Lois Greiman (6 page)

She smiled a little, and though she still looked like royalty, there was something of the imp there now, the glimmer of a small girl who knew his innermost secrets. “You look rather green.”

He leaned his head back again since he had little choice, but continued to watch her as she walked across the floor toward him. Her russet gown was a bit short for her regal height, but the lines of it were smooth and graceful and somehow managed to make it look as if she were gliding instead of walking.

Gem entered the room with a steaming bowl, and Princess turned toward her. The women’s eyes met. Not a word was spoken for a moment, then, “You’d best put a cold cloth on that cheek,” Princess said.

Gem’s gaze dropped. “It’ll be fine.”

A flicker of something feral snarled in the woman’s eyes, but in an instant it was gone, replaced by her usual cool demeanor. “Aren’t you working the fights tonight?”

“Soon as it gets dark.”

The princess nodded. “The gulls don’t like to see their doves bruised. Go get some rest.”

The girl was silent but glanced toward Will.

“You needn’t worry on his account, Gemini. I’m not planning to strangle him.”

“’E needs to get something in ’is stomach.”

“Then he should eat.”

The girl almost seemed to blush as her gaze flickered toward the floor. “’E ain’t strong enough to feed ’isself.”

Princess glanced at him again, raising a single brow as she did so. He gave her an innocent stare.

“Very well,” she said, turning back. “I shall feed the weakling myself then.”

Gem skimmed her dubious gaze from Princess to Will, then, seeming to decide he was safe enough in the other’s hands, she nodded finally. “I think I’ll lie down then if it ain’t no trouble.”

Princess made no comment as she took the bowl from the girl’s hand and made her way across the floor to take the seat abandoned by Gem.

The room fell silent, and she let it, for she had no wish to speak with him. He didn’t belong there, and the sooner he was gone the better. For him, for herself. She kept her gaze on the bowl a moment longer, then glanced up, making certain her expression was superior. Dismissive. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather have a drink?”

He almost seemed to shiver at the thought. So he was a drunkard. But what else was he? Wounded, certainly. He was pierced and battered and abused. And yet that abuse hadn’t caused the pain she saw in his eyes. It was something deeper, darker, worse. And so she would not look. Could not afford to.

“Perhaps just the broth this day,” he said. His voice was deep, quiet, melodious.

She tightened her hand on the spoon and shrugged as she dipped it into the soup. He opened his mouth obligingly. She could feel his gaze on her face, but refused to glance up, for there were secrets in his eyes. Secrets and pain she had no wish to see.

“I thought you wanted me gone,” he said.

And she did. Immediately. Before it was too late. But she merely raised a brow and forced herself to meet his eyes, to see the pain and not care. “Surely a quick recovery will hasten your exodus,” she said. “And even a
clever fellow like you might find it difficult to heal if you starve to death first.”

“Gem was about to feed me.”

And perhaps she should have allowed that. But Gemini seemed so fragile these days, and the bruises on her cheek…She forced her mind away and shrugged dismissively.

“I saw Oxford leave,” she said, keeping her tone steady, her eyes the same.

He watched her. Perhaps he was a killer. Perhaps he was a thief. But in the depths of his eyes, beneath the cynicism, beneath the cleverness, she saw the wounded child. “And?”

She dropped her gaze, though she knew she was a fool. “Gem has enough troubles without defending you.”

He said nothing for a moment, then, “My apologies.”

She snapped her gaze back to his. Perhaps she had expected anger, or wounded male ego, but there was neither. Sincerity and regret shone like candlelight in the depths of his amber eyes.

She jerked hers away. She should mock him, sneer. “He’s dangerous,” she said, and wished to hell she hadn’t spoken, hadn’t walked in, hadn’t realized he’d risked his life for a thieving street waif he’d met only days before.

“Truly?”

She glanced up, stunned. “You don’t think so?”

He smiled. Though she couldn’t seem to pull her gaze from his, she was sure of it, for there was something barely remembered in the deep recesses of his eyes. Was it humor? Was he laughing at her?

