Danger's Kiss

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Nay!” he said forcefully as the image of her frail body, twisting at the end of a rope, assailed his thoughts. “Never!”

  Yet even as he spoke the vehement denial, he knew it was an empty promise. The situation was hopeless. Short of killing the guards, breaking Desirée out of the gaol, and fleeing with her in the night to be branded forever as a fugitive, he could see no way out of their dilemma.

  And he had to admit when he looked at the breathtaking woman before him with the dewy eyes and trembling lips, the woman who had been unafraid of the shire-reeve of Kent, the woman who had given him her virginity of her own free will, he was sorely tempted to do just that.

  “Then what do you mean to do?” she asked.

  He scowled at the flagstones. “I know what I want to do,” he muttered. “I’d like to throttle the life out of that Torteval witch.”

  Desirée shuddered, clasping her arms about her, and he realized it wasn’t his hateful threat but the cold that made her shiver. He took off his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. It looked enormous, hanging off of her small frame, and it reminded him once again that Desirée was the only woman he knew who didn’t shrink from him in fear.

  That thought made him catch his breath.

  Of course.

  He was Nicholas Grimshaw, cold-blooded lawman, the merciless, powerful shire-reeve of Kent. Everyone feared him.

  Including Lady Philomena.

  Inspired by sudden hope, he smiled grimly down at Desirée. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and bent to give her a hard kiss on the mouth.

  “Wait here. You’ll be safe. I’ll return before dawn, I promise.”

  Giving her shoulders a squeeze, he moved to make his exit. But before he could leave, she snagged him by the shirt.

  “Wait!” She arched a brow at him. “If you think I’m going to sit here, helpless, simply trusting you’ll return...”

  “Exactly. I don’t. Which is why I’m locking the door.”

  Her jaw dropped. “What?”

  “You’re not going to follow me, Desirée. I want you out of harm’s way.”

  She thinned her lips but couldn’t argue.

  “I give you my word of honor I’ll come back,” he said. “But this is something I have to do alone.”

  “At least tell me what you’re planning.”

  Her fists were still coiled in his shirt. It was clear she wasn’t going to let him go until he obliged her.

  “I’m going to pay a visit to Lady Philomena. By the time I get done with her, she’ll be writing a letter of commendation for you.”

  Desirée gulped. “Do you mean to...torture her?”

  “You know me better than that.” He let one corner of his lip drift up in an ominous smile. “I won’t have to.”

  Philomena crumpled the missive in her trembling fist. God’s eyes! Didn’t she have enough to worry about this eve without the damned shire-reeve showing up at the gates? What did he want? If that constable had betrayed her and alerted Grimshaw to his mistress’s execution, she’d have the fool’s head on a platter.

  It was all she could do not to scream. Nicholas Grimshaw was the one loose cog in the complex machine she’d created over which she had no control. But she supposed shrieking at the top of her lungs wasn’t in keeping with the role of the bereaved daughter and widow.

  She wished she could simply order him away, tell him she was too aggrieved to speak with him. But he was a man who was known to be...insistent. If she didn’t grant his request, he’d likely barge into the great hall and demand her audience before all these witnesses, witnesses whom she was attempting to convince that she deserved her late husband’s inheritance. And that kind of attention she didn’t need.

  She frowned at the messenger. “Tell him he’s not to come in. I’ll meet him outside the hall, at the gardener’s shed.”

  Lucifer’s claws! What could that Grim Reaper want?

  The idea of meeting with the menacing Nicholas Grimshaw alone was nerve-racking, to say the least. The man didn’t seem to recognize his place in terms of allegiance to Torteval, nor did he cower before her like a loyal servant. In fact, she decided, as soon as her claim to the property was clear, she’d seek an audience with the king and see the shire-reeve reassigned or removed.

  Till then, she had no choice but to hear him out, pray he wouldn’t make a spectacle out of himself, and send him away before he ruined her already compromised plans.

