by Trisha Telep
Swift smiled to herself. Fifteen feet separated her from them, and there was no easier mark in the world than a man in love. It addled his thinking, slowed his reflexes, lightened his mood.
And this one … this one kept his wallet in his breast pocket. How very kind of him. Oh, and the lady, paragon of generosity that she was, seemed to be wearing a diamond bracelet. What a big-hearted lass. That little bauble would go a far ways towards Tavis’s education.
Unfortunately the cobbled walkways were all but empty, making it impossible to appear to have been jostled from behind. Another tactic, then, Swift thought, and gripped the little reticule in her right hand. Inside, the initials SVT were embroidered, but that didn’t bother her. For all she knew her own name had contained just those letters. She’d pilfered the bonny bag from a manor house on Brunswick. Perhaps she should have taken the snuffbox she’d seen there, too, but ’twas wrong to be greedy. Blind Pete had instilled that thought into her consciousness from her earliest memory.
The couple was closing the gap between them. Just enough time to glance into the reticule’s empty interior. Just a second to bobble inattentively on the uneven stone. Just an instant to gasp and teeter and grapple for stability. But too late. Oh dear, she was already falling, hands splayed, skirts flying, and eyes wide with dismay as she lifted them towards the gentleman.
With the grace of a diving swallow, she collapsed five inches in front of him.
“Gracious!”
“Careful there!”
The pair took a guarded step to the rear. Swift knew that without glancing up, knew and realized she must do something quick. A little moan might turn the trick.
She emitted a soft sigh of misery, remained absolutely still and hoped to God her feet were tucked firmly beneath her beribboned skirt. Her gown may be Parisian in design, but her shoes were better suited for the mines … or a lively chase. Despite her eye for detail, she was no slave to fashion. Or anything else come to that.
“My dear?” The lady lisped a little as she crouched. “My dear, are you quite all right?”
“Yes. Yes,” Swift said and lifted her head as if disoriented.
“Here then, you’ve taken a nasty spill. Let me help you sit up.”
“Oh.” She looked into the woman’s eyes, catching her full attention as they clasped fingers. “I fear I am a dreadful clod. Murdoch always says as much.”
“You’re no such thing,” said the lady. “Is she, Henry?”
The man seemed late to the party, but rallied when he realized he was about to look the clod should he fail to show some sympathy post-haste. “Certainly not,” he said. “’Tis these damnable cobbles. Rough as the sea at midday. You didn’t twist your ankle did you?”
“No.”
“Better let me take a look. I’m a physician, you know, and––”
“No!” she repeated and jerked her feet more firmly beneath the lacy hem of her stolen skirt. If the damned thing had any more frippery, she’d be tripping for real and earnest. “I’m quite well. Not to worry.”
“Ah, well, can I give you a hand up at the least?”
She caught his gaze with her own lavender eyes. He had a long, hooked nose, a narrow face, and sallow skin. While Swift was … well … today she had chosen to be almost plain. She’d made certain of that in the small shard of mirror she kept stowed beneath her bed.
“That’s ever so kind of you,” she said, and carefully keeping her homely footwear well hidden, shifted her feet beneath her. She was the best dipper in all of Edinburgh, but it was entirely possible that she’d have to be hot-footing it down Hanover Street in another few seconds. Reaching for his hands, she held his gaze as they rose in unison.
“My thanks, good sir,” she said and smiled tremulously into his eyes.
“’Twas nothing at all. Are you certain you’re quite all right?”
“Of course,” she said, then let her eyes drift closed and bobbled as if about to faint.
He caught her about the waist. “Here now,” he crooned and drew her close to his chest … and his wallet.
“Oh my,” she said and lifted her hand to her heart as if to still its palpitations. It was just a matter of inches and nerve to his inside pocket. Inches, nerve, and the innate ability to appear to be what you are not. “Oh, my most abject apologies.” She stood with her back to the lady and steadied herself on the gentleman’s chest for a fraction of a second. If what Terrible Tull said was true, most things involving men took no longer than that.
“You’d best sit.”
