The lawman nodded then to the executioner, giving him leave to twist the ladder. Desirée tore her gaze away and squeezed her eyes shut, unable to endure the grisly spectacle.
But though she could blind herself to the sight, there was no turning a deaf ear to the ominous squeaks of the rope as Hubert’s body swung from the gallows timbers.
Desirée swayed in stunned silence, unable to move, unable to breathe, vaguely aware of the villagers yelling out around her, some in disappointment, some in morbid glee. When she finally dared to open her eyes, Hubert was already dead.
The shire-reeve, his jaw clenched, held up his hand to quiet the chaotic outcries of the crowd.
“Hear you well!” His voice cracked over the words, as if he were equally shocked by the brutality of Hubert’s death, as if he were somehow not responsible for it. Then he quickly regained his composure, biting out a dire threat. “Let this serve as a warning to you all. So die all murderers in my shire. Do not think you can outrun justice or outwit Nicholas Grimshaw. No man is above the law. And one of you,” he said, scanning their faces from the depths of his hooded cloak, “may well be next.”
Desirée, reeling with shock, watched as Hubert’s lifeless body, no longer of interest to the crowd, swung back and forth from the blackened arm of the gallows. She felt her own bones go limp, and the man-at-arms, sensing she’d be no more trouble, released her. She sank down onto the snow, heedless of the cold.
For a long while she sat frozen, hypnotized by the sway of the rope, while snowflakes gathered on her lashes and dusted her cloaked shoulders.
She might have borne little affection for her partner in crime, who’d all but tossed her aside like garbage. Indeed, on her miserable journey here, she’d thought of a thousand ways to punish him for his betrayal. But never had she wished upon him so cruel an end.
Nicholas Grimshaw must have broken him. There was no other explanation. Hubert had been ill of late, and Grimshaw must have preyed upon his weakness, forcing him to confess to a crime he didn’t commit.
What ominous threats the shire-reeve continued to issue to the crowd she didn’t know, nor did she measure how long she sat there. But by the time she at last blinked away the film of shock, the square had grown quiet and most of the villagers had dispersed.
The demon in the black cloak remained by the gallows, however, as stark as a raven against the fall of snow, conferring with his constable, the executioner, and a few others. A stout troll of a man dressed in finery approached the others, dug in his purse, then dropped several silver coins into the shire-reeve’s palm.
Blood money for hanging a helpless old man.
The sight made rage rise in her like ale stored too long in the keg. Casting about, she snatched up a sharp rock from the ground and, with a hoarse cry of pure fury, hurled it forward with all her might.
To her astonishment, it sailed true, striking the shire-reeve in the face. He staggered back, pressing his hand against his cheek, drawing back bloody fingers.
“Seize her!” the constable cried, drawing his sword.
But the shire-reeve took one look at her and stayed the constable’s arm. “’Tis only a child. Leave her be. ‘Tisn’t the first stone I’ve caught. Won’t be the last.”
The constable reluctantly sheathed his sword, but Desirée was already beating a hasty retreat down the lane. She might be reckless, but she was no fool. Nor was she a child.
Huddled behind the stone wall of a butchery shop, she peered down the long, narrow street. The snow was falling more heavily now, but she could still make out the silhouette of the black-cloaked man striding past the distant gallows, defiling the white landscape, like a crow waiting to feed on the spoils of his kill.
She would wait for him. She knew he was mortal now. He could bleed. She fingered the short dagger cached in her skirts. The blade was cold and sharp and merciless...just like revenge.
CHAPTER 2
"God’s hooks! ’Tis colder than an old trot’s teat,” the constable complained.
Nicholas stomped the snow from his boots and nodded toward Hubert Kabayn’s still-hanging body. “Go on,” he bade the executioner, “cut him down. He’s not getting any deader.” The sooner he got this business over with, the sooner he could see to the nasty gash on his cheek and the sooner he could drink himself into oblivion by a warm fire. Anything to erase the dreadful image of Kabayn’s death.
“The law’s the law,” said the squat, pig-eyed steward of Torteval, who stood between them, jabbing a scolding finger at the air in front of the constable’s nose. “A full hour.”
