Danger's Kiss

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Less severe?” Byron said.

  “Oh, aye,” Nicholas assured him. “Perhaps a finger instead of the whole hand.”

  “Aye?” Harry asked hopefully.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Campbell hissed. “’Tis trickery.”

  “’Tis no trickery,” Nicholas said. “The jeweler only wants his goods back.”

  “If we find the pearls...” Byron said.

  “Nay!” Campbell snapped.

  “But Campbell...” Harry whimpered.

  “Nay!”

  “’Tis up to you,” Nicholas said with a shrug. “Which is worth more, the pearls or your hands?”

  “Lord!” Harry sobbed.

  Byron gulped. “’Twould be only a finger if we—”

  “Nay!” Campbell bellowed. “Don’t! You bastards!”

  “But she’s not worth it!” Harry cried. “Not our hands, Campbell!”

  “Aye, Campbell,” Byron agreed. “What woman would want a man with one hand?”

  “She would!” Campbell said fiercely.

  “Nay, she wouldn’t,” Byron said.

  “She would!”

  “Well, I’m not losing my hand for her!” Harry decided.

  “Then you don’t love her as much as I do!” Campbell raged.

  Nicholas shook his head as they continued to pummel each other with words. He should have known a woman was involved. Only a wench could induce such madness in men. No doubt if he unchained the lads, they’d engage in a full-out brawl that would leave them bloody and broken-boned. And then what woman would have them?

  He let them continue on for a while longer, then bellowed, “Quiet!”

  They complied.

  “So you stole the pearls for a woman?”

  Harry furrowed his brow. “We didn’t steal the pearls. She stole the pearls.”

  At this startling confession, the other two snarled and railed at him like tethered wild dogs until the poor lad was sobbing in misery.

  Nicholas let out a sigh and scratched the back of his head. This was a coil indeed. The lads were innocent. They were protecting the real thief. With whom they were all apparently in love.

  Now what was he going to do?

  He couldn’t punish the lads, knowing they weren’t guilty of any crime. But neither did it sit well with him to chop off the hand of a woman, one who was apparently so prized by the three lads before him that they’d willingly sacrifice their limbs for her.

  While the lads continued their battle of words, Nicholas began to consider the alternatives, and once again, he felt Desirée’s wicked influence weaving its way through his brain.

  There might be another way.

  “Lads!”

  They hushed.

  “How good are you at playacting?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Desirée backed into the room, casting about for something, anything, she could use for a weapon. It didn’t take a brilliant mind to determine that the four men who’d burst through the door were not here for a friendly visit.

  If she’d had one more instant to think, she would have retreated to the bedchamber. After all, Nicholas kept a veritable arsenal on the wall.

  But the first thing she could lay her hands on was the bowl that had come from what Nicholas had called his brain crusher.

  She picked it up and swung it in a blind arc, clipping the piggish man on the side of the head with a loud clang.

  He staggered back, dazed, but before she could rear back for another swing, the two Johns advanced on her. Each seized an arm.

  She immediately began fighting them, trying to wrench loose.

  “Hold her tight,” Odger warned. “She’s a slippery—“

  Before he could finish his sentence, Desirée flung her leg forward, booting him hard in the shin.

  He yelped and hopped backward, tripping over Snowflake, who let out a yowl and shot into the bedchamber.

  Desirée had done a lot of fighting on the streets of London as a child, and she’d learned some nasty tricks. She kicked at one of the Johns’ kneecaps, then dragged her foot down his shin and stomped on the top of his foot.

  He bellowed in pain, releasing her.

  Then, grabbing the wrist of her captured hand, she pulled it away from the second John, before suddenly reversing to drive her elbow back, catching him on the chin. Stunned by the blow, he sailed backward, thumping his head on the plaster wall.

  For one fleeting moment, victory seemed in her grasp.

  But as she spun around, wondering what had become of the piggish man, something solid hit the back of her head. Bright sparks exploded outward, then faded like stars disappearing before the dawn, and she sank into dark oblivion.

