Danger's Kiss

by Glynnis Campbell

  CHAPTER 11

  Nicholas stifled a grin. That was the most pathetic pretense of sickness he’d heard in a long while. Desirée was no more ill this morn than he was. But he wasn’t about to expose her piece of trickery.

  He should have realized an outlaw like herself would rather not be reminded of her sins. As for Nicholas, he’d rather entertain himself this Sabbath morn, tending to the dissembling lass, than police the poor souls in the cathedral to ensure they didn’t curse or scratch or fall asleep.

  He trained his brows into a frown of concern and hunkered down beside her. “Are you fevered?”

  “I...I’m not sure.”

  He laid his palm upon her forehead and she stiffened in surprise. His breath caught, as well, at the unexpected current that seemed to flow between them where they touched. Her skin was warm, though not overly so, and softer than he expected.

  Their glances met for an instant, then darted apart. He cleared his throat, then let his fingers trail down the side of her face, ostensibly checking for fever while secretly enjoying the silken texture of her skin.

  Lord, it had been too long since he’d touched a woman in this way, tenderly and at his leisure. It was causing his blood to stir. He swallowed hard, then murmured, “You feel a bit...warm.”

  Her voice came out on a cracked whisper. “Do I?”

  His fingers dipped into the soft tresses behind her ear as he cradled her jaw. “Maybe I should mop your brow,” he croaked. His thumb brushed past the inviting corner of her mouth, and she parted her lips in reply.

  “Aye?” she breathed.

  The delicate shell of her ear was irresistible. He traced it slowly with his fingertip. Her eyes glazed in response beneath dipped lids, igniting his desire, and her warm sigh sent shivers along his skin. Holding her face within that gentle grasp, he took a shuddering breath and lowered his gaze to her mouth, open and delectable and tempting, and felt a sudden mad desire to kiss her.

  “Would you like that?” he whispered.

  She fixed her eyes upon his mouth, knowing full well what he was asking, and let her lids close in anticipation.

  Then, just as he would have closed the distance to press his lips to hers, his devil of a cat sprang between them. Nicholas ended up with a mouth full of fur.

  “Azrael!” he sputtered. “You son of a—“

  His oath was drowned beneath Desirée’s outburst of laughter. At his look of consternation, she judiciously turned her giggles into a string of faux coughs.

  The mood was broken, but it was just as well.

  What had he been thinking? He hadn’t been thinking. That was the problem. He’d let his desires get the best of him. He was supposed to be protecting Desirée, not seducing her.

  He should have realized that living in close proximity to a woman would be taxing to a man unused to female company, a matter complicated by the fact that this particular woman had the face of an angel, the body of a goddess, and the spirit of a wild child. She was a dangerously desirable wench, and he’d best guard against her feminine charms.

  Bearing that in mind, he rose to dampen a rag, but instead of sitting with Desirée’s head in his lap as he’d imagined, murmuring soothing words and attentively cooling her fevered brow, he wisely plopped the wet rag into her palm for her to use, leaving her to go make breakfast.

  As he poured thickened milk into a pot of soaked wheat, he asked over his shoulder, “Do you feel well enough to eat?”

  She answered carefully. “I suppose I could try a few bites.” She coughed lightly, pressing the cloth to her throat.

  Nicholas smiled. The artful lass was certainly playing her role to the hilt.

  He spoon-fed her the frumenty while she half-reclined on her pallet, and though at first she ate tentatively, her appetite quickly recovered. By the time she finished off a second bowl, she seemed to have forgotten her ailment altogether.

  “Better?” he asked, taking away the empty vessel.

  She withered slightly, letting out a weak sigh. “A little.”

  “Perhaps you’d like more sleep?”

  “Sleep?” She feigned a yawn and blinked heavily, but not before he spied a glimmer of mischief enter her eyes, a glimmer that told him he was about to be beguiled. “Are you offering me your big bed?” she asked, her gaze wide and grateful. “How kind.”

