Danger's Kiss

by Glynnis Campbell

  Philomena bit the inside of her cheek. She thought her restraint admirable. But she’d gotten what she wanted. The gaoler could avow he had seen Desirée here this morn.

  Shaking her head, she took his brand, waved him back into his hole, then proceeded to the cell, making sure the gaoler was out of hearing when she unlocked the door.

  Once she secured the door behind her again and turned to face the occupant of the cell, she heard George breathe, “’Mena?”

  And then he breathed no more.

  She slit his throat quickly, to silence his screams. Then, when he slumped to the floor, she stuck the brand into a holder on the wall, crouched beside his writhing body, and proceeded to stab him under the ribs several times. Surely one of the thrusts would pierce his heart.

  She tried not to think about all the blood. It was bad enough she had to kneel in the filth of the cell, her nostrils shrinking from the stench of human waste.

  At last his eyes turned filmy, and he stopped twitching.Shuddering with disgust, she tossed the dagger onto the floor and let out a shrill scream.

  The gaoler came at a run. She crawled toward the door just as he burst in. The door shrieked open on its hinges, revealing the gruesome murder.

  He gasped. “Shite!”

  Philomena clutched hysterically at the gaoler’s braies and sobbed, “He’s dead! He’s dead! Ah, God, he’s dead!”

  The gaoler’s eyes widened with panic as he stared down at her. “Did ye...”

  “It must have been that woman!” she cried. “Who was she? Who came this morn?” She let go of him and buried her face in her bloody hands. “God’s wounds! She killed him! She killed my husband!”

  Thankfully, the gaoler was dull enough of wit to take her at her word. He winced at the bloody mess before him, murmuring oaths under his breath, then rubbed a thoughtful hand across his jaw. “God’s truth, m’lady, I’m not sure who she was.”

  “Oh, God!” she wailed. “Oh, God!”

  He wrinkled his brow in earnest concern. “But she had a key, m’lady. And I know what she looks like.”

  That was all Philomena needed. After several more obligatory sobs of faux grief, she persuaded the gaoler to come with her to the constable so that he could describe the murderess.

  It was ridiculously simple. Philomena wept piteously before the constable, bemoaning the fact that after her months-long search for her beloved husband and finally locating him where his kidnappers had locked him up, right under all their noses, she’d arrived at the old gaol only to find him murdered, and all while her father-in-law languished on his deathbed.

  The gaoler knew better than to challenge her story. He relished the idea of being the hero of the hour. And as he described what little he recalled of the wench’s appearance—her dark hair, her dark cloak, her pretty mouth—Philomena was able to fill in the details in such a way as to irrevocably implicate the shire-reeve’s maidservant.

  “Desirée Kabayn,” she breathed in revelation, resting a hand lightly atop the constable’s sleeve. “It could have been her. She was the granddaughter of that man who committed the murder at Torteval.” She frowned, as if trying to make sense of everything. Then she gave a gasp and clasped a hand to her throat. “Could she be the one who had my husband kidnapped in the first place?”

  The constable scowled. “I doubt that. She’s a good-natured lass. I don’t think she...” He trailed off, and a peculiar expression came over his face, one that drained the color from his cheeks. “God’s blood. She was asking me about the old gaol this morning.”

  Philomena restrained a smile. This was even better than she’d expected. It was as if the stupid wench had looped the noose around her own neck.

  She clenched her fist in the constable’s sleeve. “Dear God, if she kidnapped and murdered my husband, what’s to stop her from killing m-...?” She broke off with a sob, clapping a hand to her bosom.

  Then she wrapped both fists in the constable’s tabard in supplication. “Don’t let her, I pray you! You must do something! You must—“

  The constable gently extricated her hands. “Don’t fret, my lady. I’ll take her into custody at once.”

  That wasn’t good enough. She had to be sure the shire-reeve had no opportunity to intervene on the wench’s behalf, and she wouldn’t rest until she knew Desirée Kabayn was silenced forever.