Nicholas ground his teeth. Abiding by the law was one thing. Following it to absurd limits was another.
“You owe it to Lady Philomena,” the steward insisted. Then, as if Nicholas were both blind and deaf, the man jerked his thumb toward him and confided in a loud whisper to the constable, “He cheated her.”
Nicholas frowned down at the steward, who was small enough to squash with his thumb. “Cheated her? How?”
Like a spooked squirrel, the man trembled at being directly addressed by the shire-reeve. Then he licked his lips and blurted out, “The outlaw didn’t suffer in the least.”
“The man’s dead,” Nicholas said.
“But Lady Philomena specifically requested—”
“I don’t give a bloody damn what...” Nicholas bit his tongue. He knew better than to get into an argument of ethics with the steward from the richest holding of Canterbury, the household that paid the bulk of his wage.
Emboldened by Nicholas’s silence, Lady Philomena’s man smirked at the constable. “How do you expect to thwart outlaws if the bloody wretches don’t suffer?” He brushed the snow from his shoulder. “Soon there’ll be murdering miscreants crawling all over Torteval Hall.” He shuddered. “My lady will be displeased, very displeased.”
As far as Nicholas was concerned, Lady Philomena could kiss his arse. He wasn’t her damned servant, for God’s sake. He was a servant of the law. The woman hadn’t bothered to show up for the hanging anyway. And as for this mincing Torteval steward...
The constable diplomatically interrupted before Nicholas could finish his silent threat. “Well, the rest of the crowd was most impressed,” he told the steward. “One need only whisper ‘Nicholas Grimshaw’ now to keep the outlaws of Canterbury quiet for weeks.”
That was what Nicholas hoped. He was far more interested in preventing crime than punishing it.
Apparently, Lady Philomena’s man did not agree. He narrowed his beady eyes in anger and, with a flip of his cloak that scattered snowflakes everywhere, stalked off. “An hour, Grimshaw!” he called over his shoulder.
Nicholas cursed under his breath, then glanced at the executioner, who waited for his orders, his beefy arms crossed over his barrel chest. From his earnings, he counted out the five shillings the man was owed. “Go get yourself a pint. I’ll put him in the ground.”
As the executioner gratefully retired to the nearest inn, the constable, shivering with the cold, tucked his hands beneath his arms, glancing around the nearly empty square. “No kin?”
“He said he had a young granddaughter.”
“Living in Canterbury?”
Nicholas shook his head. “They were passing through.”
The constable winced. “Not pilgrims, I hope?”
“Nay. The old man wasn’t looking for absolution. He was a seasoned outlaw.”
The constable nodded, then began pacing back and forth before the gallows, clapping his arms and rubbing his hands together for warmth, glancing up occasionally at Kabayn’s body. “Why do you suppose he—?”
“I don’t know.” That wasn’t exactly true. He could guess why Kabayn had leaped from the ladder before the executioner had a chance to force him off. He’d spoken to the outlaw long enough to learn that, feeble as he was, Kabayn was a man accustomed to making his own rules and steering his own fate. It was one final act of defiance for him to cheat the hangman.
Not tha
t it mattered that he’d added suicide to his list of crimes. Kabayn’s soul was already cursed by the sin of murder. Nicholas would have to bury his body in unhallowed ground.
“An hour indeed,” the constable muttered. “’Tis a stupid law. The man’s neck is obviously broken.”
Nicholas agreed. The law had been made for victims of simple strangulation, to ensure they were truly dead. He sniffed. “The law says at least an hour.”
“Aye?”
“If there’s no kin to know one way or the other, we’ll leave him for the night. No one will steal the body. Not even a carrion crow would brave this cold. I’ll cut him down in the morn ere anyone’s up and about.”
Bidding the thankful constable good afternoon and casting one last glance toward the silent, snow-dusted corpse, Nicholas shouldered his satchel and trudged down the lane toward his lodgings, trembling less from cold than from fatigue.
