The Black Hawk sl-4

by Joanna Bourne

  “You know her too. Think back. Paris. End of the Terror. The Coach House. We took Cachés out of there.”

  “Ten of them. Four girls. Last I heard they were married and raising kids. They didn’t take the mail coach down to London to shoot at us.”

  Pax shook his head. “Not the ones we rescued. We left one girl behind. Remember? Scrawny girl with straw-colored hair.”

  Some moments from that night were starkly clear. Not that girl’s face, though. She’d been a shadow, off in a corner, away from the lantern. “It was dark. You were the one arguing with her.”

  “I had a good look. Justine probably saw her through field glasses back when she was reconnoitering the Coach House. When we get back to Meeks Street, I’ll draw you a picture.”

  Forty-three

  IT TOOK ONLY A MOMENT TO BE SHOT AT. IT TOOK hours to deal with Bow Street.

  The watchman from the end of Exeter Street must come to bustle about like a chicken. Then those most closely concerned—she and Hawker and an officious old man who had been passing on the pavement—must go to Bow Street. A report must be taken. Lengthily and in detail. She must ceremoniously meet Sir Nathaniel Conant, the magistrate, who was apparently a great friend of Hawker. Then a Runner and a subsidiary youth, whose job it was to nod at intervals, must return with her to her to her shop to inspect the bullet lodged in the wall and dig it out and discover that nothing whatsoever could be determined except that it had not hit her.

  Hawker was of no assistance whatsoever. He said very little, only hovered over her and kept himself between her and every window and made her sit down in chairs.

  The watchman, the Bow Street Runner, his assistant, and the local constable must then blunder their way around her shop, sniffing at bottles and looking in drawers and remarking upon the maps which were, she agreed, of very rum places indeed.

  They pointed out several times that she had also been stabbed in Braddy Square, with which she agreed. It was strange so many people wanted to kill her. Yes, it was. When that had been discussed sufficiently, the officials and Hawker departed en masse to the tavern to gossip.

  That was when Paxton came to stand over her and be alert. Then Séverine arrived and took her upstairs to pack a bag. Séverine did not advise against staying at the shop. She said, “You will need this at Meeks Street,” and “You will not need that at Meeks Street,” and kept packing. Séverine was a veritable bully about this.

  The hackney stopped at the door of her shop. Séverine carried the bag out. Paxton stood, his arms crossed, looking so patient one wanted to kick him.

  Hawker, it turned out, had gone to take dinner with the Bow Street magistrate, Conant, and could not be argued with because he was not there.

  So she returned to Meeks Street. There was no reason against it, since she had accomplished her purpose in going to Voyages and flushing her attacker.

  She let herself be fussed into bed by Séverine while it was still daylight. She slept, profoundly, for hours, past all need for sleeping. That was why she lay awake in bed in the still dark of the night when the clocks struck two, and heard Hawker return to the house.

  This was a solid old house that enclosed sounds and secrets within it. She heard the front door open and close, but she did not precisely hear Hawker’s footsteps. She heard the dog Muffin, guarding her door, stir and whine and knew that someone had passed. Of Hawker, there was only a sense of him approaching and passing down the long hall, past her room, to his own.

  She did not want him to pass her bedroom door without hesitation. She did not want to lie in the darkness and think about him. There had been quite enough of that in her life.

  After she had entertained such thoughts for a long time, she rose and wrapped silk about herself and ventured into the hall. She stepped over Muffin, who seemed interested but unalarmed.

  The door to Hawker’s bedroom was not locked. He sat on the hearthrug, cross-legged, naked except for caleçons, facing the low fire, dark against that red light.

  “This is a surprise,” he said.

  She did not think he was truly surprised. Hawker would always know what she was going to do before she did it. They had worked together and against each other for too many years. They knew even the small crevices of each other’s minds.

  She said, “You have stayed several nights in my bedchamber. It seemed polite to return the favor.”