  Sibil, the troublesome lass who’d stolen the pearls and caused the three lads so much grief, wasn’t hard for Nicholas to find. They’d given him detailed instructions on the well-worn route to her cottage.

  To his surprise, she was no beauty. Indeed, she was a bit plump and pox-scarred. But he supposed there was nothing more attractive to lads of that age than a lass who would tell them aye, and that was likely her charm.

  She wrung her hands at the dire appearance of the shire-reeve at her door, but naturally she had no choice but to go with him.

  Nicholas didn’t speak to her until they entered the gaol. When she saw the lads chained to the wall, she gave a small cry of despair.

  The lads, as they’d been instructed, looked appropriately miserable.

  “I’ve asked you here, lass,” Nicholas said, “to name me the thief from among these lads. I’m told you know each of them well, their natures, their habits.” He bent to retrieve his huge chopping knife from the ground, smacking the handle on his palm to dislodge the dirt. “Which one is the thief?”

  Her lower lip trembled as she eyed the blade. “What are ye goin’ to do?”

  “My duty,” he said. “Cut off the hand of the thief.”

  She whimpered. “But...but...”

  “Don’t fret, Sibil. ‘Tis only a hand,” Byron said, his face a perfect portrait of noble sacrifice. “My heart will remain intact.”

  Campbell looked at her with naked adoration. “I’m not afraid, my lady, not as long as I can gaze into your loving eyes.”

  Even Harry managed to carry off his piece. “Don’t worry, my dear Sibil.” Then he added in a whisper, “The important parts will still be in working order.”

  She looked at Nicholas in horror. “But ye can’t mean to... They’re not thieves... How can ye cut off a man’s hand for...for such a small...”

  “Well,” Nicholas admitted, “if the item they’d stolen had been recovered, ‘twould be only a finger. But—“

  “Wait!” She shoved her hand down the front of her bodice, scrabbling until she found a string of pearls, which she presented to Nicholas. “Here. The lads never meant no harm. They only wanted me to have a love token. Prithee don’t cut anythin’ off ‘em!”

  “A love token?” Nicholas asked the lads.

  They nodded.

  “From all three of you?”

  “Sibil’s my heart’s desire,” Byron affirmed.

  “And mine,” Harry agreed.

  Campbell added, “I’d gladly sacrifice a hand for her.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “And what have you to say, Sibil, to these lads who would risk the loss of limb for your favors?”

  “I love ‘em,” she gushed, “and I never meant to hurt ‘em.”

  “All three?”

  “Oh, aye.” She gazed fondly upon them. “Byron, with his lovely speeches. Harry, with his sweet kisses. And Campbell, with his lusty touch.”

  Nicholas frowned beneath his hood. Could none of them see the ugly problem looming ahead? “And what will you do when you have to choose one of them?”

  “Choose?” she asked.

  “Aye, when you have to pick one to be your husband.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean to marry ‘em.”

  Nicholas blinked. “What?”

  Sibi
l explained. “Well, I couldn’t possibly marry all three, could I? But I can’t bear the thought of livin’ without ‘em. So I’ll love ‘em for as long as I can.”

  Nicholas expected an outburst of outrage from the lads, but they seemed to be well aware of Sibil’s intentions.

  Byron intoned, “Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.”

  “Horace?” Nicholas recognized the phrase.

  “Seize the day,” Byron translated, “trusting little in the future.”

  “Aye,” Campbell agreed, “live for the moment.”

  Nicholas shook his head at the naivete of youth. But to his annoyance, the phrase haunted him as he began unchaining the lads.

  Seize the day. He wondered if he should take that advice himself. After all, there was a lovely, willing maid waiting at home for him.

  Aye, she might be gone on the morrow. She might break his heart. And he might never find a woman like her again.

  But that was no reason to temper his passions.

  Perhaps he should seize the day.