  “Kind sir,” she said softly, clasping his hand in her two, “my father is dying even now. Can you do nothing to speed retribution? It would do his heart good to see his son’s murderer banished to hell ere he departs for heaven.”

  The constable looked uncomfortable with such hasty arrangements, but he knew the sway the Torteval nobles held in Canterbury. “The shire-reeve’s not in town, but I suppose I can round up witnesses, have a trial. If she’s found guilty—”

  “Can you hang her this eve?”

  He recoiled, withdrawing his hand. “This eve? Nay, my lady! ‘Tis hardly time to prepare. I’ll need to summon the executioner from Rochester.”

  Curse the law’s delay! “Tomorrow then.”

  His scowl deepened. “Tomorrow? ‘Tis the Sabbath, my lady.”

  Her chin began to quiver with rage, but she let him believe she was near tears. “I pray you, constable, grant me this one request. The priest will delay services at my bidding. I don’t know if my father will live past the Sabbath,” she wailed, choking on a sob. “Please let him see justice served so he may die in peace.”

  The constable was quite ill at ease. “The shire-reeve won’t be pleased.”

  “Grimshaw?” Philomena reined back the fury rising inside her, knowing the constable wouldn’t be moved by her rage. The easiest way to manipulate him was to insult his power. “But constable,” she asked pointedly, “does the shire-reeve allow you no authority of your own?”

  He let out a disgruntled sigh. “Very well. On the morrow.”

  Philomena managed a grateful smile, though she would have preferred the constable string the maid up at once, ere the shire-reeve arrived home.

  On the other hand, it might prove an entertaining spectacle to watch Nicholas Grimshaw forced to send his own mistress to death. It was almost tempting to brave the rabble this once and attend the execution. Almost.

  “One more thing,” she said. “No doubt the shire-reeve will be...reluctant...to hang his own maidservant. Please make certain he doesn’t see the hanging orders until the last possible moment.”

  As Nicholas had expected, there were only minor chastisements to administer in Chilham, which was a good thing, because he’d discovered, much to his dismay, that the key he’d confiscated from Desirée was missing. That nimble-fingered imp had somehow managed to steal it back from him.

  Knowing she’d be unable to resist the temptation, he was certain she’d gone to the old Canterbury gaol to see if the key fit the lock.

  How Hubert Kabayn had come by the key he didn’t know, but the sunken gaol had been deserted for some time. The area had been fenced off as a hazard, and only a fool would trespass into the crumbling ruin. A fool or a headstrong wench.

  It was nearly sunset when he reached Canterbury, but the constable had apparently been waiting for him in the town square. The man seemed unusually uneasy as he called Nicholas over. Nicholas noted that one of his eyes was swollen.

  “What happened to—“

  “’Tis nothing.” Then he handed Nicholas a scroll. “This is for a hanging. On the morrow.”

  “The morrow?” Nicholas frowned. “’Tis the Sabbath.”

  “’Tis a special situation, a matter for expediency,” he said tersely. “The crime was committed this morn. The trial was this afternoon.” He avoided Nicholas’s eyes as he added, “The execution is to take place in the morn before services.”

  “But—“

  “You might want to pay the prisoner a visit. Straight away.”

  Before Nicholas could reply, the constable turned on his heel and walked briskly off into the falling twilight.

 
; Nicholas watched him go. An execution on the Sabbath? And with such late notice? It was unheard-of. Aye, sometimes he was called upon to administer unusually swift justice to a lad caught beating a hound or a wife found in another man’s bed. But a hanging...

  “Satan’s ballocks,” he muttered.

  All the way back from Chilham, he’d looked forward to seeing Desirée—that was, if the impetuous lass hadn’t entombed herself in the ruins of the old gaol. He meant to give her a sound scolding for pilfering the key from his satchel. Then he’d punish her. He figured the wench deserved a hundred lashes. He’d smiled, thinking of how he intended to deliver those lashes.

  But now his plans were thrown awry. What had the constable meant, suggesting he visit the prisoner? Certainly he knew it was Nicholas’s custom to stay with the condemned the night before an execution. It was a courtesy he always extended to the poor wretches. Never had he led a man to the gallows without granting him some comfort, some peace of mind, and usually a great deal of strong ale. He couldn’t forfeit that courtesy now, no matter how strong the temptation was to go home to Desirée.