  It wasn’t fair. She’d dealt with more than her share of trouble today. She’d been forced to kill the gaoler with her bare hands. He’d started to pry too closely into the details of George’s murder, and the greedy fool had begun to get the idea that he might be able to extort coin from her for his silence. So after he’d given his testimony at the Kabayn wench’s trial, she’d used a rock to beat him to death and hid his body in the woods.

  Yet there were still loose ends to tie, including the burial of her husband and her father-in-law. True, the shire-reeve’s mistress had been taken care of, but she wasn’t yet cold in the ground, and the fact that Nicholas Grimshaw was at her doorstep didn’t bode well.

  Lord William had cooperated by giving up the ghost in a timely fashion. For the past hour, Philomena had been doing the obligatory grieving for the benefit of the Torteval household. But there was still the matter of settling the will, and her lawyer had yet to arrive.

  Lord knew she didn’t want Grimshaw here when he did.

  Hoping for a brief encounter, she fetched a cloak and candle, then slipped from the hall to the courtyard and made her way through the dark to the gardener’s shed.

  He stood sentinel at the door, like some gigantic tree, his arms crossed over his trunk-like chest. Illuminated by the candle, his eyes gleamed at her beneath the hood of his signature black cloak.

  “Grimshaw,” she said by way of greeting, and the quaver in her voice was only part feigned. There was nothing quite so intimidating as having a hulking beast of a lawman loom over one like a giant crow, waiting to pick at one’s bones.

  “Lady Philomena,” he intoned, the name searing her like a brand. “My condolences.”

  She hesitated, uncertain what to say. Surely he’d come for more than to offer solace.

  He added, “I’d like to speak with you.”

  Misgiving prickled at the base of her neck. How much did Grimshaw know? He couldn’t have talked to the Kabayn wench. He’d been gone all day. The constable had said as much. The wench was locked up, and Philomena had given strict instructions to the constable not to deliver the death warrant until the morrow. The shire-reeve shouldn’t know anything about the person he was to hang.

  Why was he here?

  Bloody hell, she was wound tighter than a cocked crossbow. Her nerves couldn’t take much more. She simply had to get rid of the beast.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said, adding a sniffle for good measure, “but I’m not of a mind to speak with anyone at the moment. I’ve just lost my husband and my father.” She covered her mouth with the back of her hand as if to stifle a sob.

  The shire-reeve was unswayed by her performance. He leaned toward her and whispered, “I’m sure you’ll be dancing a carole upon their graves by the morrow.”

  She stiffened. The knave did know something.

  She forced her heart to slow. She dared not let him see that she was intimidated. Above all, she had to maintain control.

  “’Tis starting to rain,” she said as calmly as possible, shielding the candle. “Let’s go inside.”

  Shuddering as she passed through his shadow, she elbowed open the door of the shed. As she set the candle into a holder above the potting table, she realized with startling irony that she’d left her jar of arsenic there.

  It was no matter. Grimshaw wouldn’t recognize it. If he did, she’d make sure he’d not blather to anyone. Dead men spread no rumors.

  Despite her determination to remain poised, the instant Grimshaw closed the door behind him with a thud of final
ity, her heart flipped, and suddenly she felt like a trapped moth.

  He dropped his heavy satchel on the floor, and the resulting clatter of whatever horrid devices it contained gave her a start. She instinctively glanced at the huge bag.

  He flexed his gloved hands, and the leather squeaked with menace. “I trust you’ll be reasonable, so I won’t have to resort to,” he said, nodding to the satchel, “harsher methods.”

  Repressing a shiver, she decided it was in her best interests to get straight to the point. “What do you want?”

  After a moment, he hunkered down beside the satchel, wrenching the top open. She clenched her fists as she glimpsed the sharpened points of the sinister tools he kept inside.

  But he only pulled out a scroll.

  Standing again, he told her, “This is the death warrant for Desirée Kabayn. I want you to withdraw the charges.”