“I think I wet my breeches,” he said.

Surprise shook her. It was as dangerous as caring. “You were scared?” she asked, and kept her voice steady as she dipped the spoon back into the broth.

“I’m not daft,” he said. “Not completely anyway.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

She tightened her jaw, resisting the effort to insist that he leave, now, immediately. “Why did you risk your life for Gem?” she asked.

There was a pause as she watched the spoon dip back into the bowl, as she felt his gaze burn her face.

“I’ve no idea,” he said finally.

“Do you always do things for no reason?” she asked, and braced to meet his too expressive eyes once again. They struck her like a blow.

“Yes. I believe I do,” he murmured, and for a moment she couldn’t quite seem to breathe.

“Why are you here?” she asked, and desperately hoped her tone was level, uncaring.

“Same reason as you, I would guess.”

“You’re in love with the thieves’ master?” Her voice was marvelously flippant.

His was the same. But did a muscle tic in his jaw? “Love is it, Princess?”

She shrugged. “Close enough,” she said, and fed him again. His eyes were steady now. And blessedly blank. She almost sighed with relief. “Don’t make me tell Poke who you are,” she murmured.

She felt his surprise, but was there fear, too? If so, she couldn’t hear it in his voice. “I believe I’ve already told him.”

Anger washed through her. “Oh yes,” she said. “Slate, wasn’t it? Master dancer and occasional murderer?”

“Murderer?” His eyes narrowed. “I was led to believe—”

“Princess!” Poke’s voice pierced the stillness like a bullet, but she almost managed not to wince, and when she
turned with careful slowness, he was already standing in the doorway.

“You’ll not guess who’s back,” he said, making his way across the room.

“Then you’d best tell me,” she said.

He turned his attention to her with a sly smile. Fear skittered up her spine.

“Isn’t this lovely?” he crooned, and, slipping his arm about her waist, drew her in for a kiss. It was difficult to breathe, impossible to speak. “I see you’ve been tending our guest.”

She hammered down the panic and turned her eyes to his. “He shouldn’t be here,” she said, and Poke smiled as he released her.

“He hasn’t been bothering you, has he, my love?”

She could feel both men’s gazes on her. One cold and predatory, one dark and questioning. She dared meet neither, for she must keep her wits. Must be cautious.

“Yes,” she said. “He has.”

Silence dropped like a stone into the room. She clasped her hands and raised chin. “He does nothing all day but eat our food.”

It was quiet for a moment longer, then Poke laughed. “So impatient, my love. The man is wounded.”

Relief flooded her, but she dare not show it. Regal disdain was far safer. “And so he is of little use to us.”

“But soon you will teach us your value, aye, Mr. Slate?”

“As soon as I am—” the other began, but in that moment his eyes shifted toward the doorway.

And there, illumined by the flickering firelight, stood Nim, his wheat-toned hair disheveled, his face smudged. He was safe. He was whole, after many long weeks. She
opened her mouth to whisper his name, but Slate spoke first.

“Jack!” he rasped, and silence fell like poison into the room.

W
ill stared, dumbstruck and confused. The boy’s name was Jack. That much he remembered. But nothing else, and with that knowledge came a baffling barrage of raw emotions—frustration, bitterness, and blinding hope that made his head throb with the aching need to remember.

“You know each other?” Poke’s question shattered Will’s scrambling thoughts, bringing them to an absolute halt.

He sat perfectly still, not daring to breathe. For the truth was there. Almost within reach in the dark recesses of his battered mind.

He was in the Den. In Darktowne. In Sedonia. But he did not belong there.

Memories sifted slowly in, like dust motes in a slanted shaft of sunlight. Faces, names, colors, emotions. His father’s glower. His sister’s quiet voice. The sculpted garden where he’d first kissed his wife-to-be.

It was true. All of it. And yet it seemed ultimately surreal in the light of the past few days. He was neither a respected spy nor a fearless assassin. He was William Enton, third baron of Landow, and a drunken fool who’d not accomplished a valuable service in the entirety of his life.