At the moment, he desperately needed a belly full of ale and a good night’s sleep. Early tomorrow, he’d bury Hubert Kabayn and seek out the man’s grandchild so he could honor the fellow’s last request. It had been a long two days, and dispensing death always weighed heavily on his soul.
Desirée’s breath made plumes in the air as she crept on kitten-soft feet through the shallow snow, her footprints dwarfed by the giant who trod the path several score yards before her. He was but a shadow in the distance, disappearing around corners and down winding lanes. But few other souls braved the snow-covered streets of Canterbury now, so she had no trouble following his tracks.
He naturally didn’t live in the village proper. Merchants of death like Nicholas Grimshaw lodged outside of town, away from decent folk, in order to thwart the kind of vengeance she was about to take.
Desirée shivered, as much from apprehension as from the cold. She’d never killed anyone before. She wasn’t even sure she could do it, despite the icy rage filling her veins. But she knew she’d never find peace until she avenged Hubert’s death.
Hubert wouldn’t be pleased. A good cheat would never succumb to passion, particularly anger. A good cheat kept a level head, wore a guileless smile, and evened the score in more subtle ways, usually by lightening a man’s purse right under his nose.
Perhaps Hubert was right. Perhaps Desirée wasn’t a good cheat, after all. Perhaps she should retire from her life of crime.
And perhaps she would...right after she paid the ruthless shire-reeve back for his cruelty.
The man wasn’t as cautious as he should have been. The stupid fool had no idea someone was following him. He didn’t even bother to glance behind him when he arrived home, swinging open the wooden gate in the high stone wall surrounding his demesne at the edge of the forest.
Nonetheless, Desirée waited outside until snowflakes an inch thick covered the top of her boots, giving him time to settle in and drop his guard. Then she lifted the latch and slowly pushed the gate inward.
She expected to find a lair befitting a malevolent savage behind the wall. Perhaps a cave dripping with bats. Or a squat, squalid hovel with yellow smoke boiling from the chimney. Or a jagged fortress carved out of gleaming black jet.
What she discovered instead was an ordinary modest house of wattle and daub with a thatched roof. Pale gray smoke drifted up from the chimney through the falling flakes of snow. A pair of bare-limbed fruit trees stood sentinel over the cottage. In the yard were furrowed rows where a summer garden had once grown, and a gruesome vision flashed through her mind of the shire-reeve harvesting cabbages with a great beheading axe.
With an apprehensive gulp, she stole forward along the cobbled path, grateful that his shutters were closed. Upon his doorstep, she drew the dagger, then with painstaking caution forced the door open a crack.
The fire on the hearth cast a golden glow over the interior of the cottage, in stark contrast to the wintry white of the outside world. The pitch pop of burning wood made cheery music in the room, and shadows danced merrily upon the plaster walls.
Desirée hesitated, biting her cheek in indecision. It wasn’t how she’d envisioned the den of a lawman. This was no dank, dark dungeon. The walls weren’t stained with the blood of unfortunates. And the evil Nicholas Grimshaw wasn’t stirring a cauldron of boiling oil over the fire.
A long, soft snore issued from the cottage, and Desirée pressed the door open another inch. From here, she could see only the man’s long legs stretched out toward the fire and his dangling left arm, the fingers of which loosely gripped an empty clay flagon.
She smiled grimly. The fool was fast asleep.
He snored again, a low rumbling sound, and she pushed the door wide enough to slip her head through the gap.
He half reclined on a bench, pushed up against the interior wall. He’d removed his boots, and his wet, stockinged feet, propped on a three-legged stool, steamed from the heat of the fire. His cloak lay crumpled atop a nearby table, beside a keg of ale, where he’d likely filled his flagon. And his sheathed sword was propped in the corner, a good four paces from where he dozed.
The knife felt heavy in her hand. She wasn’t sure she could slay a man in cold blood. But under the circumstances, it certainly seemed an easy task. All she need do was steal up beside him and slit his throat.
No one would suspect charming Desirée of the crime.
Hubert Kabayn would have his vengeance.
And there was likely not a soul who would mourn the death of this beast of a man.
