Danger's Kiss

by Glynnis Campbell

  He’d told her once, before he’d taken to disparaging her skills, that she had that same touch, that grace, that speed. But she’d never believed him. No one was as clever or nimble-fingered as Hubert Kabayn.

  “Ready?”

  She glanced at the grave with disdain. It couldn’t have been more than a yard and a half deep. “I hope the wolves won’t dig him up,” she grumbled.

  He placed Hubert’s body in the shallow pit. The man’s movements were gentle, almost caring, and Desirée wondered how he could possibly be the same man who’d so viciously broken Hubert’s neck.

  She neared the grave, looking down at the quiet body. The shire-reeve had crossed Hubert’s arms piously over his chest. But Desirée feared it would take much more than that for an outlaw like Hubert to broach the gates of heaven. He’d likely have better luck stealing his way in.

  Now that she stood over him, she didn’t know what to say. She’d harbored no great love for the man. Indeed, he’d been harsh, hardhearted, and oftentimes cruel. In return, she’d given him as good as she got. There were no words to describe the unsentimental nature of their bond.

  Besides, Hubert had liked sappy proclamations of false affection about as much as he liked weeping. She couldn’t very well extol his virtues, since he had so few. And her prayers would likely do little for him, coming from a sinner like herself.

  But as she gazed into the grave, it suddenly struck her that Hubert had shown her one last kindness. He must have known all along that he was going to the gallows. The fool’s errand he’d sent her on was his way of keeping her at a safe distance from his execution. It wasn’t an act of betrayal. It was an act of protection.

  She felt her throat thicken with emotion as she recognized the truth—Hubert hadn’t hated her as much as he pretended. At the very least, he cared enough for her to keep her from harm with his dying breath. As callous as he could be sometimes, he had always looked out for her. She supposed she owed him something for six years of watching over her.

  His spirit would not be eased by tears or praise or prayers spoken over his dead body. Only one thing would ensure the quiet repose of his soul.

  “I’m going to hunt down the real killer, Hubert,” she decided. “You may be dead, but I’ll see you rest in peace. I promise. No matter what it takes, I’m going to remove this stain upon your soul.”

  It was the least she could do. Hubert wasn’t a murderer. He’d been wrongfully hanged. And she wouldn’t rest until his death was avenged.

  She could see she’d been wrong to blame Nicholas Grimshaw alone. He might have been the one who ordered Hubert’s execution. But the real target of her vengeance was whoever committed the murder and let Hubert face the gallows for it.

  She stepped away then and let the shire-reeve fill in the grave. As he tamped down the last of the dirt, then placed a large rock at one end as a crude marker, the truth hit her like a boot in the belly.

  Hubert was well and truly gone. The only proof she had that he’d ever existed were the Fast and Loose chain he’d given her, a useless iron key he’d stolen, and a weighted die. She was on her own. She’d used up the last of her coin on food for him in the gaol. Their room at the inn had been let to someone else. And with the weather so bleak, most of the alehouses, where she might take a drunken fool’s purse in a game of Three Shells and a Pea, would be empty.

  She had nowhere to go.

  The shire-reeve must have read her thoughts. “Come back to the cottage. I’ll make frumenty,” he said, returning the spade to its spot. “You could use some meat on your bones.”

  Frumenty. It had been a long while since she’d eaten more than maslin bread and ale for breakfast. Indeed, it had been a long while since she’d eaten at all. Indeed, a bowl of creamy wheat pottage would do much to warm her blood. With her belly full, perhaps she’d be better able to consider the future and how she was going to keep her promise to Hubert.

  Besides, taking advantage of the shire-reeve’s hospitality was almost as satisfying as cutting his purse.

  CHAPTER 5

  Nicholas stirred the pot over the fire, wary, suspecting that behind him, Desirée was likely contemplating his death or, at the very least, musing over what valuables she might steal from him. What she didn’t realize was that he’d hung a polished steel spoon over the hearth and he could watch her every move in its reflection. So far, she hadn’t budged from the bench, except to stroke Azrael, who’d taken a curious liking to the wench and who currently brushed back and forth along her damp skirts.

