Danger's Kiss

by Glynnis Campbell

  That made up his mind.

  Nicholas had thought long and hard about Desirée as he’d searched the streets of Canterbury. Punishing a poor, desperate lad without enough to eat had convinced him he couldn’t let the lass suffer a similar fate. So he’d come to a decision. If the damsel didn’t have a decent occupation, if she hadn’t found herself a position or a husband by now, he’d take matters into his own hands.

  It wouldn’t be a permanent arrangement, of course. But hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long to set the wayward wench on a more virtuous path.

  He took her elbow and dragged her forward.

  She instantly tried to pull out of his grip. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m retiring you from your life of crime.” He tugged her away from the barrel.

  She tugged back. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

  “Whether you like it or not, I’m responsible for you. I made a promise.”

  “To hell with your promise!”

  They were drawing the attention of passersby, who were doubtless intrigued by the sight of someone actually daring to defy the formidable Nicholas Grimshaw. It was just the sort of spectacle he didn’t need.

  He lowered his voice. “I have a proposition for you.”

  She arched a skeptical brow. “What kind of proposition?”

  Perhaps one day Desirée would recognize him as her savior and be grateful. But today wasn’t that day.

  “You’ll come work for me, and I won’t haul you in for your thievery.”

  “What?”

  “I require three meals a day, two if I’ve got a full work day. Laundry once a week. Floors swept daily. Furnishings waxed once every—“

  “What!”

  Now they had the attention of the entire lane. Even the constable, patrolling the shops at the opposite side of the square, paused to see why a crowd was gathering.

  “You’ll have room and board,” he murmured, “and I’ll pay you a shilling a week.”

  “I told you before,” she said, yanking her arm hard out of his grasp, “I won’t live under the roof of a lawman.”

  “Fine.” He gathered the nape of her gown in a viselike fist and waved across the square. “Constable!”

  She gasped. “You’re not serious.”

  “Here, constable!”

  The constable crossed the square as casually as he could, considering the stir caused by the sound of a summons from Nicholas Grimshaw.

  “You wouldn’t,” Desirée breathed.

  He motioned the constable toward him.

  “I don’t even have the coin!” she protested. “You have no proof!”

  “You might get off with a day in the stocks,” he admitted.

  “Damn you, Nicholas Grimshaw,” she said between her teeth, wary now of arousing the constable’s suspicions.

  “Just say the word and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Bastard!” she hissed.

  “That’s not the word.”

  The constable was but ten yards away when she finally conceded.

  “All right, you bloody knave, I’ll clean your damned hovel.”

  “And cook?”

  “Fine.”

  He released her.

  “Constable,” he said by way of greeting as the man approached. “Come meet my new maidservant, Desirée. Desirée, my constable.”

  The last thing Nicholas expected was Desirée’s brilliant smile and extended hand. “Constable, my pleasure,” she gushed.

  And damned if the constable, caught off guard by her disarming greeting, didn’t absently press a kiss to the back of her hand as if she were some titled lady instead of a lowly maid.

  “Well,” the constable said, blinking in confusion. “You’re a...a brave lass. Not every maid would take up residence with a...with a...with Nicholas Grimshaw.”

  To his astonishment, Desirée laughed and gave Nicholas’s cheek a patronizing pat. “He’s a kitten, really. Wouldn’t hurt a flea. Isn’t that right, Nicky?”

  Ballocks! This was definitely not the sort of attention he needed. The conniving wench was going to ruin his fearsome reputation.

  He nodded briefly to the astounded constable. “We’ll be going now.” He quickly ushered her away, adding loudly for the villagers’ benefit, “Have to show her how to oil my thumbscrews.”

  Desirée grinned in satisfaction. She might not have won the battle, but she wasn’t going down without a fight. She wasn’t about to let the lout believe he could snap his fingers and summon her to his side like a trained hound.

  As he took long strides across the square, making her scramble to keep up, he muttered, “Don’t call me that.”

  “Call you what?”

  She could hear him growling behind his teeth. “Nicky.”