  She blinked. Withdraw the charges? Was he jesting? She’d incriminate herself.

  And why did Grimshaw have the warrant, anyway? She’d given the constable specific instructions to withhold it till morn.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. This was why she had to do everything herself. No one could be trusted to follow the simplest command.

  Her heart was beating faster than a caged sparrow’s as she whirled away from him with false calm and stepped to the back of the shed. “She had a fair trial.”

  “She didn’t kill your husband. And you know it.”

  Philomena’s mind was working at lightning speed now. Desperation always sharpened her wits. Her pulse racing, she turned back to him, surreptitiously running her fingers over the gardener’s hand tools hanging behind her on the wall.

  “There were witnesses,” she argued, wondering if she should set fire to the shed afterward to get rid of the evidence.

  “Witnesses no doubt bought with your threats,” he countered.

  She forced a chuckle. “No one is going to doubt the word of a noblewoman against the whore of a lawm-“

  She jumped as he banged a fist on the potting table. The force knocked her jar of arsenic onto the floor, scattering the incriminating gray powder across the dirt floor.

  Shite, she was going to have to move quickly if she didn’t want him to lose his temper and vent his notorious wrath upon her. Clapping one shaky hand to her bosom, she found what she sought with the other. She clasped her fingers around the handle of the planting awl, secreted the long, sharp spine in the folds of her skirts, and waited.

  He clucked his tongue. “You give me no choice, then, but to use more persuasive means.”

  Holding her gaze, he reached down to randomly pluck an instrument from his satchel. What chilled her to the bone was that he didn’t seem to care what tool he retrieved or what damage he was about to inflict.

  Her heart fluttered in panic against her ribs.

  What he pulled from the bag looked like the bastard spawn of a pair of shears and pincers. He advanced on her, snicking the overlapping curved blades as he came.

  She couldn’t guess what vile disfigurement he intended, but she didn’t mean to let him live long enough to find out. The instant he got within reach, she swung the planting awl around under his arm, aiming to slip it between the ribs to pierce his heart.

  CHAPTER 29

  Nicholas had learned never to underestimate the desperation of a cornered animal. Prepared for anything, he saw Philomena’s hand swing forward and dodged back in time to avoid her attack. Still, he was shocked to feel something slash the front of his shirt.

  She advanced again with a frustrated grunt, slicing backward, and he retreated once more. But now that she’d lost the element of surprise, she was at a disadvantage.

  He could have struck her in return. With a single blow of his fist, he could have knocked the woman into the wall. But he was not by nature a violent man. And he needed her conscious to withdraw the writ.

  So he stepped back yet again when she came at him. But this time, he caught the slim awl between the blades of his open shears and snapped it off halfway along the spine.

  Sheer fury twisted Philomena’s red face into an ugly mask. Spittle flew from her mouth as she cursed him with unintelligible oaths. Then, beyond reason, like a demon riding fast and furiously through the gates of hell, she charged forward with the blunted weapon, straight for his heart.

  After that, time seemed to slow to a crawl.

  Nicholas sidestepped her as she lunged toward him. The broken point grazed the sleeve of his shirt, and he felt the air stir as her momentum carried her reeling past him.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her skid on the powder that had spilled on the floor. Her gaze widened, and her arms wheeled like the sluggish blades of a windmill as she struggled to regain her balance.

  For a lingering instant, it seemed she did. But the foot she planted for leverage came down on the jar she’d dropped. It squeezed out behind her heel, rolling away, and her knee slowly collapsed beneath her. With what sounded to his ears like an endless gasp of dread, she began to stumble forward.

  His body seemed weighted with lead as Nicholas dropped the shears and shot out his arm reflexively, trying to catch her. His fingertips brushed the long tippet of her sleeve, but already she’d fallen past his reach.

  By the time he saw where she was headed, it was too late.

  With a sickly wet thud, she landed atop his open satchel of tools, impaling herself on the sharp blades.

  “Shite!” he hissed.

