled over the alleyway now that the sun had passed its zenith.

  "Here, let me carry him," he offered.

  "But your coat, sir." Her nose crinkled as Hero rubbed his whiskered snout against her cheek. "We've already caused the ruin of your other clothing, not to speak of your boots." His valet would like swoon if asked to clean them. "And as you've discovered, he has some rather foul things encrusted in his fur."

  "To the Devil with my coat," answered Rafael cheerfully. "I was never fond of this particular shade of grey. It will be vastly improved by mixing in a bit of brown." He lifted Hero from her arms, and was rewarded with a series of slobbering kisses to his chin. "Yes, yes, you smelly little imp, I rather like you, too." Unfazed by the needle-like teeth now attacking his lapels, he went on, "I think with some proper nourishment, he will make you a very fine country hound."

  Kyra felt a surge of elation well up in her chest. "Oh, you truly think it is alright if we take him with us?"

  "I don't see why not. He's clearly been abandoned."

  "It is exceedingly kind of you to allow strays and... outcasts to attach themselves to your..." She was suddenly aware of his steadying hold on her arm. "...Your coat."

  "My coat is already greatly improved." A grin as he indicated the shredded fabric and missing button on his collar. "Perhaps, like your famous Beau Brummel, I shall start a new style in gentlemen's fashion." Rafael gave a mock wince as Hero nipped at his ear. "Shall we call it the Hungry Hound?"

  Kyra laughed. "I know there are Tulips of the ton who spend hours in front of the mirror perfecting the knot of their cravats, but I am not sure they would be quite as tolerant as you are—not even for the sake of appearing an arbiter of style."

 
"You underestimate the vanity of most men," he murmured.

  No, thought Kyra. I don't. Which was why Rafael de Villafranca Greeley was so...

  How to describe him? No single word seemed adequate to capture the complexity of his character. Whimsical, yet serious... strong, yet sensitive... reserved, yet kind... handsome as sin, yet—

  She made her stop.

  "Have a care, Lady Kyra." His grip kept her upright as she stumbled over a broken crate. "Another turn and we will be out of the alleyways."

  They walked on in companionable silence and were soon back to the bustle of the Covent Garden market. The man selling meat pies from his barrow had promised Kyra to keep their shopping basket, and as they approached to collect it, the vendors at the nearby stalls seemed highly bemused by their disheveled appearance.

  "All that trouble for a flea-bitten cur?" The turnip seller scratched his bulbous nose. "Seems daft te me."

  "Aye," agreed the fellow selling smoked hams. "Look at them garments—they ain't fit for aught but the rag picker anymore."

  "That may be true," murmured Kyra as she slanted yet another look at Hero's lolling tongue and blissful expression as he bestowed another lick to Rafael's chin. "But I consider their demise well worth it."

  "Perhaps the wee doggie is Royal favorite, and they are going to receive a king's ransom as a reward," chimed in the dairy merchant. "Ha, ha, ha."

  A chorus of laughter followed.

  "Looks to me like the ragged little rascal is more likely a Royal pain in the arse," muttered the turnip seller, which sparked even more hilarity.

  Rafael grinned at the teasing. "Oh, come, you have to admit the scamp is rather endearing." He held up Hero, who wagged his scruffy tail. "Or will be once he puts a little meat on his bones."

  "Scrawny thing, ain't he?" The ham vendor looked at Kyra and cleared his throat. "Here, I've a few scraps for him."

  "I suppose I can spare a bit of milk," piped up the dairy merchant.

  "Here, ye can add some of these stale crusts to the milk," offered a woman selling bread. "But mind, missy, not te feed him too much at once, else he'll shoot the cat."