  She smiled again. Of course, now she’d call him Nicky at every opportunity. If she proved irritating enough, perhaps her forced residence at the house of the unpleasant Nicholas Grimshaw might be cut short.

  As they wound through the streets, she asked sweetly, “How’s Snowflake?”

  His annoyed silence was reward enough.

  Nicholas Grimshaw might have extorted housekeeping services out of her, but in exchange, she could make his household miserable.

  Scarcely had she dropped her satchel onto the floor of the cottage when her new slave master began listing her duties for the evening. Biting the inside of her cheek to stifle her simmering temper, she remained silent while he dictated his supper requirements and pointed out the various kitchen utensils.

  But it didn’t take long, after Nicholas had drawn himself a draught of ale and retired to his bedchamber, for Desirée to begin stirring up mischief to pay the knave back for his extortion.

  Several moments later, he emerged again with his face freshly scrubbed, raking back his damp hair and wrinkling his nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “What smell?” Desirée looked up innocently from her place at the chopping block in the kitchen, where she was slicing bacon for the evening stew.

  Nicholas glowered at the hearth. Smoke was rising from the pot on the fire. “That smell.”

  She glanced at the smoking pot, then shrugged. “Supper.”

  “’Tis burning.”

  “Is it?”

  She could almost see smoke pouring from his ears, as well, as he scowled at the pot of burning neeps and cabbage. A few meals like this and surely he’d be glad to release her from her servitude.

  He said nothing, returning to his bedchamber.

  She smiled in satisfaction as she dropped the bacon into the smoldering pot, where it snapped and sizzled. As soon as it began to blacken sufficiently, she’d add water, stirring the vile mess into a noxious stew.

  Nicholas emerged again, this time clad in his cloak. “I’m going out.”

  “But supper’s on the hearth.”

  “Your supper’s on the hearth,” he said, cocking an amused brow. “I’m going to find something edible in town. And don’t even think of running away. I’ll only hunt you down again.”

  Her jaw dropped. Before she could come up with a scathing retort, he was gone. In a burst of pique, she took off her shoe and threw it at the closed door.

  Sighing, she stared down at the burnt mixture. She wasn’t about to try to choke it down. Wrapping a bundle of rags around her hand, she took the pot off the fire.

  “Kitty-kitty-kitty. Here, Snowflake.”

  Even the cat turned up his nose. She ended up tossing the mixture out into the back yard. Perhaps some animal with less discriminating tastes would make a feast of it.

  Meanwhile, she was reduced to sharing a cold slab of bacon, a stale bannock, and a cup of ale with the cat while she dreamed up other ways to provoke her gaoler.

  “Snowflake, my precious,” she said, digging in her purse, “how would you like a pretty ribbon?” She pulled out a frayed rose-colored strip of velvet she used to tie back her hair. While the cat finished off his dish of minced bacon, she tied the ribb
on about his neck, perching the bow at a jaunty angle above his left ear.

  Satisfied with her handiwork, she tapped her fingers on the table, wondering what other subtle havoc she might wreak.

  She’d learned that a man’s nature could be quickly judged by his possessions, and that once one knew a man’s nature, it was a simple thing to prey upon his weaknesses. With Nicholas gone, the cottage was hers to explore. Perhaps she could find some clue to the man’s frailties.

  She started in his bedchamber. The requisite chest of clothing squatted at the foot of his great bed. Most of his garb was dark and plain, as befitted the solemn nature of his office. The few white linen shirts bore faint stains that might or might not have been blood. The sight chilled her, drawing her gaze to the instruments hanging on the wall. Swiftly shoving the garments back into the chest, she let the lid drop.

  A half-dozen spears of various size leaned against the corner of the wall, and Desirée spied a small, carved wooden box tucked behind them. Moving the spears carefully aside, she opened the box. To her amazement, it was full to the brim with silver coins. It was a veritable treasury, and she wondered, if he had so much wealth, why he lived so modestly. Surely he could have afforded a stately manor house with that coin. Desirée could have survived for several years on such an amount.