He was the weakling son of a vicious lady and a soulless lord. A man so flawed that he could not even convince a tattered street waif named Jack to remain under his protection.

The truth pierced him like a knife, sending his mind spinning.

But was it the truth? Or was the truth what you made it? He had saved Gem from the Ox. Had saved her despite his wounds. So perhaps…He shifted his gaze back to Jack’s narrowed eyes and saw William Enton reflected in all his cowardly weakness. If the lad spilled the truth, Will would surely be lucky to live out the day.
That
was the truth.

But the boy remained absolutely silent, neither loosing the tale of their acquaintance nor denying any existed. Will’s mind spun, trying to assimilate the facts, but memories were bombarding him with ferocious intensity. His wife’s funeral, his sister’s sadness, his ward’s escape. How many people had he failed from behind the cushy comfort of his title?

“Nim,” Princess said, “you didn’t tell me you danced.”

It took Will several resounding heartbeats to realize she was addressing the boy. Several more to draw his attention back to the business of survival.

“Or perhaps our guest here wasn’t dancing when you met him. Pray, does he have some other skills that would assist us here in the Den? Something besides eating our food?”

Tension lay like lethal toxins in the room, but Princess looked completely removed from it. Above it. And why wouldn’t she be? She cared not whether he lived or died. So if he hoped to survive the day, he’d best think of something soon.

“I believe we first met in Wayfield,” Will said, finally
managing to speak over the hard thrum of his heart. “I was swindling a baron from Lexington at the time.”

Jack’s gaze remained steady on Will’s, though he spoke to Poke. “’E weren’t in Wayfield,” he said, and stepped farther inside. Dread crowded in with him. Poke appeared nonplussed, but he always wore a deadly smug expression, making it impossible to guess his thoughts. And he stood between Will and the door—unfettered by wounds or cringing cowardice.

Will turned his gaze to Princess, but her perfect features betrayed nothing. No help there. No help, and Poke was watching him like a raptor. Waiting to tear him apart.

“’E were at the docks,” Jack said.

Will breathlessly skimmed his gaze back to the boy.

“The docks?” Poke repeated.

“Aye.” The lad nodded as he took a swig from the mug he held in one hand. “’E was tryin’ to relieve some overdressed gent of ’is snuff can.”

“I thought you said you were not a pickpocket, Mr. Slate.”

He’d been attending Nicol’s wedding when the madness had taken him, when he’d stumbled, drunk and bitter, into Darktowne. The memories struck him with sudden viciousness, scattering his thoughts like sun-cured chaff.

“That’s the truth and no mistake,” said Jack, shifting his gaze from Will and pacing to the fire where he warmed his hands. “’E ain’t. Never saw such a bungled job. If’n I ’adn’t come along at just that second, ’e’d a been buggered fer certain.”

Will tried to keep up, to marshal his thoughts. In fact, he forced a smile, though it felt ghoulish and green.

True, he had taken the boy into his own home, had fed
and clothed him. But if the weak-kneed baron of Landow had had his way, he would have let the guards take the boy and spared himself the inconvenience. Only a royal order had convinced him to assist the lad. And now here they were, their positions twisted about.

“I owe you, Nim,” he said, though he would have sworn himself incapable of speaking, no matter how true the words.

“Aye.” Jack’s expression was absolutely sober. Far too somber for a lad of twelve. But maybe he was thirteen now. Maybe another birthday had come and gone without note. The boy looked lean and tired and savvy. But spirit gleamed in his eyes. There was no mistaking that. “That y’ do.” He turned his gaze to Poke. “What’s ’e doin’ ’ere?”

“As it turns out, Mr. Slate here killed Lord Rambert.”

The lad swore, and his face went pale as his gaze spurted to Will’s.

“You killed Vic?”

A thousand explanations welled up inside Will. The boy was a thief, a scoundrel, far beneath his own lofty station. So why did he feel a burning need to explain himself, to seek forgiveness. How had it come to this? “There was a fight,” Will said, and forced himself to shrug.

