Sucking in a breath, she tried to shake off the memories of the night before, when she had confronted la Bete in his rented room.
After leaving the hideout earlier, she’d moved from shadow to shadow toward le Coq du Quai Inn where she assumed the man was staying. It had only taken a few moments of waiting in the alley before she witnessed the beast of a man striding into the inn, and once inside, she asked one of the putains lingering by the door if they knew which room was his. The one name Annette, a garishly painted, busty blonde, offered the information, stating that, “A handsome young man like you should come to see Annette once you are done with your business with the Welshman.” Rio had no idea what Annette meant when she winked at Rio, but she didn’t have the time to wonder.
Skirting the outside of the three-story building, Rio found the window to the beast’s room and thanked God that there was a stack of crates stacked shoulder high nearby. It was easy enough to move the crates to just beneath the window, and it was easy enough to use the crates to scale the side of the building, and it was easy enough to pick the lock on his window and slide it open. It was difficult, however, to make herself slide through the opening into the dark room.
She’d lived her life taking daily risks, one didn’t walk down the streets of Calais without taking a risk, but she’d never once done anything as risky as sneaking into the dwelling of a giant.
But she’d done it, and she’d lit a candle—a moment of bravado telling her she should set him on edge, and then she waited. And when he’d entered the room, large enough to fill the whole of the door opening, and then stepped inside, she’d held her breath. Once he’d begun disrobing, she could feel the heat rise into her cheeks and she’d cursed under her breath.
She remembered wondering what he would look like without his shirt; he would be broad of chest, no doubt, and he would be well-muscled, but she wondered if he would have a smattering of dark hair or a dusting. Then, she wondered what the rest of him would look like…would other parts of him be to scale? She recalled how her gaze caught on the tight globes of his ass as he turned to peer down at the bed, his back side and shoulders both taut.
When he’d called her out of hiding, she’d nearly lost her nerve, but then she remembered why she’d dared to enter his den in the first place; she needed to fulfill her promise to her mother, and she needed to make sure her boys had something to fill their bellies.
Rio hadn’t known what to expect, but she knew she had not expected la Bete to offer her a job as an “interpreter”, and she certainly hadn’t expected him to force her into service as his cabin boy.
A damned cabin boy! Even know, trudging toward her future with the man, she couldn’t wrap her mind around what that would mean. Having lived near the docks most of her life, she knew what a cabin boy was, and she knew she could do whatever a cabin boy could do. Unfortunately, she lacked the most important cabin boy skill; the ability to piss while standing.
She chuckled at that, remembering how Bruiser had tried to teach her how to piss “properly” before he’d realized there was a dramatic difference in their physical capabilities. She’d decided that her disguise was so well done that she’d fooled the boy, though, he’d been a rowdy ten years old at the time. He hadn’t been all that interested in looking closer at the waif-like “boy” who led their loyal rabble.
Once again, the realization that she was leaving her small family behind hit her like a horse kick to the chest. Would they be safe? Would they find enough to eat? Would the money she gave them—the money Brendan had offered—be enough to tide them over when they didn’t nick enough to buy meat? Would she return in a year to find that one or all of her boys were dead?
She gasped at the pain that lanced through her heart. No. She couldn’t think like that, she had to leave, she had to take this opportunity to save herself and her boys.
It is only a year. She’d promised Brendan a year and she would give him one and, in return, he would provide enough money and goods to lift her and her boys off the streets for good.
She had to believe that.
The memory of striking green eyes, glittering with frank appraisal flashed through her mind. No…Brendan Rees was not the sort of man who played little boys for fools, he had no need to. He would do as he said he would, she knew that right down to her bones.
Heaving a sigh of relief she hadn’t known she needed, she hurried her feet.
Rounding the last corner before the inn, Rio’s gaze landed on a man, dressed darkly, moving furtively toward the Coq. Outside the inn stood Brendan Rees, his large hands planted on his waist, his gaze pinned to the very alley down which she’d fled that night she’d stolen his satchel. A smile tugged on her lips; he was watching for her. Her smile died quickly, though, when the man she’d spied earlier picked up his pace, his hand sliding into the breast of his coat. When he removed his hand, something shiny glinted in the newly born sun.
It was a knife!
No thought had time to form before Rio was on the move, her heart pounding, her thoughts hurdling toward Brendan just as her body was.
The fiend was several feet from Brendan who’d just turned in the man’s direction when Rio reached him and dropped to her knees, snaking her arm up between the man’s legs, landing a strong upward strike against his bollocks. The man, as expected, stopped in his tracks, dropping the knife to cradle himself, his howl like a dog locked in a burning building.
Brendan’s wide, green eyes flashed at her before narrowing on the man doubled over at his feet.
Standing, she brushed the trash from her knees and met Brendan’s gaze, which was snapping between her and the lout whimpering on the ground.
“What in the hell just happened?” he ground out, his mouth a thin line of blistering rage.
A flood of her own rage overwhelmed her, snatching her tiny moment of victory and replacing it with a surge of anger.
Sucking in a deep breath, she bit her lip, waiting for the words to form before she opened her mouth—which was what her darling mamma would have wanted. And as she thought on what she would say, what she’d actually just done became clear.