  The temptation to take it was strong. But if Nicholas had intended to flog her for stealing two shillings, what would he do to her for robbing him of his fortune?

  She bit the corner of her lip. She could slip a few coins from the box each day, diminishing his riches a penny at a time. But something told her he was the sort of man who kept a careful watch on his possessions. It wouldn’t surprise her to discover he counted his coins every night.

  Nay, it was too big a risk. Later, maybe, when she’d finished her business in Canterbury and intended to flee, she’d consider absconding with his treasure in one bold parting gesture. But for now it would have to remain an unrequited possibility in the back of her mind.

  She closed the lid, moved the box back, and replaced the spears.

  Atop his table, beside the usual comb and razor and bowl of soap, were a bottle of ink, parchment, and a quill. What would a shire-reeve have to record? Purchases of hanging rope? Laundry charges for bloodstain removal? A tally of lopped-off body parts?

  Desirée knew how to read and write, though it was a rare skill among women. Indeed, the only reason she’d learned was that Hubert had been convinced it would profit them. He’d managed to extort lessons for her from a priest who couldn’t pay off his wagering debts. Once she’d mastered the skill, Desirée forged letters of introduction to gain access to wealthy households, which, of course, they’d subsequently rob.

  Curious, she opened another chest beside the table and found dozens of rolls of parchment, bound with leather ties. She plucked one out and unrolled it.

  Her eyes flattened as she read the words. It was a warrant of death, charging Nicholas Grimshaw with the execution of one Walter atte Redehulle. Nicholas’s bold mark was made at the bottom, beside those of the town constable and the executioner. With a shudder of revulsion, she rolled it back up and glanced at the others in the chest. No doubt one of them had Hubert Kabayn’s name on it.

  She slammed the lid.

  She perused the chamber, looking for other clues as to his possible weaknesses. She’d hoped to find something more interesting, more incriminating among his effects. Perhaps a favorite book of perverse illuminations. Or a collection of love letters to some lost sweetheart.

  But despite his store of wealth, he had only enough possessions to afford himself the most spartan of existences. Nicholas Grimshaw was apparently a man of thrift.

  And that, she decided with a calculating grin, was the key to how she’d provoke him. Nicholas didn’t own half the things Desirée would require if she were going to be his cook and housemaid.

  Her brain whirring, she sat at his table, drew a piece of parchment out, dipped the quill into the bottle of ink, and began compiling a list of necessities, expensive necessities.

  Beeswax candles. Saffron. Galingale. Cinnamon. Cloves. Good Spanish wine. A linen apron. A low stool. A plunger churn. Lavender for the bath.

  She tapped the quill feather against her lip. That was enough for now, she supposed. It would take a good lot of the coin he kept in that box to purchase the goods. With any luck, he’d decide his servant was too expensive to keep.

  For a long while, she waited for him to return, relishing the look of displeasure on his face when he beheld her list. But after several hours, she decided he must have stopped by an alehouse on the way home. An alehouse or a whorehouse. Despite his comely face and brawny form, a man of his villainous reputation likely had to pay for companionship.

  Soon the fire died down, and Snowflake started on his hunting rounds. Before long, as she sat in front of the dwindling flames, Desirée’s eyelids began to droop.

  She wasn’t about to make her bed on the hard wooden bench or the stone floor. If it was Nicholas’s decision to be out until the small hours of the night, then he could scrounge for a place to sleep. That was, if he wasn’t already dozing between some harlot’s legs. As for Desirée, she was going to take that enormous down-filled pallet. It would serve him right for tricking her into slavery.

  CHAPTER 8

  The trek home took longer than Nicholas expected. He supposed he shouldn’t have been so demanding about the pallet he was buying for his new servant, but it didn’t sit well with him to luxuriate on a great downy mattress while Desirée shivered in the straw. Even if the irksome wench had intentionally burned his supper.

  After all, what the constable had blurted out was true. Not every maid would take up residence with a shire-reeve. The least he could do was give her a decent place to sleep.