  A scowl crossed his brow, but before he could protest, she flashed him a brilliant smile of appreciation. There was nothing he could do but chuckle at her wit and bow to her clever manipulation. “As you wish,” he said, gesturing to his chamber in grudging welcome.

  As it turned out, Desirée had locked herself in a prison of her own making. While Nicholas performed his morning ablutions and tended to the fire and honed his knives in the next room, he could hear the ropes of his mattress squeaking as she tossed and turned, climbing in and out of the bed, as restless as a trapped wolf.

  He supposed he’d have to rescue her sooner or later.

  For the twelfth time, Desirée flopped down onto her back on the giant pallet. Heaving a vexed sigh, she swung her feet back and forth over the edge.

  What was wrong with her? She should be enjoying the fruits of her deception, now that she’d tricked Nicholas out of his luxurious bed. But no matter how comfortable his mattress or cozy his coverlet, she couldn’t force herself to doze when she was...agitated.

  She tried to convince herself it was her itching feet. She wasn’t accustomed to staying in one place so long. Hubert and she were always on the move. Since they refused to steal on the Sabbath, it was usually their day of travel. They’d flee while everyone was at Mass and there was less chance of pursuit. The restlessness she felt was simply her natural instinct to move on.

  But as she lay studying the beams of the ceiling and gathering the coverlet in her fists, she realized it was more than that.

  Nicholas had thrown her off her guard this morn. He’d almost kissed her. Worse, she’d almost let him. And that was something to which she was completely unaccustomed.

  It wasn’t that she never kissed men. Strategic flirtation was a tool of her trade. With a flutter of her lashes, she could wrap a target around her little finger. But she’d learned to always, always maintain the upper hand.

  Something had happened when Nicholas touched her. It was as if his fingers had melted the resistance inside her and set her nerves on fire.

  Then their glances met, and she saw in his eyes the faint gleam of a long-slumbering hunger. His dark gaze had sent a dangerous thrill through her bones.

  Another instant, and she would have fallen into the web of his desire. If not for Azrael, she would have drunk willingly from the fount of his lips.

  It was disgusting.

  And yet...

  “Feeling better?” Nicholas called out suddenly from the doorway.

  Her heart leaped into her mouth, and she sat bolt upright, her face as guilty as a novice cheat’s. Shite! How long had he been standing there?

  “Your ailment?” he reminded her, his eyes shining with amusement.

  “Oh.” She tried one unconvincing cough. “Aye. A bit.”

  “I don’t suppose you feel up to playing draughts?”

  “Draughts?” Desirée hesitated.

  “You do play?”

  Of course she played draughts. Quite well, in fact. Too well for him. Hiding the speculative gleam in her eyes, she murmured, “A little.”

  “If you’d rather rest...”

  “Nay!” She was tired of resting.

  “You still look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He shook his head. “I’d hate to make your condition worse by—“

  “I’m actually feeling much, much better. See?” She sprang to her feet and twirled about. “Indeed, I believe I’m completely cured.”

  He gave her a wry grin. “Thanks to my medicinal bed?”

  She smiled sweetly back. “No doubt.”

  “Then you accept my challenge?”

&nbs
p; She shrugged. “Why not?”

  It might be a sin to steal silver on the Sabbath, but she’d gladly rob Nicholas of his pride. She welcomed the chance to regain the upper hand. While she made her way casually into the next room, preparing to thoroughly outfox him, he fetched a gaming box from his bedchamber.

  It was a beautiful thing, varnished, hinged with iron, decked with scarlet and black squares on the outside, painted for backgammon on the inside. She wondered where he kept it hidden, for in all her ransacking of his room, she hadn’t seen it before.

  Desirée could have made good use of such a box. Hubert and she had owned only a painted linen cloth with pieces of bone for draughts.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked.

  “My father.” He laid out two dozen dark and light wooden disks inlaid with silver on alternating squares. “’Twas a gift to him from the king.”

  “The king?” she asked, her voice dripping with doubt.

  He nodded.