  His face flickered with red light and his eyes glittered. “I wonder if you know what you’re doing, coming here like this.”

  “I always know what I’m doing.” She closed the door behind her.

  The click, click, click sound that had followed her down the hall ceased. There was a thump as Muffin threw himself down outside the door.

  “I bribe your dog, the Muffin, with tidbits, and he lets me invade your room. He is not a good watchdog.”

  “Almost perfectly useless. Can I ask why you’re here?”

  “I was restless.”

  He said, “So you came to be restless with me. I’m glad.”

  Logs burned blue and orange on the grate. The study downstairs and three of the bedrooms used logs. The other hearths were modern and heated with coal, as was usual in London. The fire of logs made her feel as if she were at home in France. In her own apartment above the shop, her fire was made with logs.

  With Hawker, she did not trouble to be proper. She sat the way a man does, cross-legged, and pulled the robe around her knees.

  She wore his crimson robe de banyan. Nothing else at all. To clasp his robe upon her was to feel surrounded by masculine arms. The color warmed her like the sun. Red silk for grand gestures, for luxurious desires and recklessness.

  They would talk for a while, however. She said, “Paxton has drawn the face of the Caché sniper. Did you see it?”

  “When I came in. He hung a copy in the hall. I don’t recognize the face.”

  “Your Ladislaus made five or six copies. I was no help at all. I must have seen her through the glasses in the courtyard of the Coach House, but I have no memory of her. It was long ago.”

  “She’s probably the one who stabbed you. You might know her if you were face-to-face.”

  “That is what Paxton said. He is planning to search the expensive brothels tomorrow with a pack of men and several copies of his portrait. He tells me I am not well enough to accompany him, as if he were denying me a treat.”

  “No brothels for you, then.” Hawker smiled at her easily. He set his hand to her knee. It was an easy, brief encounter with her knee, as if they were still used to sitting like this, chatting back and forth. “You and me, we’ll deck ourselves out and winnow through the ton. We can hunt for a murderess among the guests at the Pickerings’ ball. That should add some interest to an otherwise dull affair.”

  “I do not go to such entertainments. I will ask Séverine to lend me a dress.”

  Another soft touch to her. This time he slid fingers along the lapel of the robe. “I wish you could wear this color.”

  The swelling of his cock was not hidden by the caleçons, but he took no notice of it. His physical reaction to her had always seemed to amuse him more than anything else.

  She was intensely aware of his smallest movement. Of his hand, as it dropped back to rest on his thigh. Of his breathing.

  The red glow of the fire slid over him, appreciating the excellences of his body, lingering on hard lines of muscle. She had never met a man who made nakedness seem so natural. Always, he lived easily within his flesh, like some mythical half human, a selkie or satyr, unacquainted with modesty. He could have been a savage on one of the far islands of the world who had never been clothed.

  She knew, of her own knowledge, that he made love without the least shame. Perhaps the men who lived in simplicity at the edges of the world did, also. “Do you think the Caché will be at this great party? It seems a forlorn hope.”

  “If she’s in the beau monde, she should be.” He studied his own hand, as if he could add and subtract probabi
lities there. As if it held answers. “We missed a good many. They’re still out there, Cachés infiltrated into the best families.”

  “For that girl, though, there was no rich family waiting. The Tuteurs would not have been gentle in their treatment.”

  “I know. After Pax looks in on the richer side of demimonde tomorrow. I’ll take the cheaper brothels. I have old friends I can ask.” He leaned to nudge the fire, pushing at a log with the tips of his fingers. Sparks flew up. “She’s not young. We both know what life is like when a whore isn’t young anymore.”

  She said, “I left her to face that.”

  “We both did. Mostly me.”

  “It was my operation.”

  “I was the expert. You listened to me.” He shoved a log till he had it placed just right. “Years of experience later, I still say it. We couldn’t have got her out.”

  “Some people one cannot save.” She had her own years of learning this. “It was her choice. She will blame us, though. It is the way of things.”