  “Take care. He has sharp claws,” he called over his shoulder.

  She didn’t answer him. Instead, she defiantly scratched the cat behind the ears, eliciting a loud purr, then whispered to the beast, “Do you like that, Snowflake?”

  Nicholas snorted. “Snowflake? His name is Azrael.”

  “Azrael? Isn’t that the...“

  “Angel of Death.”

  She paused for a moment to think that over. “I’m going to call him Snowflake.”

  Nicholas shuddered. It was a good thing the cat couldn’t speak her language. The proud beast would be highly insulted.

  He poured the steaming frumenty into his only bowl and carried it to Desirée. She dropped one spoonful onto the floor for Azrael, who lapped it up as if it were the sweetest ambrosia.

  “You’ll spoil my cat,” he chided.

  “I won’t be here long enough to spoil him.”

  “Aye, about that.” He began pacing before her while she stirred her frumenty to cool it. “You’ll no doubt be pleased to know that your grand-, Hubert made a final request of me. Since you have no one else, he asked me to look after you.”

  Her spoon clattered in her bowl, and her eyes darted to his. “You? The shire-reeve of Kent?” After a moment, she gave him a dubious smirk. “Of course he did.”

  “He might not have been your grandfather, but he was concerned for your welfare.”

  “If that varlet was concerned for my welfare, he’d not leave me in the hands of a killer.”

  Nicholas’s jaw twitched. “I’m not...” he snapped, then steadied his tone. “I’m not a killer. I’m a lawman. There is a vast difference.”

  Her bark of laughter was humorless. “Indeed?”

  Nicholas clenched his fists reflexively. He hated feeling defensive. Damn it all! He was not a murderer. Aye, he presided over executions, but if he didn’t, someone with far less pity would have done it in his stead.

  “Who lives or dies is not by my will. I’m merely an instrument of the law. Even Hubert understood that.”

  “Did he? And how would you know that?”

  Nicholas scowled. Must the wench challenge him at every turn? “Because I spent his last night with him. That was when he bade me look after you.”

  She studied him, as if gauging whether he told the truth. “He was ill. He didn’t know what he was saying.”

  “Aye, he was ill. But he was sound of mind.” He shook his head. “Sound of mind enough to deceive me into thinking you were no more than a helpless child.”

  The merest trace of a wistful smile touched her lips. “Hubert always had a talent for deception.”

  She spooned a bite of frumenty into her mouth, then another, then another. He wondered how long it had been since the poor waif had eaten.

  It didn’t matter, he thought. It wasn’t his responsibility to watch over every starving creature that came crawling to his door. He’d already taken in Azrael. He didn’t need another mouth to feed.

  “Listen,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I made a vow, and I mean to keep it. I won’t throw you out into the streets. But the truth is I can’t have you staying with me for long.” He resumed pacing before her. “A shire-reeve’s life is brutal. I work long days, travel from town to town. And you’d be a target for abuse. ‘Tis no kind of life for a young maid, and—“

  She began laughing, nearly spewing the last bite of frumenty from her mouth. If she hadn’t clearly been laughing
at him, he would have found the musical sound oddly pleasing.

  He uncrossed his arms and frowned. “What?”

  When she’d regained her composure, she told him in no uncertain terms, “You needn’t worry. I’d sooner rot in a nunnery than live with a man of the law.”

  “Indeed?” Nicholas testily snatched the empty bowl from her, carrying it to the cutting block and slopping water into it from his pitcher. “Well,” he muttered, his ire piqued by her insult, “Hubert obviously considered me a fit guardian.”

  “On the contrary.” She rose to take the bowl from him. “Hubert knew you’d never take me in.” She sloshed the bowl vigorously to clean it. “But he saw you were a man of substantial wealth and guilty conscience. He only said what he did to fleece you of your coin.”

  She crossed to the hearth, tossing the dirty water onto the coals, which sizzled and smoked like a vexed dragon. Then she faced him, holding out the empty vessel and cocking a brow. “That is what you’re about to do, isn’t it? Offer me coin?”

  When Nicholas didn’t take the bowl from her, she placed it on the cutting block herself.