“No, no,” she said and straightened resolutely. Her cheeks felt flushed. It was one of her most notable abilities. “I’ve inconvenienced you and your beautiful lady far too long already.” She stepped back, goods firmly stowed away. “Please, do be about your day,” she said, and, happy with her morning’s work, stepped carefully past them.
She hadn’t taken five full strides before a voice from her right startled her. “Nicely done, luv.” A man stepped out of an alleyway, lips twisted with derision. “Quite impressive.”
Her heart stopped dead in her chest. Indeed, she no longer cared if the couple behind her realized she’d robbed them or not. Knobby Hooks had seen her poaching birds in Cryton’s territory. And that was enough to strike terror in any dipper’s heart had she half a brain in her noggin. But she forced a cocky smile, curtsied prettily, and matched his harsh Glasgow accent. “My thanks, good sir. Praps you’ll give us a bob for the performance.”
“A bob is it?” He stepped forward. There was something in his eyes, uncertainty maybe. Could it be that he thought she actually hadn’t recognized him? She would remember Knobby Hooks till the day she died twitching on the gallows and probably long after.
“A bob ain’t nothing for a gent like you,” she said, edging her voice with just a sparkle of flirtation.
“And what would I get for my coin?” he asked and stepped up close.
“You want a wee sample, do ya?” she asked.
He shrugged, mouth tilted up, smug as hell.
She smiled as she reached for his shoulders, tilted her head prettily, then slammed her knee into his crotch. But her aim was a little off. He jerked back. Her knee skimmed his thigh, just injuring him, but that was enough for her. Grabbing her skirts in both hands, she pivoted like a charger and bolted across the street. She could hear him rally before she’d reached the opposite side. He straightened with a growl. The feral sound raised the hair on the back of her neck, but it did nothing to slow her flight. She glanced over her shoulder. He was already giving chase. And he was fast, devouring the distance between them.
She dashed down Castle Street and careened on to Rose. One glance over her shoulder assured her she was not alone. Knobby was behind her and gaining. Up ahead, the market would be bustling with people. Maybe she could get lost in the crowd. Or maybe she’d get snatched by a constable. But there was little choice. Knobby was behind, crowds were ahead.
She turned the corner like a courser digging for the home stretch … and ran smack into a tall gentleman’s back.
She staggered, momentarily stunned. He bobbed forward a few steps, then turned slowly. “I say, what goes on here?” His expression was stern, his tone the same, suggesting London roots. But she realized those truths in only a vague sort of way, for he was wealthy.
He was wearing a fob watch on his waistcoat, a black billycock on his head, and a sharp-cut ruby on his right ring finger. For a moment the entirety of Swift’s attention was riveted on those facts, but a squeal from behind brought her abruptly to her senses.
“My apologies, sir.” Her London accent was a bit rusty, but she pushed ahead. “I fear I’m in a terrible rush. I was to meet my dearest father at the …” Behind her, a man growled a warning. Feet scuffled. She imagined Knobby careening towards her. Her mind stalled, frozen in terror, but she kicked it impatiently back into gear, raised her gaze past the gentleman’s left ear and found inspiration in the small stone church at the end of the street
. “At the chapel,” she finished breathlessly, “And I must away.”
It was all she could do to remain steady as she strode past the venders and hawkers that lined the boulevard. Behind her in the growing crush, a woman gasped and a man cursed. Reaching up with stiff fingers, she slipped the straw chapeau from her head. Every fibre in her ached to glance over her shoulder, but she resisted. Instead, she pulled the copper pins from her hair and dropped them into her reticule. Chestnut curls fell around her face and down her back as she shifted her eyes side to side, searching for relief. And then she saw it.
Two young men were watching the crowds from a dark alcove. One was tall and gawky, one near her own height. And now she did chance a glance over her shoulder. Knobby was not yet in sight.
“I’ve a proposition.” She joined them in the shadows. They straightened abruptly. Perhaps their cocky, devil-may-kill expressions should have scared her, but she knew nothing of these boys, and far too much of Knobby Hooks.