  “Your father had the king’s favor?” Desirée frowned. “You’re jesting. How could a man beloved of the king have a son who’s...” Too late, she realized her insult.

  “A lawman?” Nicholas drawled, rapping one of the black pieces on the board.

  She bit her lip.

  “I’m a bastard,” he explained. “After my father died, I received a share of his wealth and a few trinkets like this.”

  It was more than a trinket. It was a treasure. If she’d seen it that first day, the day she’d planned to murder him, she definitely would have taken it with her. In fact, that was still in the realm of possibility. Perhaps she’d pilfer it, stuffed with his silver, when she left Canterbury.

  With his flagon in one hand and the other poised on the tap, she offered, “Ale?” It was always easier to conquer an opponent who was deep in his cups.

  “Nay.”

  Hiding her disappointment, she settled across from him at the table where the dark pieces were arranged.

  “Would you prefer white?” he asked.

  “Nay, black is fine,” she said with feigned nonchalance. Indeed, it was best if he had white. It would be easier to palm his light-colored pieces in her fair hands when the time came.

  “Very well. After you, my lady.”

  At first she played without artifice. That was the best way to earn an opponent’s trust. She made predictably careless moves and let him claim a few of her pieces.

  “Sweet Mary,” she sighed as his light piece jumped over her dark one, “why didn’t I see that?”

  As he triumphantly took her piece from the board, she surreptitiously removed one of his light pieces from the outer edge where it wouldn’t be missed.

  “So tell me about yourself,” he said, waiting for her next move.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  She moved her piece diagonally forward, simultaneously nudging the piece behind it in tandem with the heel of her hand.

  “There’s not much to tell,” she said. “I was born and raised in London.”

  Nicholas examined the board, then slid a piece forward. “Your parents?”

  She glanced at the arrangement of the pieces. “They were very poor. My father was a rat catcher. My mother was an invalid. Six years ago, they sold me to Hubert, and ever since—“

  “Sold you?”

  “They needed the coin,” she explained.

  “Sold you?”

  She tapped an impatient finger on the table. “’Tisn’t as bad as it sounds.” Indeed, it had been horrifying and traumatic at the time, but she’d long ago come to terms with it.

  “Bloody hell, Desirée,” he said, incredulous.

  Desirée shrugged.

  “Bloody hell!” he repeated.

  Desirée raised her brows. Nicholas was truly upset over an incident she’d all but forgotten.

  “Your parents, are they still alive?” he bit out, sounding as if he intended to remedy that.

  “I don’t know.”

  He frowned and shook his head. “How could you not...how could your own mother...Damn, Desirée...”

  She stared in awe. His outrage was flattering. No one had ever been vexed on her behalf before. It was rather pleasant, even if it was misplaced.

  She glanced down at the board again, slipping two of her pieces forward with one movement.

  “What about Hubert?” he demanded. “What kind of a man would—”

  She waved away his concern. “For Hubert, it was only a matter of enterprise. He gave me food and lodging while I served as a foil for his targets.”

  “A foil?”

  Nicholas was thoroughly engaged in her story now, which had definite benefits. Beating him at draughts would be as easy as stealing sweetmeats from a child. She suddenly wished she were playing for coin.

  “Are you going to move?” she asked.

  He furrowed his brow, haphazardly sliding another piece behind his first line. “What do you mean, a foil for his targets?”

  “His targets, the men he planned to gull at dice or Fast and Loose.” She studied the board. “When I was young, I was his beloved little ‘granddaughter.’ I helped to lend him an air of innocence.”

  She sacrificed one of her pieces but had to point it out to inattentive Nicholas before he claimed it.

  “And later?” he asked.

  “Later I was a distraction.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Distraction?”

  “Aye.”

  “What do you mean, distraction?”

  He’d asked for it. With a devilish lift of her brow, she leaned forward over the board until her kirtle gapped, giving him a clear view of the upper curve of her breasts. Then she dipped her eyes in sultry invitation and flashed him a blinding smile.