  So after a savory meal of two pork tartees and a cup of mulled perry, he’d stopped by the pallet merchant. None of the straw-stuffed pallets had seemed soft enough to him, but he wasn’t about to splurge on goose down. In the end, he compromised on chicken feathers and had to wait while the grumbling merchant hand-stuffed the mattress to his specifications.

  It was dark by the time he paid the merchant, hefted the mattress on one shoulder, and headed for home.

  Shuffling awkwardly through the cottage door with his burden, he saw that no candles were lit and the fire had gone out. He wondered if Desirée had actually eaten the slop she’d cooked for supper. He felt half sorry for the scrawny wench. She could ill afford to do without a meal. But she’d only brought the punishment upon herself. In the morn, he’d make certain she ate a generous bowl of frumenty.

  Where was the lass, anyway? Surely she hadn’t been so foolish as to run away.

  He slipped the pallet off his shoulder, shoving it alongside the hearth, and removed his cloak. He peered around the shadowy room. There was something on the table, a piece of parchment. Opening the shutter, he held the page up to the moonlight.

  It was a list. Apparently, Desirée could read and write, which surprised him immensely. It was a rare skill among women, even rarer among peasants. As he scanned the items, he smirked and shook his head. She also knew how to spend coin. Extravagantly.

  He replaced the parchment, then crept toward his bedchamber. Perhaps the maid had taken her responsibilities to heart and was already hard at work, polishing his furnishings.

  Aye, he thought, and perhaps Mary Magdalene was a virgin.

  He spotted Desirée at once, by the light of a moonbeam filtering through the shutters. She was asleep, luxuriously sprawled across the coverlet like a cat with a belly full of cream, commandeering his pallet as if her spindly frame required every inch of it.

  “Oh, nay, you don’t,” he murmured. He might feel sorry for the orphaned lass, but he wasn’t about to let her usurp his bed. “Desirée,” he called.

  She didn’t move.

  “Desirée.”

  Still no reply.

  He drew closer, not close enough that she could swi
ng out with a stray fist and clip him on the jaw, but close enough to be heard.

  “Desirée.”

  She still didn’t stir, but Azrael, tucked behind one of her knees, lifted his head.

  Nicholas frowned. There was something tied around the cat’s neck. Something distinctly feminine.

  “God’s eyes! What have you done to my cat?”

  That woke her. She rose on her elbows, her eyes glazed, her mouth making sleepy smacks. “What?”

  “What did you do to Azrael?”

  She glanced down at the cat, as if trying to recall. Then her lips curved up in a smile that was pure mischief. “He thinks it’s pretty,” she said, crooning, “doesn’t he, Snowflake?”

  Nicholas seized Azrael, who yowled once in complaint, and immediately untied the silly bow, dropping it atop the coverlet.

  Desirée shrugged off his actions and snuggled back down under the blankets. “Did you get my list?” she murmured.

  He gave Azrael a consoling pat and set him down again on the pallet. “Your list? You mean that nonsense about lavender and beeswax candles? Do you know how much saffron costs?”

  “Come, Nicky, you can’t expect me to keep your house properly if I don’t have the required supplies.”

  “I seem to have done fine before without them. And stop calling me Nicky.”

  “What would you prefer? Your Majesty?”

  Nicholas exhaled on a growl, trying to recall why he’d felt sorry for the pesky imp. “I’ve bought another pallet. I’ve placed it beside the fire.”

  “Mm, good,” she purred. “I’d hate to think of you getting cold in the night.”

  He blinked. The audacity of the naughty wench was amazing. Unable to think of a fitting verbal response, he decided to let his actions speak for him. He threw back the covers and, ignoring her indignant shrieks, scooped her up into his arms.

  “Unhand me, sirrah!”

  “You’re not sleeping in my bed.” He started toward the door.

  “But I was there first!”

  “’Tis my bed.”

  “You weren’t using it.” She actually wedged her limbs in the doorway, trying to prevent his exit.