“A proposition?” said the gawky one and shifted his weight restlessly. “Might it involve you flat on your back with me––”
“It involves this hat,” she said, and kept herself from wasting precious time by listening to him jabber.
“Methinks I’m more interested in you.”
“How about in this?” she asked and held up a fob watch. She hadn’t really meant to take it from the gentleman she’d last bumped into, but if he didn’t want it filched why did he wear it right out in the open like that?
“You giving us a watch, Strawberry?” asked the shorter of the two.
“I shall,” she said, “if you’ll wear the hat and run through the crowds until you reach the square.”
They stared at her for a second, then snorted in derision.
“Tell me this then, Strawberry, why don’t we just grab you and the watch all together?”
She took time to give them her most comely smile. She’d left plain behind some minutes ago. “Because I’ll knee you in the forbiddens and scream bloody murder. How long do you think you’ll last when that swell mob finds you molesting one of their own?”
“I think––”
From some yards away a man’s affronted voice rang out. “Hey there, watch what you’re about.”
“Time’s up!” she said. “Do it or don’t.”
“I’ll do it,” said the shorter of the two, and snatching the hat from her hand, slammed it on to his head. She handed over the watch with barely a shiver of regret, and then he was gone, leaping from the alcove towards Charlotte’s Square.
Swift hid in the deepest shadows, but even from there she could see Knobby dodge past, skirting skirts and careening after her straw chapeau.
She almost smiled as she watched him go, but just then she noticed a baby-faced constable scowling in the direction of the rapidly retreating Knobby. Chances were good the authorities would never connect her with the criminal element dressed as she was, but there seemed little reason to take chances. She’d had a fine, relaxing morning thus far and had no wish to ruin it now. So, dodging her eyes right and left, she stepped from the alcove and strode to the end of the street. Ducking her head in silent reverence, she opened the arched, iron-bound door of a small, stone kirk. Inside, it was cool and dim. A dozen stout candles flickered near the chancel.
She paused momentarily, admiring the stain glass windows, the vaulted ceiling, the trio of wooden confessionals.
She’d always appreciated churches. They were fine places to hide. Quiet and dark, they more often than not had a mite box set out to collect alms for the poor.
She was poor.
Bowing her head, she made the sign of the cross against her chest as she’d seen others do. Kneeling on a padded plank, she glanced surreptitiously from side to side. No one seemed to be minding the store. And, thank the good and gracious Lord, there was the collection box. Iron bound, it was cylindrical in shape and crafted of dark wood. A small slit had been cut into the top and it was kept by a rusty metal hasp.
God was with her.
Opening her reticule, she rose to her feet and stepped forward. To an observer, it may well have seemed as if she was fetching a coin. Instead, a small copper pin came away in her hand.
Head bowed again, she sheltered the wooden box with her body while fiddling soundlessly with the lock. In less than ten full seconds it made a rusty creak as it popped open. One more glance to the rear assured her she was alone. The top rose almost soundlessly.
Her fingers were as quick as minnows as she fished out the coins and dropped them into her reticule. One more. Just one more and––
“Might I help ye, child?”
Her breath froze in her throat. The voice came from behind her, cutting off her exit. But surely there was another door. Without moving her head, she glanced right and left. No hope on either side. Easing the mite box closed, she prayed the man behind her was short, ponderously fat and older than black pepper. The lock clicked quietly as it sank home. She gritted her teeth, then fixed a humble expression on her bonny face and turned slowly, eyes lowered.
“Father.” She said the word reverently and raised her gaze to meet his. Her eyes travelled up a goodly distance, but they did not encounter the woollen robes she’d expected. Instead, he was dressed in a simple tunic and dark tartan. Belted at his lean waist with a broad strap of leather, the plaid was pinned at his brawny shoulder with a brooch the size of her fist. Beneath the plaid, his thighs bunched with strength. Every shifting muscle spoke of power. His hair, however, was laced with grey. A small indication, perhaps, that the Lord did, indeed, have a rare sense of irony.
“Oh …” She smiled shyly. “I assumed you were a priest.”