Her mouth widened, her upper lip curling into a smile. Finally, she answered, “I believe, Captain, that I just saved your life.”
Chapter Five
What the hell was he thinking, ordering the whelp to become his cabin boy? He didn’t even need a cabin boy, didn’t even have the space for a cabin boy. His sloop, the three-masted and majestic Torriwr only had one cabin, and it was about five feet by seven feet, not much room for two people to move around. But, damn him, now he’d be stuck bunking with the whelp—if the whelp even showed up. As small as the boy appeared, he’d been a brassy arse, laying on Brendan’s bed with his filthy clothes and nonchalance. He had a spark of something great in him, something that Brendan couldn’t help but admire. He told himself he wanted to see the boy grow to his full potential, perhaps become a more critical part of the crew. But, then he remembered that the lad had demanded to be returned to Calais within the year. He wanted to come back for the other boys, to make sure they were safe and provided for, and that was another thing Brendan grudgingly respected about the whelp.
It took a man of strength and character to remain loyal to his friends, and want to protect and look after them. And the whelp—Rio—would make a fine man.
If he came as he promised.
Grunting, Brendan turned his head to peer in the direction of where the whelp had fled that night he’d stolen Brendan’s satchel. The sun was just kissing the bosom of the horizon, which meant the tide was beginning its daily dance with the shore.
Callet was waiting for him, and they would sail on the morning tide, hopefully with the letter they’d come to collect in their possession.
The whelp had promised to come to the inn with the letter, and Brendan had chosen to believe the lad, whose honey-colored eyes bore no deception. Wariness? Aye. Excitement? Aye. Deception? Nay. The lad would come.
The sou
nd of shuffling feet made him turn, just as a small figure rushed toward a man not more than five feet from Brendan. The smaller figure dropped to his knees, raising his arm up between the other man’s legs to deliver a strike to the bollocks that made even Brendan cringe. The man doubled over, his hands flying to his groin to cup his balls, and as he did that, he dropped a nasty looking dagger onto the street.
His breath lodged in his throat, he watched as that damned whelp, Rio, stood up, brushed himself off, and grinned. It took him all of a moment to realize what had just happened; the man clutching his bollocks had attempted to kill him, but the lad interceded, putting himself in danger.
Anger blasted through him, his blood singing, as he turned to glare down at Rio.
“What in the hell just happened?” he snapped, his voice like brimstone against glass.
Rio started, his eyes widening before narrowing just as quickly. A lopsided smile began to form on his too-feminine lips.
“I believe, Captain, that I just saved your life,” the whelp drawled, planting his hands on his hips in a mockery of his own stance. Brendan crossed his arms over his chest and gazed down at the man now on his knees between he and Rio.
Kicking out, Brendan pushed the man over onto his side before crouching beside him to take his collar into his grip.
“Who are you and why are you trying to kill me?” Brendan demanded. The man’s pallid face was pockmarked, his eyes a faded brown and rimmed in red.
The man threw his arms up as if in surrender before opening his mouth to blubber in French. As the man went on, spittle flying and tears streaming down his face—God, how he hated wretches—Brendan looked up at Rio who was standing there, gaze pinned to the man, a sort of apprehension on his pale face.
“What is it? What is he saying, Interpreter?” Brendan emphasized the last word to remind the lad what his duty was now that he’d arrived at the inn, effectively signing on to Brendan’s service.
Rio flicked his gaze from the blubbering man to Brendan, and back to the man before finally saying, “He says that he did not want to do it, that he was forced.”
Snorting derisively, Brendan spat, “They always say that when they get caught.”
Rio shook his head. “Now he is saying that his daughter is a prisoner, a placeholder for his debts.”
Debts? “To whom?” Brendan asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Rio cocked his head before speaking to the blubberer in French. The man turned his head to look over his shoulder at Rio. His face flushed red before he began to cry harder, his words barely perceptible beneath the sobbing.
“He says he cannot say or his daughter is as good as dead,” Rio remarked, his voice breaking as he did. Surely, the whelp couldn’t actually believe the man’s poor attempt at seeking mercy.
Brendan stood, his powerful leg muscles allowing him to move with grace despite his size.
“He has no daughter, and even if he did, she is as good as dead anyway.”
At Rio’s gasp, Brendan tensed, turning his attention to the boy. Rio’s eyes were like saucers, their honey depths whirling with fear. But not fear for himself.
Damn.
“You have lived on the streets for how long?”
Rio hesitated but then slowly replied, “Ten years.”
Brendan nodded. “Then you know the way this works; he was sent to kill me, which means there is someone who wants me dead, which means that there is a man out there that does not think twice about killing.”
As he spoke, Rio’s face began to harden. The lad was beginning to understand.
“If that man’s daughter was not dead before now, she will be. Her father failed to do as ordered, and I will be damned if I let him kill me just to save some supposed daughter.”
Reaching down, Brendan grabbed the man by the neck, easily lifting him to his feet.
Once the man’s eyes were planted on Brendan, Brendan asked, “Who sent you to kill me?”