  With renewed purpose and a sudden urge to hie homeward as fast as his legs could carry him, he scolded the four youths soundly for their theft and issued a dire warning that he wouldn’t be so merciful next time. Then, with a lie that rolled a little too easily off his tongue, he reported to the local constable that upon investigation, he’d found a string of pearls just outside the jeweler’s shop, that they’d obviously not been stolen, but dropped there by the jeweler himself.

  Once again, the satisfaction of administering fair justice offset his guilt at breaking the law. When he departed Faversham, it was with a contented heart. In fact, as soon as he was out of range of the villagers, for whom he had to keep up the appearance of the grimly silent shire-reeve, he began humming a merry tune under his breath.

  He didn’t even realize he’d been singing the lusty verses of Tempus es iocundum until, by late afternoon, he pushed happily through the door of his cottage.

  What he discovered made the song falter upon his lips.

  The house was as cold and still as death. No candle glowed in welcome. No supper simmered upon the hearth. No fire burned at all. His gaming box was missing from the table. And Azrael was nowhere in sight.

  The satchel dropped from Nicholas’s limp fingers, hitting the ground with a thud, a thud as hollow as the beating of his heart.

  She’d left him. Desirée had left him.

  Instinctively drawn to his keg of ale, Nicholas pulled a draught for himself with trembling fingers.

  Then, lifting the cup in a bitter salute, he gave a humorless bark of laughter. “Seize the day.”

  CHAPTER 23

  "Desirée woke to an icy slap of water. She sputtered and blinked away the cold drops, peering through the wet strands of her hair, trying to recall where she was.

  “Desirée,” a strange woman crooned. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  She squinted up toward the voice but couldn’t make out the features of the woman haloed by the stark morning sun.

  Suddenly the events of yesterday came rushing back. The four Torteval servants had kidnapped her. She’d been gagged, bound, blindfolded, and dumped in the back of a cart for a long ride.

  Awake part of the way, she’d heard bits and pieces of conversation. Odger had been worried that the shire-reeve would suspect him, that he would come and hunt him down. But the piggish man had only chortled at that, informing him that that was the reason they’d taken the gaming box. Grimshaw would never suspect she’d been kidnapped. He’d assume she’d robbed him and run away.

  Then the brutes had delivered her to this deserted mill, removing her gag and blindfold and forcing her down upon the plank floor, where they secured her to a splintered pillar that supported what remained of the rotting timbers.

  She’d been left alone here until now.

  “Desirée? The granddaughter of Hubert Kabayn?” the woman asked. She dropped the half-full bucket of water onto the floor with a thud.

  Desirée licked the droplets from her lips. It was the only drink she’d been given since they’d abandoned her. Her belly growled with hunger. Her chafed wrists stung from struggling against her rope bonds. And her voice was hoarse from yelling for help.

  Without warning, the woman stepped forward and gave her a jolting slap across the cheek. “I asked you a question.”

  Desirée fought back the urge to spit in the woman’s face. But though she was a stubborn lass, she wasn’t stupid. With her legs bound together and her arms tied tightly behind her, she was nearly helpless. Clenching her jaw, she nodded.

  “Well, Desirée, I’m Lady Philomena. Of Torteval?” the lady continued silkily, bracing one hand on the broken grinding stone as she hunkered down to look her in the eye. “You seem like an intelligent woman. I think you can guess why you’re here.”

  By the light flooding in through the torn sheepskin window, Desirée could see the woman clearly now. She was coldly beautiful, clad in skirts of gold-embroidered blood-red silk that currently swept through the mouse droppings strewn across the floor. She had sleek auburn hair, alabaster skin, and a shapely mouth. But when she leered as she did now, her dark lips looked like a bloody slash across her pale face, and what Desirée detected in the glittering depths of Philomena’s gaze chilled her to the bone.

  It wasn’t madness exactly. It was more akin to icy, reptilian hunger. And if there was one thing Hubert had taught her, it was never to rile a person with the eyes of a snake.

  Desirée carefully shook her head.

  The woman clucked her tongue. “Think, poppet, think,” she urged, her honey voice at odds with her intense gaze.