  He sighed, dropping his heavy satchel of tools. Then he unrolled the parchment in the dwindling light. Who was the hapless outlaw the constable was in such a rush to see executed?

  When he saw the name upon the page, it struck him as so unlikely, so impossible, that he knew he’d read it wrong. He chuckled, rubbed at his eyes, held the parchment up to the last rays of sunlight, and looked again.

  Desirée Kabayn.

  His mind couldn’t turn itself around what he saw, but his heart began a slow, hard thud as ominous as rising thunder.

  Nay, he thought.

  It was a mistake.

  Or a jest.

  Aye, that was it. The constable and Desirée had played a jest on him.

  But the more he studied the document, the faster his heart raced, and the more he realized it wasn’t a jest at all, but a properly signed writ, a writ demanding the execution of Desirée Kabayn for the murder of Lord George Torteval.

  Suddenly he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. His heart knifed against his ribs, and a deep shuddering began in his bones. Stunned, he never noticed the parchment falling from his nerveless fingers.

  CHAPTER 28

  Desirée chewed on a fingernail as she paced the familiar cold gaol cell where Hubert Kabayn had lived out his last days. Just like her old partner, she’d been condemned to hang for a murder committed by Lady Philomena.

  In a sense, Desirée supposed she had committed murder. After all, if she’d freed George while she had the chance, he wouldn’t be dead now. She’d underestimated Philomena’s capacity for evil, for surely it was the Lady of Torteval who had killed her own husband.

  The kind constable had seemed reluctant to arrest Desirée, but that hadn’t stopped him from doing it, even after she’d blacked his eye and crippled his knee enough to make him hobble as he accompanied his men-at-arms to the gaol.

  The trial was a travesty of justice. With the grief-stricken Lady Philomena as her accuser, the gaoler as a witness to her visit, and her abductors from Torteval claiming she’d previously accosted them in the streets of Canterbury, Desirée was convicted and sentenced within an hour.

  But unlike Hubert, she didn’t intend to go peacefully. He had taught her there were always escapes. Using guile or deception or, as a last resort, bribery, one could squirm one’s way out of any trouble.

  The sun was sinking now, as she could see by the dimming of the narrow window at the top of her cell. Soon Nicholas would return from Chilham. But that knowledge gave her uncertain comfort.

  How many times had he told her it wasn’t for him to render judgment, only to carry out sentences? How often had he reminded her that his role was solely to execute the justice handed down by others?

  And who was to say he wouldn’t believe she’d committed the murder? After all, the evidence was overwhelming. He knew by now she’d taken the key to the old gaol. He’d known she wanted revenge for Hubert’s unjust execution. And he believed she was capable of cold-blooded killing. By the saints, she’d tried to slay Nicholas himself that first day.

  Nay, she couldn’t rely upon Nicholas’s mercy, no matter how she cared for him. She had to find some way to escape, bartering with the gaoler or deceiving the guards. But how could she work her wiles on them if they never visited her cell?

  Just as the last sliver of light faded, leaving her in utter darkness, she heard a rattling at the door. She whirled around with a hopeful smile, ready to use her charms at a moment’s notice.

  The flare of a torch blinded her for an instant as the intruder entered, closing the door behind him. Then she recognized the black cloak.

  “Nicholas!”

  Abandoning wisdom and judgment and restraint, she hurtled toward him but was brought up short as he blocked her way with the flaming brand. His upraised hand commanded her to stop. Then he held up one finger, bidding her to wait.

  Breathless, caught between relief and dread, Desirée froze, and they both listened as the gaoler’s footsteps retreated along the passageway.

  He reached up then and pulled back his hood, and Desirée thought she’d never seen a more welcome face. Aye, he looked grim and troubled, and his brow was furrowed in concern, but with Nicholas by her side, suddenly it seemed she could take on the world.