He remained absolutely silent, neither confirming nor denying. If intimidation was his intent, he had a fine start; muscles roiled like mooring lines beneath the turned-up sleeves of his tunic. She swallowed but refused to fidget. “Well, I’d best be off. I but came to leave a wee contribution for the city’s poor,” she said, and making sure her little purse was well hidden in the folds of her voluminous skirt, glided towards the door.
He said nothing. She could feel the tension build in the soles of her feet and creep up the back of her legs, but she held steady. Many had fallen from weak nerves. She would not be amongst them. Not Swift Torree of Canongate. Instead, she let her reticule fall gently against the slope of her gown and tumble noiselessly behind the solid leg of a pew meant for a parishioner not important enough to obtain one of the private boxes. Though she was loathe to leave it, ’twas far better to be parted from it for a time than to be caught red-handed with the alms in her possession.
“’Tis very generous of ye lass,” he said finally. His Highlander’s burr seemed to rumble from the very earth beneath them, but she managed to inhale and lowered her gaze modestly. Even staring at the floor, however, she could tell he was already stepping forward, stealing the air from her lungs. And though she told herself to remain calm, she couldn’t help but snap her attention to his stern countenance.
Their gazes met and melded, his as grey as a winter storm.
“Is something unright, lass?” he asked.
Unright how? Did he suspect her of thievery? Or—
“Mayhap there be somemat ye wish to tell me?”
“No!” she blurted, but caught herself and lowered her lashes carefully. Who the hell was he? A priest in plain clothing? A parishioner? A guard? A braw Highlander meant to test the fortitude of frail maids? The last seemed most likely, for though his face was stern and unyielding, it spoke volumes of strength and self-control. If a body needed protecting, he’d be just the sort for the task. Luckily for Swift, she was not the needy kind. Nor was she the type to dwell on girlish dreams, though there was that about him that prompted them. “Well, yes. Yes, there is something,” she admitted. “I fear I have sinned.”
“Have ye now?”
“Might I …” She glanced at the narrow trio of rooms set aside for sinners. Had her luck held, the damn
ed boxes would have been adjacent to the door, but anywhere was better than near the alms box. “Might I make an admittance?”
He studied her. He was close now, within four strides. If she bolted would he catch her? He was not a young man, probably past five and thirty years, but judging by the size of his thighs she rather doubted another fifty would make him slow enough to best.
“Might ye mean a confession?” he asked.
“Yes. Of course.” She felt herself blush. How the devil had she forgotten that word? “Might I make a confession?”
“Aye,” he said and remained absolutely unmoving.
She scowled a little. “I meant … in the …” She glanced towards the boxes, but when she turned back, he was just lifting his gaze from the floor. Had he noticed her shoes? Tipped on to the edge of panic, she stood very still, not deigning to draw her feet beneath her skirts. Surely that would do nothing but signify guilt. And who was he to judge her attire? He was garbed in a wee skirt, for God’s sake. Though, in truth, he wore it well. And the tiny, leather-wrapped braid beside his left ear did even less to decrease his manhood. “I meant in one of them confessional …” She caught herself just before spinning into her native tongue. The inhabitants of Old Town’s Canongate were not known for their elegant speech. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin a little. “I was hoping to be seated in one of the confessional boxes.”
“But the confessionals are to hide one’s identity,” he said and for an instant something flickered in his eyes. She couldn’t quite make out what it was. “And I’ve already seen your face, lass.”
“Well …” Was there interest in his expression? Was he attracted to her? Because she sure as hell could work with that. “Perhaps you could forget,” she said and glanced coyly through her lashes.
His lips twitched with humour. “I fear the Lord has blessed me with a long and faithful memory, lassie. I shan’t forget features such as yours.”
So he was attracted. Praise God! “You’ve a distinctive visage yourself, Father.” She was desperately digging for information regarding his reason for being there. Did priests go about in Highlander garb now and again? She had no way of knowing. It wasn’t as if she spent her days in the company of clergy, but her words concerning his features were true nevertheless. Although he was by no means a pretty man, his jaw was chiseled and broad, his chin well nicked by a scar that ran out of sight towards his throat.
