While she stood agape, Nicholas opened the door for him, issuing a good-natured warning. “Remember what I said, Odger. I know where you dwell. ‘Twill go badly if you cross me.”
“Aye, my lord.” The master of the mews nodded without hesitation, then scurried out the door.
“What was that all about?” Desirée demanded when the door closed. “Where is he going?”
Nicholas pulled a draught of ale into one of the new flagons. “Home.”
“You let him go?”
“Why?” he said with a smirk. “Did you want to keep him?”
She pursed her lips. “Did he tell you anything? Did he confess?”
“There was nothing to confess.”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t see anything.” He took a sip of ale.
She clenched her teeth in frustration. Surely the man knew something. He was a servant, after all. Weren’t they always poking their noses into their masters’ affairs? “Maybe you didn’t press him hard enough.”
Nicholas wiped the foam from his lip. “Did you hear the screams?”
She worried her lip between her teeth, then ran a finger along the edge of the chopping block. “What did you...do to him?”
He smiled coyly before he took another swig from his cup. Then he let out a long sigh of satisfaction. “Nothing.”
Desirée blinked. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
She gave him a cursory glance from head to toe. There was not a drop of blood on him. Indeed, she couldn’t remember seeing any blood on the master of the mews, either. “But... How... I heard...”
“’Twasn’t what I did to him. ‘Twas what he thought I was going to do to him.”
Nicholas chuckled at the endearing frown of confusion on her face.
“We’re a pair, you and I,” he said, raising his ale in a mock salute. “You fool people into thinking you’re an innocent, and I make them believe I’m a monster.”
Nicholas was good at his work, renowned for his success at eliciting confessions. But nobody understood how he managed to get them so cleanly or so quickly.
He relied upon reason. Failing that, he tried guilt. If that didn’t work, he used fear. Rarely did he need to resort to violence, and even then, the kind of violence he inflicted was far more bark than bite.
One would never guess it to examine his wall of instruments—forge-blackened iron twisted into shapes designed to pinch and prod and torment delicate human flesh—hung in full view of any soul luckless enough to intrude upon the shire-reeve’s chambers.
“You didn’t torture him?”
He smiled and shook his head.
But instead of admiring his finesse, she let out a breath of disgust. “Why not?” She jabbed the knife in the air, punctuating her words. “If you didn’t torture him, how do you know he was telling the truth?”
“Torture doesn’t give you the truth. Men will say anything to stop torture.”
“Then how do you know—“
“Logic. He’s the master of the mews, Desirée. He sleeps with the falcons. He wasn’t anywhere near the hall when Hubert murdered—“
“Hubert didn’t murder anyone!” she cried.
He set down his ale and raised his palms in apology. “Listen, Desirée...”
“He didn’t, damn you!”
He reached out to take her arms, and the knife she was holding swung dangerously close to his chin. Worse, she seemed in no hurry to lower it.
“Put that away.”
She glared at him. He glared back. She thinned her lips, but his cold stare won out, and she dropped the knife.
“Listen.” He took a bracing breath. “I should have told you this long ago. You know I spent that last night with Hubert in the gaol.”
She gave him a dubious nod.
“Condemned men often wish to...unburden their souls before they die.” He smiled gently. “Hubert had a long list of sins. He said he’d always managed to stay one step behind the devil and—“
“One step ahead of the law,” she finished.
He nodded. “He told me he was gravely ill. He knew he was going to die soon.”
Desirée’s eyes grew unexpectedly misty, and Nicholas suddenly felt the mad urge to wrap comforting arms around her.
Instead, he continued. “He said he wanted to carry out one last great robbery before he died, one profitable enough to make certain his granddaughter was provided for.” He gave her arms a tender squeeze. “Unfortunately, things went wrong. A man was killed. Hubert was caught. He told me when they dragged him away, ‘twas almost a relief.”
Her brow creased in bewilderment.
“He was dying. Slowly. Painfully.” He added softly, “Don’t you see? A charge of murder ensured him a quick death.”
She gasped in shock and tried to extricate herself from his grip.
But he held on. It was important that she hear everything. “I don’t know if the murder was intentional or an accident. He never said. But he refused to fight the charges. So I promised him a swift and easy end.”
Her moist eyes narrowed as she spat, “Easy! Easy? You forget, I was there! There was nothing easy about—” She choked off her words, trying to break free again. He wouldn’t let her.
“What I did was a mercy.”
“Mercy?” she cried. Then she reared back her foot and gave him a hard kick in the shin.
He released her immediately, sucking a breath of pain between his teeth. “Aye,” he gasped, rubbing at his aching leg. “Don’t you understand, wench? He preferred to hang rather than die slowly from illness.”
Desirée never wept. Not in earnest. Hubert hadn’t allowed tears. Unless, of course, they were used as coercion, to inspire pity in men with bulging purses. Otherwise, crying was a sign of weakness.
So she’d learned to armor her heart against those strength-draining emotions. She turned hurt into rage, sorrow into fury. Rather than weep, she cursed.