  Nicholas scowled. Indeed, that was exactly what he’d intended. He’d planned to give the maid a sizable purse, enough to keep her alive for several weeks, long enough for her to find employment or a suitable husband.

  Had Hubert played him for a fool? He’d seemed so sincere. The old man’s plea had been heartfelt, he was sure.

  “Don’t worry,” Desirée said, her lids flattening over sulky eyes. “I won’t take your coin. You’re right. I’m not a child. I can make my own way.” She raked him disdainfully with her gaze. “Besides, your silver has the stench of blood upon it.” With that, she whirled about and headed for the door.

  Usually such scorn blew past his ears like the Latin spoken at Mass, heard but not absorbed. Not a day passed when someone wasn’t spewing insults at him.

  Yet for some reason, her words cut him to the quick, as surely as the stone she’d hurled. Damn the wench! He was a good man, an honorable man, and it vexed him that she should think otherwise.

  It was his own fault, he supposed. He’d cultivated a reputation for harshness. It was what kept him employed.

  But the truth was Nicholas didn’t have a harsh bone in his body. And the knowledge that the wench thought him a callous murderer rankled him.

  He charged past her, blocking her exit. Nothing changed the fact that he’d made a vow to Hubert, a vow he intended to honor, even if he had to stuff the coins down the woman’s bodice.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke in challenge. “You’d refuse my help? You’d deny poor Hubert his dying request? The man who called you granddaughter. The man whose last thoughts were for your welfare. The man who—“

  “Ballocks!” She narrowed her eyes to wicked slits. “Don’t you understand? You’ve been cheated. Deceived. Betrayed. He told you that just so he could rob your purse.” She smirked. “Not even death could stop a hardened outlaw like Hubert Kabayn from filching just one more farthing.”

  He uncrossed his arms and began digging in his purse. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t throw a penniless waif out into the cold.”

  “You’re not throwing me out. I’m leaving of my own accord. If you’ll get out of my way.”

  “Not until you accept my coin.” He held out a generous handful of silver.

  She smacked his hand aside, and the coins spilled across the floor like scuttling beetles, startling Azrael from his hearthside nap.

  “I won’t be bought,” she bit out. “Hubert died unjustly. If you think that handing me a purse full of silver can wipe away the blood on your hands and ease your guilt, you’re mistaken. Now stand aside.”

  He ignored her command. “Where do you think you’ll go? What will you do? How will you survive?”

  “’Tisn’t your concern.”

  “Have you any skills?”

  Irritation smoldered in her gaze.

  “Any lawful skills?” he corrected.

  “Are you going to let me pass, or do I have to—“

  “I won’t turn an outlaw loose in Canterbury.”

  She arched a brow. “You don’t believe I can make an honest living?”

  His silence was damning.

  “Out of my way!” she hissed.

  Behind her, his cursed cat hissed at him, as well, as if taking Desirée’s side.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  He couldn’t very well force the lass to take his coin, but he wasn’t about to give up on his oath. Damn the lass! Why couldn’t she just quail beneath his commands like everyone else?

  He stabbed a finger of warning at her. “Listen, you bullheaded wench. I’ll let you go now, but I’m not through with you. I’ve got friends all over Canterbury, and if I hear you’ve gotten into any sort of—“

  “Friends?” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, aye, a regular hero of the people you are. Nicholas Grimshaw, everyone’s favorite tax collector. I think I hear the ladies clamoring at the door now.”

  Her words were like punches pounding him in the gut, for they were more accurate than she knew. The only people who ever spoke to Nicholas Grimshaw at any length were his constable and the unfortunates called up before him on charges. Nobody willingly trafficked with the shire-reeve of Kent.

  With his eyes smoldering and his hands fisted, after a long silence, he stepped aside and let her pass.

  To her credit, her tone softened as she picked up her satchel and murmured grudgingly, “My thanks for the frumenty.” As she pulled the door open and stepped out into the hostile frozen world, she called over her shoulder, “Adieu, Snowflake.” Then she closed the door with a hollow finality.