  He didn’t come to her at once. Instead, he planted the torch in a brace on the wall and ran weary fingers through his hair, sighing, “Oh, Desirée, what have you done?”

  She chose to ignore his accusatory tone. Rushing toward him, she collided with his chest and wrapped grateful arms about his neck.

  For a long moment, he was unresponsive, and her heart pounded anxiously at the possibility that he no longer cared for her. Indeed, he might despise her.

  Then, when she was about to give up, to fall into despair, his arms came around her, clasping her to him with such force she could scarcely breathe.

  Unbidden, a tear squeezed out from between her lashes, and she swiftly wiped it away. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  He gave her no answer. Neither did he let her go.

  “I didn’t,” she repeated.

  He stroked her hair, but he still didn’t reply. And suddenly anger began to rise in her. With a vexed growl, she shoved him away. “You don’t believe me!”

  She could tell by the furrow in his brow that he wanted to believe her.

  “Damn you!” she cried. “You should believe me. That’s what love is all about. Trust.”

  He narrowed his eyes, and his jaw tensed with uncertainty. “’Tis what deception is all about, as well.”

  She couldn’t argue with him. He was right. Indeed, she’d given him no reason to trust her at all. Ever.

  From the very beginning, she’d kept secrets from him.

  She’d never told him about her encounters with Odger or Godfry or the two Johns. She’d not mentioned her confrontation with Lady Philomena. She’d feigned ignorance about the whereabouts of his cat. Sweet Mary, while she was still aglow from his lovemaking, she’d lied about his gaming box, and then stolen the key from his satchel to sneak off to the old gaol.

  It was no wonder he didn’t trust her.

  She lowered her head and clasped her hands humbly before her. “What will it take?”

  “For me to trust you?”

  She nodded.

  “Look me in the eye, Desirée. Tell me everything.”

  She did. With a hard swallow and a great deal of reluctance, she confessed to all the mischief she’d made over the last fortnight.

  She told him about the small things—knocking the bacon off the shelf, rummaging through his things, feigning illness to avoid church.

  Then she revealed the more significant secrets—that she’d had several altercations with the men from Torteval, that they’d stolen the gaming box and kidnapped her, that Snowflake had been held hostage by Lady Philomena.

  She explained how she’d discovered
Lord George in the old gaol and how he’d revealed his wife’s intentions—to keep him prisoner until she could poison their father in order to collect George’s inheritance, and to eliminate anyone who stood in her way, including the lawyer for whom Hubert had hanged. By the time she told him how she’d threatened Philomena with exposing the truth, how it must have been Philomena who, out of desperation, had killed her own husband and pinned the blame on Desirée, Nicholas’s jaw was twitching with suppressed rage.

  Still she had to ask. “Now do you believe me?”

  Nicholas knew from the moment Desirée looked directly at him that she was telling the truth. She might be an expert at deception, but when she met his gaze openly, he saw deep into her beautiful green eyes, down to her very soul. From her very first word, all doubt vanished.

  “Aye.”

  Desirée might be an imp and a meddlesome wench and an only slightly reformed outlaw. But she was no murderer. And if Nicholas had only been at her trial to defend her character, she wouldn’t be hanging on the morrow.

  The trouble was, she’d already been tried and convicted. Her death warrant was signed.

  “Then you’ll help me?” she asked.

  God’s wounds, the hope in her eyes was too much to bear. He reached for her, clasping her sweet face between his palms, wishing he could lie as easily as she did. “I’m not sure I can,” he choked out.

  The light in her gaze diminished. “What do you mean?”

  He swallowed hard. How could he make her understand?

  She tore his hands away and stepped back, incredulous. “What do you mean, Nicholas? You...you helped that lad in Sturry. You saved him from the gallows.”

  He grimaced. “Aye. I’ve bent the law. But I’ve not broken it.” He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. “You’ve had a trial, Desirée, and you’ve been sentenced. There’s already a death warrant with your name on it. You’ve been ordered to the gallows on the morrow.”

  She staggered at the weight of his words, answering with a whisper of disbelief. “On the morrow? You...you’re going to hang me?”