But for the first time since the awful day she’d been sold by her parents, she felt her armor give, yielding beneath the sharp lance of the painful truth. Without Hubert near to scold her, a lump lodged in her throat and the sting of imminent tears burned behind her eyes.
Was it true? Had Nicholas shown Hubert mercy in his final moments? But how could that be? Everyone knew the shire-reeve was pitiless. She’d seen the evidence with her own eyes.
“What about the thief you flogged?” she choked out. “Were you showing him mercy, as well?”
His shoulders sank. “Aye.”
She blinked in surprise.
“You may as well know.” He scowled, admitting, “‘Tis a trick of the whip, all noise, no contact. I didn’t leave a mark on the man.”
Desirée’s chin quivered. Was that possible? Was it all farce? He’d said before that Desirée, too, knew how to playact for an audience, knew how to manipulate men’s emotions for her own gains. Was Nicholas only pretending to have a heart of iron?
A wayward tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and she felt a long-forgotten tightness in her chest. She glanced at Nicholas, who was still grimacing from the pain of her kick, and his image blurred as tears filled her vision.
Then, to her horror, uncontrollable spasms began to wrack her body and ragged gasps were wrenched from her throat. She staggered back, covering her face in her hands, wishing she could hide somewhere.
“Oh, lass,” Nicholas said on a sigh full of pity.
She didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want him to see her. Crying left her too vulnerable.
He started toward her, and she spun away from him, looking for somewhere to run in the small cottage.
“Come, little one, ‘tis all right.”
It was not all right. She was weeping like the child who’d been sold now, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face twisted in grief, wretched sobs coming from deep inside her.
She stumbled toward the wall.
He followed her.
“Weep all
you want, lass.”
“I’m not weep—“ she hiccoughed, then realized it was a pathetic lie.
When she reached the cold stone of the wall, there was nowhere else to go.
His voice came from directly behind her. “Let it out. ’Twill help the pain pass.”
His words and his proximity triggered her defenses. Suddenly she felt trapped, physically and emotionally. She whirled toward him and, without even realizing she was going to do it, slapped him hard across the face.
The blow startled him for only an instant. He immediately seized her offending hand and grabbed the other for good measure.
There was no anger in his eyes, no condemnation, only patience. And the silent understanding in his gaze was what prevented her from striking out again.
No one had ever looked at her like that, with acceptance and compassion. And in that moment, she realized what he’d said must be true. Though the shire-reeve wielded his authority over the crowd like a black-hearted demon, beneath his fearsome dark cloak, he was an angel of mercy.
To her dismay, the thought only increased the flow of tears.
Rather than scolding her as Hubert would have, Nicholas released her wrists and gathered her in his arms.
She fought him at first. Experience had taught her that men who grabbed her like that wanted only one thing. But he made no further assault on her. He only hushed her gently, holding her close against his chest, cupping the back of her head. And after a few halfhearted struggles, she succumbed to his comfort, sobbing softly into his shirt.
It was a curious feeling, letting down her guard, relinquishing control over her tears, and not being reprimanded for it. Such surrender was against all her instincts. For the first time since she’d left her mother and father, she felt free to be vulnerable.
Nicholas neither mocked nor judged her. He only held her. And all the while, it seemed as if he absorbed her sorrow into himself.
His arms felt secure and capable around her. His voice was warm and kind and reassuring. As he cradled her head against his chest, she could hear his heartbeat, strong and steady, and she began to wonder idly what it would be like to fall asleep to that pleasant sound.
After a while, she couldn’t even recall what she was crying about. It seemed she was weeping out all the tears she’d collected over the years. And still Nicholas had the patience to say nothing, letting her drench the front of his shirt while he stroked her hair with the same fondness he used to pet his cat.
At long last, she ran out of tears. As she rested her head upon the lawman’s comforting chest, an amazing peace settled over her, as if she’d run a long way across a rocky field and now lay fatigued upon a grassy, sun-drenched knoll.
It was a dangerous place to be—exposed, vulnerable, open to attack—and yet she felt no fear in his arms. Instead, a welcoming warmth suffused her blood and quickened her pulse as he continued to hold her close. And part of her never wanted that feeling to end.
CHAPTER 14
Nicholas’s shoulder had been soaked with tears more times than he could count. Shown the smallest sign of compassion, the men he interrogated wept like children. Nicholas never made them feel weak or foolish for their sobs. God’s wounds, Nicholas himself often broke down over a cup of ale after an execution.
But Desirée’s tears were different. Each hot drop seemed to burn his skin, searing guilt into his soul. He was the cause of her weeping. And even though he knew he wasn’t to blame—he hadn’t determined the sentence, he’d only carried it out—still he bore the burden of her grief.
He held her until her tears dried, until the hitching of her ribs calmed, and still she didn’t move away. He closed his eyes, relishing the rare pleasure of a woman in his embrace.
Women never touched him. Most wouldn’t even meet his gaze. Since he’d become a lawman, even harlots wouldn’t traffic with him, fearing to incur his wrath.
He hadn’t realized it until this moment, but he was lonely.