“I don’t believe it.” All eyes turned to Princess. Will had almost forgotten the danger from that front. Had almost forgotten her rabid animosity. “Why does he sit here day after day if he can lift a snuffbox?”

“’E can’t,” said Jack, and drank again. “They’d a ’ad him strung up to the nearest yardarm if’n I ’adn’t distracted the gent.”

“And pray how did you manage that?” Poke asked.

“I lifted a pocket from a nearby soldier and galloped through the crowd with ’im breathing down me neck. Thought ’e ’ad me for a moment, but I skimmed between two boatmen and nipped away.” He glanced at Will again. Not a glimmer of a lie showed in his eyes. “Didn’t think I’d see
you
again. Not ’ere anyways.”

“That’s because he doesn’t belong here,” Princess said.

“So quick to judge,” Poke chided, and slipped his arm about her waist. “How do we know whether or not he can shoulder his weight when we’ve barely given him a chance to wake up. And let us remember…” He eased his fingers beneath her jaw, tilting her head up. She met his eyes with easy bravado. “He did kill Vic. Surely we owe him for that if for nothing else, aye, my lady?”

She made no comment, but eyed him coolly.

“Now…” He kissed the corner of her mouth. Something curled up tight in Will’s gut. “I want you to promise you’ll be nice to our guest.”

“He doesn’t need—”

“Hush,” Poke said, and slipped a finger over her lips. Will clenched the top blanket. “Promise me you’ll tend to Mr. Slate.”

“I—”

Poke smiled and shushed her as he leaned closer. “Promise me,” he said, and Will waited for her to spill her doubts, to end his life, but when she spoke her words were innocuous.

“I believe he can care for himself. At least so far as eating is concerned.”

“Ahhh, but we want him to feel welcome, don’t we?”

She didn’t answer.

“I’ll tell you what, if you take care of him yourself—with your own clever hands.” He skimmed his fingers
down her arm and lifted her hand in his own. “I’ll give you something special.”

“Gem would be better suited to tend him.”

Poke chuckled. “No maternal instincts, Princess?”

“None that I’ve noticed thus far.”

He laughed. “Then perhaps you’ll tend him because he’s so very forceful. After all, Lord Rambert was not easily bested.”

She merely stared, and he laughed again.

“Then you’ll do it because I insist.”

She canted her head in apparent concession.

“Good,” Poke said, then kissed her neck where the hair was swept away from the delicate curl of her ear. “But I think I’ll give you that something special just the same,” he whispered and grinned. “Good night, Mr. Slate.”

Will was never certain whether he responded. But in a moment the couple was gone, leaving the room in utter silence. He eased his hands open, forcing himself to breathe. From across the room, he could feel Jack’s gaze on him and brought himself jerkily back to the present.

“Thank you,” he murmured, but the boy shook his head.

“Leave ’er alone.” His eyes were narrowed, his lips pursed. “She don’t need no trouble from you.”

“I was runnin’ to beat hell,” Peter said. “And they was right on my heels. Like a tail on a donkey’s ass.”

Gem glanced up from where she was stitching a scrap of lace over a rent in the bodice of a well-worn gown. It seemed a strangely domestic scene, with the two of them seated in front of the fire. A young, pretty couple, her mending, him spinning a yarn. They’d been there for some time, allowing William to listen as he dozed. Re
covery took a tremendous amount of effort, especially when worn memories kept crowding his senses.

“I warned you not to work Overstreet afore mid-afternoon,” Gem said. “The watch likes to bet on the cocks there.”

“Aye, there was a slew of ’em,” Peter admitted. “Fat buggers they was, too. Wouldn’t a thought they could get off their arses to save their own mums.”

“Looks can be deceiving.” Gem portrayed the wisdom of all mending women. Age, it seemed, had no bearing on the matter.

“Ain’t it the truth. They can run like racehorses if’n you lift their purse.”

“You shouldn’t go down there till later,” she repeated.