From beside him, Rio cleared his throat before repeating what Brendan had said in French.
The man listened to Rio but then began shaking his head violently.
“Non! Non! Si je te dis que je suis mort!” the man wailed.
Brendan knew that last word meant “dead”, and that was the extent of his French.
Rio’s gaze snapped to Brendan’s. “Do I need to interpret that?” he intoned dryly.
“No.”
Holding the man with one hand, he reached down into the man’s coat with the other, looking for anything that would tell Brendan who the hell had dared to order his murder. It was both shocking and annoying—certainly, he’d done many things that would get him killed, eventually, but he’d be damned if he died in France at the hand of some bungling arse.
The left inside pocket was empty, but the right pocket contained a lock of golden blonde hair, bound with a bit of red ribbon. The hair was stained in blood.
Damn.
Perhaps the man was telling the truth.
Brendan opened his mouth to grumble something to that end, but the man’s scream made Brendan’s words die in his throat. The man’s body tensed then went limp and, from beside them, Rio made a strangled whimpering sound. His own body tensing, Brendan’s gaze landed on the man’s face, his eyes were wide but slowly closing as if in slumber. His pupils were like two black pits, the light inside them swallowed up. Cursing, Brendan hugged the man to his chest and peered over his shoulder. There was a small dagger embedded in the man’s back.
“Dammit!” Brendan roared, kneeling to place the man’s body on the ground, rolling him to his stomach to get a better look at the weapon.
It was a simply-made dagger, perhaps four inches from point to pommel, and the handle—wood wrapped in leather—was another three inches. It was a small knife, easy to conceal. Lifting his head, Brendan peered around the street. A group of onlookers and gawkers had gathered, probably when Rio had stopped the man’s attack, and they’d stayed, right up until the knife plunged in between the man’s shoulder blades.
Alert, he kept his gaze pinned to the milling crowd, looking for anyone who seemed far too interested, or not interested at all. There was no one. They were all staring, their mouths agape or their necks craning to see more, or their mouths flapping as the gossip spread. No doubt, within the next hour, the whole of Calais would know that there had been an attempt on the life of Brendan Rees…and that the man who’d failed in the task had been murdered himself.
Rio followed Brendan down the stairs leading to the single cabin on his sleek and surprisingly narrow ship. Sloop! Brendan had called it a sloop, saying it was lighter and faster, and could get into harbors and other hidden ports where the larger ships could not. When Rio had asked him why he would need to get into hidden ports, he arched an eyebrow at her, as if saying, “Ask questions at your own risk, Whelp.” But heavens, how was she supposed to know what to do, how to serve, if she were kept in the dark about what they were doing as a crew?
And she was crew now. After boarding the small boat at the dock, Brendan had rowed them out to the sloop—it took every ounce of her will to keep her gaze from devouring the man’s muscles as he moved—where he’d introduced her to the other six men on board. She recognized the bowsman, the fat man who’d collared Scrapper and nearly caught them both that night she’d stolen Brendan’s satchel. Though Rio and Scrapper had given the man a proper fight, he didn’t sneer at her as she expected him to. He offered Rio a welcoming grin, unlike the other crewmen. The other men eyed her warily, grumbling to each other and then to Brendan about taking on a “rat”.
At least they hadn’t suspected her of being anything other than a “rat”. If they ever suspected that she had breasts instead of berries, they would throw her overboard.
Shuddering, she remembered how Brendan had responded to his men’s complaints.
Stopping mid-stride, he’d turned on his heel to glower at them. Brendan hadn’t spoken a word in reply, only growling low in his chest, like the
beast he was. In response to the menacing and yet strangely titillating sound, the other men slammed their jaws shut, quickly remembering duties that still needed performing before they set sail. They scattered, busying themselves away from where she and Brendan were.
Now, as she followed Brendan down into the bowels of the ship, Rio realized something striking: she was going to be sleeping and living in the same room as the beast of man she was serving. Serving! Just the word made the hairs rise on her nape; she never thought to serve any man, not like her mother had, slaving for a man who cared nothing for her or her circumstances.
Brendan is not like that. Was he not? Rio had stolen his satchel, his money and his important letter, then, she’d had the audacity to demand money for the return of the letter. He could have strangled her, right there in his room in the inn, but he hadn’t. He was large enough to kill her without a single bead of sweat on his lip. But he hadn’t. He could have held her captive and then handed her over for imprisonment. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d offered her an opportunity she had never imagined possible; to leave France, see the world, and make enough money to save her brothers.
She was grateful—more grateful than she could ever say. Brendan didn’t know it, but he’d given her a gift, the chance to fulfil her dreams.
But she would never tell him that. And she could never let him know she was a woman.
It would destroy everything.
Before her, Brendan opened a door, striding through it without hesitation. At the threshold, Rio halted. Her gaze took in the room, not much larger than the basement of the milliner’s shop where she and her brothers had lived, but this room had things the basement hideout did not.
A bed.
And a beast.
Chapter Six
La Revanche looked from face to face, each of the special guests having donned their best attire at his request. Why their best? Well, tonight was special. Tonight was the night he began the next step in his plan.
The Beast of Blades Page 4