  “I imagine she hates us reasonably well.”

  “But even if she hates us, why destroy you, now, after so long? Why use me in this circuitous way? There is a calculation in this, Hawker, and long planning. She would . . .” The night was not chilly and the fire was hot upon her face. But she was suddenly cold. Since the stabbing she had been cold all the time. “She would direct her greatest hate to Gravois and Patelin. Yet those killings were almost merciful—one brief thrust and it is over. The deadly malice is aimed at you, mon ami. You are the one hated.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.” Having perfected the fire, he settled back, his hands at rest on his knees. “I recognize hate when I see it.”

  He would not be dismayed by the hatred of enemies. He could be hurt only by his friends. What she had done . . . “I do not hate you. I have not hated you for a long time.”

  His narrow, ruthless face turned to her. He smiled. It was like the sun coming from behind a black and ominous thundercloud. “Do you think I don’t know that?”

  On his chest, high on the shoulder, a farthing-sized mark in the shape of a star. That was where she’d shot him, long ago, on the marble stairway of the Louvre. She touched it. “I did this.”

  “An accident.” He laughed, deep in his eyes. “I have that from an authoritative source.”

  “You think it is funny, that I shot at you.”

  “Not while it was happening, no. Looking back, it does have its humorous side.”

  No one else in the entire world would be amused by being shot. Only Hawker. “We should not quibble about one small bullet.”

  She rose onto her knees and leaned over to kiss him, there, on the scar. It was soft as silk and warm to the touch. Warmer than the rest of his skin. Scars left a shallow place in the body’s defensive wall. One could feel life beat close to the surface where there had been so much pain. One could feel the very Hawker of him. The stupid disregard for his own safety among the hazards of the world. Gallantry and sarcasm. The reality of Hawker.

  He stroked her hair, just as if matters between them were that simple. He must have seen yes. He must have seen it in her face.

  “I want to take time with this.” With great authority, calmly, he pulled her against him till he held her, resting. By chance, her cheek lay against the very wound she had made in him.

  He held her, both arms wrapped around her. They watched the fire, and gradually she relaxed against him.

  Forty-four

  HE HAD REARRANGED HIMSELF TO ENCLOSE HER, supporting her against his knee so she did not have to lean upon her wound. He stroked down her side as one would caress a lazy cat that had come to curl in the lap. There was a combination of deep appreciation and slight wariness. She found both of those arousing.

  He had taken upon himself the smell of smoke when he laid the fire and played with it. He also smelled of brandy. She said, “You had good brandy for dinner.”

  “Nathaniel likes the best. It’s wasted on me. I think I prefer gin.”

  Nathaniel Conant, the chief magistrate of Bow Street, would not serve gin with his dinners. “You do not know if you prefer gin? That is strange.”

  “When I’m Hawker, I like gin. Sir Adrian Hawkhurst drinks brandy.”

  “And you are both of them. Both Hawker and Sir Adrian. You must find it confusing.”

  “Moderately.”

  It was pleasant to be stroked through the red silk. It would be pleasant also to encounter his skin. She pulled the robe away from her legs and let it slither down beside her thighs. She raised her knee and invited him to touch.

  “When I’m Sir Adrian and I do this . . .” He cupped his hand on her knee. She was open to him, thigh and belly and the light brown curls between her legs. “I’m appreciating art.”

  “You are a connoisseur, in fact.”

  “It’s a pretty knee. Strong. Interesting. A couple of scars. And here, I’m sliding down an arch the color of sunrise and finding a friendly, silky little animal. A rabbit, they call it in English. Coney.”

  “In French, as you know, it is chatte. The little cat.”

  “Stroking the little cat. Did you know . . . in the middle there you’re the color of one of those shells you find on the coast of Italy.”

  He trailed a fingertip across her there, playing with the hair, smoothing it apart. Her breath caught in her chest. Her senses jerked madly, pulling at her body to do something. Anything. She was breathing quickly when he returned on his slow way back up to her knee. He applied great concentration to the task.