  While the fool’s jaw slackened in amazement, she nudged one of his pieces off the board with her elbow.

  CHAPTER 12

  Nicholas, unable to form words, merely wheezed.

  Lord, the lass was beautiful. Seductive. Breathtaking. And the little vixen knew exactly what she was doing. He had to admit, Hubert had been clever indeed to enlist her services.

  For a moment, his body seemed absolutely convinced he was about to indulge in an afternoon of sensual pleasure.

  Then Desirée straightened with a smirk, hitching her kirtle back up over her shoulders, and he realized it had been nothing more than a well-executed ruse.

  Meanwhile, Desirée, completely oblivious to the blood sizzling in his veins and the sweat forming above his lip, casually scanned the board, discovering a move. “Aha!” She jumped over his piece and took it out of the game.

  Nicholas stared at the black and white pieces, unable to make sense of them. Real or feigned, Desirée’s flirtation had utterly rattled him. No woman had looked at him like that since...since he’d become a lawman.

  When women had the courage to look at him at all, it was with terror or loathing or tearful supplication. He’d forgotten what it was like to be the object of a woman’s flirtation.

  Apparently, he’d also forgotten how to play draughts. He moved a piece incautiously forward, directly into her path.

  “See?” she said, claiming it at once. “Distraction.”

  He shook his head at his own folly. It might have been a long while since he’d been seduced by a wench, but at one time his female admirers had been as commonplace as daisies. All the lasses had adored the butcher’s youngest son. Indeed, before Nicholas had taken on the mantle of the law, he’d been quite the seducer himself.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Tell me about your childhood.”

  He avoided her gaze and studied the board, determined not to make another mistake. “After I was born, my mother wed a butcher with two sons. I worked with them in his shop as a lad.”

  “What about your real father?”

  He rested his fingers tentatively atop one of his pieces, considering his next move. “He hoped I’d become a mercenary. He secretly paid to have m
e trained in warfare.”

  “Indeed? Then why did you become a lawman?”

  Startled by her question, he knocked the piece askew, then returned it to its place. No one had ever asked Nicholas that before. Most people believed he was born to violence, the way a wolf is born to killing.

  He’d told no one the ugly truth, that when he was five-and-ten, his stepfather had been hanged for selling tainted meat to a lord. After all these years, the gruesome image still haunted him, the horrible kicking and thrashing and gagging as his stepfather slowly strangled to death. But the worst part was that it should have been Nicholas on the gallows. He was the one who’d sold the meat. His stepfather had gone to the gallows for him.

  From that day forward, riddled by unbearable guilt, Nicholas had sworn to do everything in his power to make certain no innocent suffered on the gallows like that again. He’d taken on the unenviable position of reeve of the shire to ensure that merciful justice was upheld.

  But he wasn’t about to tell Desirée that. He had a ruthless reputation to preserve.

  “It paid well,” he lied.

  He slid a disk forward, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the board. Ballocks, how had he lost so many pieces?

  Desirée wasted no time in deliberation, slipping one of her dark pieces closer to his side of the board. “And your mother?”

  “She died years ago.”

  He scowled. Something was definitely not right. How had Desirée advanced so far across the board in so few moves? He nudged a piece closer to the middle.

  She pushed her piece to counter his move. “So where did you get the scars on your face?”

  He quirked up a corner of his mouth. “Angry women throwing rocks at me.”

  He glanced up, and she guiltily averted her eyes.

  “Which scar do you want to know about?” he asked, reluctantly making a sacrifice of one of his pieces.

  She picked up his disk and nodded to his forehead. “The one there, on your brow.”

  “York. Angry crowd. Thought my victim didn’t suffer enough in the noose.”

  “What about that one?” She gestured with his disk toward his cheek.

  “A pack of lads ambushed me on a dare in Salisbury.” He smiled grimly at the memory. “I nabbed one of them and took him back to the inn, showed him my instruments of torture. Never had trouble in Salisbury again.”