She opened the door wide enough to step through, closing it softly behind her as she dropped her satchel by the entrance and scanned the interior. Naturally, she’d take a few things with her when she left. The sword was likely valuable. And the boots, if she could find anyone with feet that large. He might possess jewelry, plunder confiscated from his victims, or treasures he’d accepted as bribes. And she knew he had coin in his purse, the day’s wages.
She crept forward, belatedly wondering if such a man might keep a great mastiff in his home to ward off trespassers. But as she edged closer to the bench, she heard no stirring, only the even sawing of the shire-reeve’s breath.
At her next step, the fire gave a sudden loud pop, and the man snorted, dropping his cup. Desirée froze, her heart pounding, as he shifted on the bench and his head lolled toward her. She tightened her grip on the knife, ready to defend herself. He grunted once but thankfully remained asleep.
Now that he faced her, she could see the monster that the hood of the black cloak had concealed, and the closer she drew to him, the more her fingers faltered on the dagger.
He wasn’t the slope-headed, heavy-browed, pox-scarred mongrel she’d imagined. And he was much younger than she’d thought, probably not yet thirty years of age. His swarthy cheeks were lean and sturdily boned, his nose slightly aquiline, his mouth generous.
Dark hair fell in unruly locks across his brow and along his neck, and his wide jaw was in need of a shave. A thin white scar ran along his chin, a second marked his forehead, and the fresh cut she’d given him high on his cheekbone was surrounded now by a blackening bruise. But nothing could mar the undeniable rugged handsomeness of his face.
She wondered absently if his eyes were as black as they’d seemed in the village square.
From the corner of her vision, Desirée saw something white suddenly streak past the hearth. Startled, she sucked in a loud breath. Too late she realized it was only a cat.
Nicholas didn’t know what woke him. He’d thought he was in a dead sleep. But what he glimpsed, peering beneath his drowsy lids, made his eyes widen at once.
A maid stood over him with a dagger. Granted, she was distracted at the moment, glaring at the hearth. But there was no mistaking her intent.
Before she could act on that intent, he lifted up his sleep-dead left arm and seized her wrist.
She shrieked in surprise.
He clapped his right hand over the narrow guard of the dagger, intending to pry the weapon loose. But the wily wench twisted in his grip and withdrew the blade, sl
icing the webbing between his thumb and finger.
He hissed in pain, making a second grab for her with his left hand, catching the folds of her skirt.
She tugged away, and when she couldn’t tug loose, she slashed downward with the dagger. He pulled his hand back in time to avoid another slash, and she made a gash in her skirt instead.
Fully awake now, he vaulted to his feet.
She should have fled in fear. He was twice her size. One backward sweep of his arm could knock the scrawny wench unconscious against the wall. But she only stared at him, her gaze as wild and piercing as that of a mother swan protecting her brood from a wolf.
He narrowed his eyes in sudden recognition. “You!” His fingers went involuntarily to the wound she’d inflicted upon him earlier.
To his astonishment, one corner of her lip curled up smugly.
His hand stung like the devil, and blood was dripping down his palm, but he still had one good hand. That was all he required to subdue the spindly damsel.
He seized her by the throat, his fingers wrapping easily around her tiny neck, and picked her up.
Like an indignant kitten, she hissed and squirmed and tried to stab at him. But with his injured hand, he caught her wrist and applied pressure till she dropped the weapon. Then he kicked it, sending the dagger skittering halfway across the room.
She scrabbled furiously at his arm. He wasn’t strangling her, not yet, but one squeeze of his fingers would be all it took. Fortunately for the wench, unlike her, he wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer.
But she didn’t need to know that.
“I could snap your neck like kindling, child,” he growled.
“You don’t scare me!” she choked out with remarkable bravado. “And I’m no child!”
He blinked. It was true. He could see now she was endowed with the ripe curves of a woman full-grown. But what was wrong with the maid? Was she diseased in the head? No one challenged Nicholas Grimshaw. People fled from him in terror. She should have been begging for his mercy, not inciting him with taunts. After all, she was little more than a mouse in his deadly talons.
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