  Desirée croaked, “I don’t know what you—”

  “Indeed?” The lady reached out a finger to lift Desirée’s chin, studying her face carefully. “And I’d have thought a day without food or water would jar your memory.”

  Then, without even a blink to signal her intent, the woman scraped her nail suddenly sideways across Desirée’s throat, leaving a searing gash that made Desirée gasp in pain.

  Philomena’s beautiful face was suddenly disfigured by a sneer of impatience. “Where is it, you filthy whelp?”

  Desirée’s mind raced, but she couldn’t figure out what the woman was talking about. “Where is what?”

  Her question earned her another vicious slap, and Desirée kept her head lowered this time, stifling an oath as her fingers twitched with the urge to return the blow.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know, wench,” Philomena snarled. “I want my key, and I want it now.”

  “What?”

  “My key!”

  Suddenly Desirée remembered something she’d put to the back of her thoughts, it had seemed so insignificant at the time. When she’d first visited Hubert in the Canterbury gaol, he’d boasted that he hadn’t left Torteval completely empty-handed. Then he’d slipped her a useless old iron key, the only thing he’d managed to hide on his person. He’d jested with her, saying it was likely the key to some noblewoman’s chastity belt. She’d laughed and tucked it into her purse without another thought.

  Now she wondered if it did indeed belong to something important. Perhaps it was the key to the Torteval treasury. Maybe it unlocked a chest of gold coins or deeds to estates or

  valuable jewels.

  Whatever the key opened, it was vital enough to warrant the risky abduction of a woman from the home of a notorious lawman.

  Desirée made up her mind then and there. No matter what coercions the Lady of Torteval intended, she was not going to surrender.

  Indeed, using that key might be her way to exact one final bit of vengeance upon Torteval for the unjust death of Hubert, just one robbery to put her old friend’s soul to rest before she abandoned her life of crime forever. It was too tempting an opportunity to pass up.

  But first she had to escape her captor.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told Philomena. “What key?”

&nbs
p; The next blow came from her closed fist, bruising Desirée’s jaw and knocking her sideways, and she had to shake her head to clear the ringing in her ears.

  “I know you have it, wench,” Philomena hissed. “Your grandfather took it when he murdered the lawyer.”

  Desirée instinctively blurted out, “He didn’t murder anyone.”

  “Don’t be a crackpate. Of course he did.” She allowed a cruel smile to blossom on her face. “Indeed, ’twas your good friend Nicholas Grimshaw who dispatched him to hell for the crime, wasn’t it?”

  Desirée bit back a curse. It would be unwise to speak her mind while she was at the mercy of a madwoman.

  “That’s why you’re living with him now, isn’t it?” she guessed. “Because he has the key.”

  Philomena seized her by her throbbing jaw, demanding her gaze. More angry than afraid, it was all Desirée could do to resist whipping her head around to bite the woman’s fingers.

  “Give me what I want,” Philomena purred, “and perhaps I won’t leave you with scars.”

  “I don’t know what you want,” Desirée insisted.

  “The key!” Philomena shrieked. This time she caught Desirée completely off guard, kicking her in the belly and robbing her of breath. “The key!”

  Desirée couldn’t suck in even a wisp of air, let alone speak. Her stomach ached with a dull throbbing, and her lungs seemed to have collapsed against her spine. She wondered if she’d overestimated her capacity to endure Philomena’s abuse.

  “Don’t be stupid!” Philomena cried, pacing back and forth before Desirée in the small space between the moss-covered wall and the millstone. She gave a mirthless chuckle. “You don’t even know what it goes to. It will do you no good.”

  Desirée finally managed to rasp in a painful breath. “I don’t have...your bloody key.”

  Philomena’s eyes narrowed to fuming slits, and she suddenly turned on Desirée like a wild beast, seizing her by the hair. Desirée gasped as the woman’s fists coiled tightly in her tresses, threatening to tear the hair from her scalp.

  “You’re lying, you filthy harlot!” Philomena spat, twisting her fingers mercilessly.