“P’raps, but if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have got this, now would I?”

Will couldn’t see what the lad produced, but his acquisition was impressive enough to make young Gem gasp.

“Rubies! Saints nuts, Pete! Does Poke know ’bout this?”

The room went silent, and the air felt heavy. “I been thinkin’,” Peter said, his voice barely a whisper. “Maybe you should have it.”

“What? No! Peter! You’re talkin’ crazy. That must be worth a good fortune.”

“It’s a pretty thing all right,” he said. “But it don’t shine near so bright as a jewel like you, Gemini.”

“Peter—”

“You could take it,” he repeated. His voice was still soft, but there was excitement in it now, passion. “Go back to Teleere.”

“There ain’t nothin’ for me in Teleere,” she said, but had there been a pause before her rejoinder, a heartbeat of consideration?

“There’s nothing for you here, Gem. Go back. P’raps if you talk to him—”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

“Put that away! Put it away!” Gem hissed.

Apparently he did so, though Will couldn’t tell for certain. The footfalls crossed the ratty rug and stopped beside his mattress.

“Are you awake?” Princess’s voice was quiet but brooked no nonsense.

He opened his eyes slowly, tried to sit up, and stifled a groan with manly discipline.

She scowled down at him, apparently unimpressed. “It’s time to change your bandages.”

From the far side of the room, Peter and Gem murmured something and departed together. Keeping Poke’s share of the spoils couldn’t be healthy, but neither was continued association with him. Will scowled, almost wanting to call them back, to warn them. But who was he to interfere? He was naught but a concussed drunkard with a faulty memory and a poor chance of surviving the day.

“Is something amiss?”

He turned his scowl on her. “I’m wounded,” he reminded her.

“And cross.”

“My apologies,” he said, “if I’m unable to match your own stellar jocularity.”

She gave him a look that spoke volumes. A sailor would have been hard-pressed to curse as eloquently. “Perhaps you need a drink,” she said, and he would have been unsurprised if she had batted her eyelashes in conjunction.

He snorted, refusing to allow her to see the tremble in
his hands. “Tell me, Princess, am I such a threat that you would be rid of me at any cost?”

Her expression of faux shock was priceless, but in the same instant, she pulled the pillow out from beneath him. His head struck the cushion below with a reverberating thud. “You wound me,” she said.

He gritted his teeth against the resounding pain. “I’ve dreamt of it.”

“And after all I’ve done for you.” Seating herself beside him on the mattress, she gripped his arm. He managed to sit up with some assistance and immediately wished he hadn’t, for she was already yanking at the knot that held his bandage on his chest. “But I suppose I cannot expect gratitude from the likes of you.”

He scoffed, but her hands were already brushing his chest. They felt cool and smooth against his flesh, and regardless of her hasty ministrations, something stirred inside him. Something hot and hard and dangerous, but he kept his breathing steady, his attitude remote.

“Your gentle concern touches my heart.”

Her eyes met his. A smooth brow raised. “I’m so glad you’ve noticed.”

Her fingers brushed his nipple. His body jerked, remembering feelings long forgotten and best left alone.

He fought for control, but she was breathtakingly close, and he couldn’t help but stare. She was life itself, no matter how she tried to hide the fact behind bored expressions and toneless statements. “Of course it would be more touching still if Poke didn’t have to bribe you to tend me.”

Her gaze spurted to his and suddenly all flippancy was gone, replaced by steely sobriety. “Stay out of it, Dancer.”

“Out of what?”

She tugged the cloth away from his chest. Perhaps there was some pain, but she was touching him again, scrambling his feelings. Surely he couldn’t be attracted to this woman. He knew nothing about her, except that she wanted him dead, and although that should be enough, it had been forever since he’d been touched by a woman. Of course he’d be moved. It had nothing to do with her. She was a thief, for God’s sake. But her hands felt like magic against his skin, her fingers nimble and light as she washed his wound.

“Do you hear me?”

“What?” he asked, feeling lost and foolish and strangely disoriented.