  Time rushed onward again.

  Acting on impulse, Nicholas dove forward, catching her about the waist. Using all of his strength, he lifted her up, carefully pulling her body free of the blades and rolling her gently onto her back.

  But she was beyond hope, too damaged to live. Blood dripped from her belly, and by the wheeze of her breath, he knew her lungs had been pierced. She lingered for a few torturous moments, soundlessly moving her mouth, scrabbling at the dirt, and staring up at him with wide, dimming eyes. Then, with a bloody grimace of disbelief, she exhaled a final rasping breath and slumped over against the satchel.

  Nicholas collapsed back onto his hindquarters, staring at her in horror.

  The sight of blood didn’t sicken him. He was used to it.

  And try as he might, he could summon no insurmountable guilt over her demise. It had been an accident, and he’d tried to save her. If justice had been served, the woman would have hanged on the gallows, anyway.

  His horror came from the fact that now there was no way to exonerate Desirée. Worse, he had enough blood on his hands to warrant his own arrest and hanging.

  What in God’s name was he going to do?

  Despite his early return, Desirée sensed something was wrong the moment Nicholas stepped into her cell, heaving the heavy satchel from his shoulder while the guard secured the door behind him.

  “Oh, no,” she said under her breath.

  Once he threw back his hood, her worst fears were confirmed. His teeth were clenched, and bleak despair filled his eyes.

  She swallowed. “She didn’t withdraw the warrant?”

  He shook his head.

  Her hand went impulsively to her throat.

  He steeled his jaw. “I’m not going to hang you, Desirée!”

  He hauled her into his arms, kissing her hard, and on his lips she tasted both reassurance and desperation. Then, too soon, he released her, holding her at arm’s length.

  “Listen to me,” he said. “Bad things have happened tonight.”

  “Bad things? What bad things?”

  “You have to leave.”

  “Leave?”

  He let her go and began to pace the room, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over his jaw and planning aloud. “I’ll have to kill the gaoler. Otherwise, he’ll alert the constable. That should give you a good start. I’ll give you what coin I have. If you take the north road—“

  “Wait!” She blocked his path. “Kill the gaoler? What—”

  “I have—“ he started to yel
l, then lowered his voice. “I have to. There’s no other way.”

  “Nicholas, what are you talking about?”

  He spoke in measured syllables, as if to a child. “You have to leave Canterbury. Now. There’s no time.”

  “Me? What about you?”

  He started to reach out to touch her hair, then withdrew his hand. “I can’t go with you, Desirée. You’ll be safer on your own.”

  “I can’t leave you. I won’t leave you.” She looked into his desolate eyes and realized the truth. “If I leave you, I won’t ever see you again.”

  By the tensing of his jaw, she saw she was right. “But you’ll live, Desirée,” he said, reaching out to cup her cheek. “At least you’ll live.”

  She pushed his hand away. “What good is living if I can’t be with the man I love?”

  “Bloody hell, Desirée,” he ground out, “if you don’t leave right now, you’ll die. We both will.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean, we both will?” There was something he wasn’t telling her. “What’s happened, Nicholas? Tell me. You owe me that.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell me now, or I swear I won’t set foot outside of this cell.”

  With a scowl of frustration that said that he’d prefer to sling her over his shoulder and carry her off forcibly, he quickly told her what had transpired since he left.

  When he finished, she blinked in disbelief. “You mean Philomena...she’s dead?”

  He nodded. “And all the evidence points to me as the murderer.”

  It was an astonishing tale, and Nicholas was right. No one would believe Philomena’s death had been an accident, and since Nicholas was the last to see her alive, he’d be presumed the killer. It appeared they were both doomed to die on the gallows.

  But if there was one thing she’d learned from Hubert, it was that things were not always as they appeared. No matter how tangled the knot, there was usually a way to unravel it. It was only a matter of looking beyond the expected.

  “Desirée,” Nicholas pleaded, “you have to leave. I can only hold off—“