  He said, “When I’m Sir Adrian, I love to look at you. When I’m Hawker, I just want to lay you back and get inside you and make us both happy.” The path of his hand upon her was iron and honey. “God, but it feels good to touch you. I’m never easy having dinner with Nathaniel, fine fellow though he is. I got tried at Bow Street, once. For theft.”

  Hawker lived an interesting life. “You did not hang, obviously.”

  “There was what you might call a miscarriage of justice. I was guilty as charged, but my old master—he was the King Thief of London—bribed me some witnesses. That was my first brush with the magistrates at Bow Street. The beginning of a long, interesting association, as it turned out.” He said, “Sit up. We got a hard piece of floor under us.” He was gone for an instant.

  Her back felt cold where he had left her. Then there were pillows and blankets behind her. He slipped the last of the crimson silk from her shoulders, being gentle along the bandage of her arm. At some point he had divested himself of the last of his clothes.

  “We could get into bed,” she said. “Many people do. Every night.” But she did not want to leave the circle of light cast by the fire. It was a small world of their own. The rest of the room was dark.

  “I like the color of you in the firelight,” he said. “Let’s lie down so I can get to you better.” He leaned over and kissed her knee.

  “That is good,” she whispered. “I like that.”

  “I like it too.” He kissed the inside of her knee several times. Lingeringly.

  Little strikes of lighting played over every soft place between her legs. They were skin to skin. More than naked. Stripped to the soul. Her longing for his body was fire and need and a distraction beyond bearing. She said, “I have wanted you. For three years I have gone about London, and every day I have thought of you.”

  His hand was possessive on her thigh. “I’d walk down Exeter Street, casual-like, and look in the windows of your shop. I could have stepped inside any day and said, ‘Remember me? We used to be lovers.’ Sometimes I thought you knew I was there.”

  “Sometimes I did.” He laid himself defenseless against her with such truths. And she . . . What could she do but speak the truth back to him? She was vulnerable to him, undefended as an open oyster. “I saw you once, six months ago. You were on Jermyn Street.”

  She had stopped in the road and watched him. Perhaps some part of him had sensed her attention. He had raised
his head suddenly, as if he sniffed the air. She’d slipped away. A moment longer, and he would have turned around to see her.

  She whispered, “We have lost so much time.”

  “And now?”

  She rolled to face him, to kneel beside him. His hand stayed upon her the whole time, sliding over her skin to end up resting on her back. She was glad to be connected to him. Glad her thigh rested next to his.

  “And now . . . this.” She kissed his lips. Men need simple answers—even Hawker, who was the most wise of his species.

  His lips were filled with complicated response, heavy with meaning. She was enmeshed in the taste and smell of him. Along his jaw and his neck he tasted like soap when she licked him.

  The persuasion of his hands was infinite. Hands that loosened every muscle of her back as they ran up and down her spine. He leaned to kiss her breasts, to murmur at their beauty and kiss them again. She was urged toward him, lifted as if she had no weight. She was upon him, upon his lap, and she wrapped her legs around him so they were even closer.

  He kissed one breast. Then the other. “Here’s my old friends. Pretty girls. How have you two been?” He teased her nipple between his fingers. “And look at this. You’re glad to see me too.”

  He was altogether foolish. But, oh, her body delighted in his games. She plunged into his nonsense and let him take her where he would.

  “Your turn.” He went from breast to breast. “Now yours. Just no choice between you.”

  He nibbled where her breasts were drawn up and sensitive. Played his tongue fast across her there. Her heart expanded into joy. She filled her senses with him, drowned in him, dug her fingers into his shoulder, and lost herself in the smell of his hair.

  He entered her. Hard and overwhelming and so good.

  “I have missed this,” he said.

  She felt herself tipped backward, down to the blankets. He never left her. Never parted from her. She held him to her tightly, with arms, with thighs.