A terrible isolation came with his position.
And a part of him, a part he usually kept under lock and key, hungered for intimacy, some human contact that lasted beyond the single night he spent with the condemned.
Holding Desirée in his arms made him realize he was weary of his life. Which was absurd, considering he was three years short of thirty.
Yet what did he have to show for it? Dozens of outlaw graves, scars from stonings, and an enviable collection of torturing implements as unsullied as the day they were forged.
What he didn’t have was a single friend.
Desirée gave a shuddering sigh against his chest, and he instinctively leaned down to kiss the top of her head. Her hair was soft and fragrant. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run his fingers through a woman’s tresses.
After a moment, he began to wonder if she’d fallen asleep. She didn’t struggle out of his arms or push him away. She remained in his embrace, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
But for Nicholas, it wasn’t natural at all. Indeed, while her soft breath ruffled his shirt and her hands curled upon his chest, while her hair tickled beneath his chin and her breasts pressed warmly against his ribs, a breathless chaos of sensations assaulted him.
A fierce protectiveness gripped him, a need to guard Desirée from harm. Yet simultaneously, he felt an overwhelming urge to take advantage of her vulnerability, to kiss her face, to caress her, to sweep her up and carry her into his bedchamber, to have his way with her.
Unaccustomed desire flared his nostrils and heated his blood. His breath grew rapid. His face grew hot. Lust buzzed inside his head. And within his braies, pressed against her warm womanhood, a sleeping dragon awoke.
Somewhere deep inside her haze of contented half-awareness, Desirée realized it was a mistake of the worst kind for a woman to let down her defenses. But she couldn’t pull herself away from the comfortable haven of his arms. So she floated for nearly an hour in oblivion, unwilling to speak or move or think, for fear it would shatter the serenity of the moment.
All grief, all care, all shame melted away until she no longer felt anything but comfort. His arms felt heavenly around her, like the safe cocoon of a snug fur coverlet. His fingers weaved through her hair with such tenderness, it was hard to remember his formidable strength. His chest was solid yet supple, a perfect pillow for her head. And the warmth of his body, pressed close to hers...
Her eyes slipped open. She felt a stirring against her belly, evidence of his lust, swelling and growing rigid. The breath caught in her throat.
She should have been outraged, offended, scandalized. But those emotions warred with feelings of sweet satisfaction. To her surprise, a font of answering desire immediately flooded her veins, and she shivered with its astonishing power.
It was only a shiver, yet it startled Nicholas from his attentions. To her dismay or relief, she wasn’t sure which, he extricated himself from the embrace and set her at arm’s length.
As she stood before him, she didn’t dare lower her eyes, where the manifestation of his desire intruded between them like a lance primed for battle.
But there was no mistaking the naked craving in his eyes, dark now with smoldering fire, and she wondered if her own gaze burned with the same wanton flame.
He cleared his throat, but his voice was still ragged. “I could use a drink. How about you?”
She licked her lips, salty from tears, and nodded.
But the instant he broke away, she felt his loss. As ludicrous as it was, she wanted him to hold her again.
Just as quickly, she silently chided herself for her foolishness. She was as pathetic as his cat, she thought, brushing up against his leg in hopes of a scratch.
She watched him from the corner of her eye as he filled his cup, tossed it back, furrowed his brow, then filled it again before bringing her ale.
She took her flagon, murmuring, “You drink too much.”
“Do I?” He dragged a stool close to the fire for her, then
sat himself on the floor.
“Aye.” She settled onto the stool, and they gazed into the fire.
“Eases the pain.” He tapped his flagon lightly against hers, then took a nip.
“The pain?” She furrowed her brow.
A rueful smile curved his lips.
Desirée’s cheeks grew warm. “Oh.”
He took another sip. “Don’t fret,” he murmured, staring into the flames. “’Tis a pain to which I’ve grown accustomed.”
She smirked. “Right.” Accustomed indeed. With his store of coin, he could afford a different harlot every night of the week to ease his “pain.”
He sniffed and gave a shrug.
She stared at him doubtfully. “Wait. Are you saying you don’t..?”
He continued to watch the fire in silence.
“Ever?” she pressed.
He frowned into the flames.
She didn’t know what to say. She’d never heard of a man outside of the church who didn’t...
By the saints, even shriveled old Hubert stole off to the stews every Saturday.
That was hard to believe. Suddenly, her own cares seemed inconsequential and far less interesting. “When was the last time you—?“
His eyes widened. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
She gasped. “God’s blood! You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”
“What? Nay, I’m not a virgin.” He turned on her with a disconcerted scowl.
“Then why—?”
“For God’s sake, Desirée, I’m the bloody shire-reeve of Kent.”
“And?”
“Come, lass, who would want to lie in the arms of the law?”
She opened her mouth in shock, then closed it. That was the saddest thing she’d heard in a long while, not to mention an appalling waste of manhood. True, Desirée was a virgin, but then, she was a woman, she was only nineteen, and she’d had an eagle-eyed guardian watching over her for the past six years.
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