  For a long while, Nicholas only stared at the door. Then, out of mindless habit, he walked straight to his keg and dispensed himself a cup of ale. Slumping onto his bench, he downed the brew in a series of deep gulps, slamming the empty cup down beside him.

  He belched, and Azrael fled the room with his tail twitching in irritation.

  What the lass had said was true. Nobody liked Nicholas Grimshaw. He served a purpose. He was good at his work. The king was grateful for his services, mostly because it kept the royal coffers full and his own hands clean. The folk of Kent had Nicholas to thank for keeping the streets safe. But who could truly appreciate the man who confiscated their earnings and threw their neighbors into the stocks?

  Men never looked him in the eyes, and women clutched their children to their skirts when he passed. He inspired violence in young lads, terror in young lasses. Indeed, only innocent babes, too pure of heart to recognize the power he wielded over life and death, ever smiled at him.

  It had never bothered him. He’d learned to bear disdain like a monk wearing a hair shirt. At times he’d even encouraged their loathing and fear, for that was what kept the population civil.

  He’d taken on the mantle of justice, embraced the aloofness of his position, and grown accustomed to seeming more than a mere mortal. He’d elevated and distanced himself from the mob by choice.

  But now one nettlesome slip of a wench, with her snapping eyes and fearless tirades, had reminded him that he was, after all, human. That somewhere beneath his menacing black cloak and magisterial chest beat a human heart with human dreams. Dreams of marriage. And babes. And a laughter-filled home.

  “Pah!”

  He couldn’t afford to start thinking like that. Shite! He had two outlaws going in the stocks today and three prisoners to question. He was the damned shire-reeve, for God’s sake.

  He pushed himself up and poured another cup of ale. For the unpleasant day ahead, he needed all the fortification he could get.

  Desirée thought she must be the biggest fool to walk the earth. Slogging through the silent snow, she imagined she could hear Hubert bellowing at her from the grave.

  Why hadn’t she taken the man’s coin? He’d offered it to her willingly. And from the looks of the silver scattered across the floor, it was a consider
able amount, enough to provide her a room and meals for the rest of the winter.

  Stupid pride had gotten in her way. That and the niggling knowledge that she’d already stolen enough from the man. After all, he’d given her a night’s lodging, a decent burial for Hubert, and a hearty breakfast without charging her a farthing.

  But now, of course, she had nothing. She’d be reduced to begging, borrowing, or stealing. Of those three options, stealing was always preferable. But where would she find a gullible target in this foul weather?

  Even if she found a target, it was nearly impossible to pull off good sleight of hand without an accomplice. When Hubert and she engaged in such games, Desirée had usually been the distraction. She’d be the one clapping her hands with glee, fluttering her lashes, flashing blinding smiles at the players while Hubert slipped the pea under another shell or made the exchange of a weighted die.

  She pulled the cloak tighter about her face, peering surreptitiously down alleys and into shops as she sauntered along the streets, searching for opportunity.

  A few chill hours later, she began to think on the shire-reeve’s cottage with a desperate sort of wistfulness. It hadn’t been so bad. The man knew how to build a fire and make frumenty. Despite the fact she’d been chained to it against her will, his bed had been remarkably comfortable and extravagantly large. Aside from the horrible display on the wall, his furnishings had been pleasant enough. And he had a friendly cat to keep the vermin away.

  She began to think seriously about swallowing her pride before she froze to death tonight. Indeed, she’d turned her feet in the direction of the shire-reeve’s house when two drunkards came stumbling toward her out of an inn, their purses bulging with coin.

  It was a sign, she decided, abandoning all thoughts of returning to Grimshaw. She greeted the men with a disarming smile that would have made Hubert proud.

  CHAPTER 6

  Lady Philomena peered from the window of her solar at Torteval Hall, watching the distant spires of Canterbury Cathedral disappear in the waning daylight. Ignoring the pathetic whimpering of the servant groveling behind her, she thumped her fingers casually atop the ledge. Her father-in-law might be a useless dullard, but at least he’d had the wisdom to choose a perfect location for the family demesne. It was sufficiently distant from the town to avoid rubbing elbows with the rabble, yet close enough to wield a powerful influence over the local government.