Lois Greiman (15 page)

“M
y apologies for cutting our entertainment short. I fear I am not feeling quite up to snuff,” Poke said.

Shandria inclined her head. The adoring companion. As if she were disappointed but accepting. And indeed she was. For even watching blood shed was preferable to this—time alone with the man who called himself her master.

“Do you forgive me, Princess?” he asked, and with one hand on the bedchamber door, reached up to stroke her cheek.

“Of course,” she said, and remembered not to shudder, not to shrink away.

He smiled. Perhaps he was a handsome man. She could no longer tell, for she knew the state of his soul. Or the absence of one.

“You’ve never much cared for the fights, have you, love?” he asked, turning the latch and ushering her inside.

She set the glowing candle on the cluttered commode. “I prefer…” she began, but in that instant she knew something was different. What? Senses honed for danger screamed a warning. She scanned the room with light-
ning furtiveness. There. A wispy trail of smoke lifting lazily from a candlestick near the bed.

Someone had been in the chamber only moments before. Which meant—Dear God, he was still there. Somewhere. She was sure of it.

“Is something amiss, love?” Poke asked, and tossed his coat aside.

She turned her back to the candle, trying desperately to do so slowly, casually. “’Tis nothing,” she said and though she managed to keep from skimming the room again, she saw that the armoire was open. A hundred glimmering items shone from the shelves. Someone had breached Poke’s sanctuary, had dared gaze upon the loot he reveled in keeping for his own. Where was he now?

“You’re distracted this evening,” he said. Loosening his stock, he tossed it on the discarded jacket.

“Not at all,” she said, and prayed her voice was steadier than her hands.

“It’s not our guest, is it?”

William. He was in the room. She knew it suddenly. Knew it as certainly as she knew her own name.

Her heart contracted, but she slipped out of her shoes and turned, allowing herself one quick glance around the room before placing the slippers by the bedstead. “What guest might that be?”

Poke laughed as he crossed the floor and dipped his head to kiss her neck. Her skin quivered at his touch, but she didn’t move.

“It is true,” he said. “We are suddenly inundated with strangers. But I doubt you’ll need to concern yourself with the one.”

Fear speared through her like an icicle to the heart. “Which one?”

Poke’s brows raised with slow precision. “Does it matter?”

She shrugged, just managing to breathe, to keep her head. He must be under the bed. Draped in scarlet curtains, it was the only structure large enough to hide an intruder. “I merely wondered. You know how Gem is these days, nursing every wounded sparrow.”

“Yes,” Poke said, and sighed. “It will be difficult for her. But life is hard at times. She may as well learn that now as soon as late.”

She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of his words. As though Gem hadn’t suffered enough! Maybe it would have been better to let the giant die in the street rather than let the girl watch his slow demise. Shandria’s stomach clenched. “You’re so certain the Scotsman will die?” she asked.

Poke eased a few tendrils of wispy hair from her cheek, then slipped around behind her and reached for the clasps that held her gown in place. The hairs on her neck stood erect, waiting. “Quite certain.”

She closed her eyes, breathing carefully. “Why not let him go?” she asked. “He can’t harm you.”

She could feel his gaze on her face and forced herself to remain as she was. Poke could smell fear. Indeed, he fed on it.

“Ahh, Princess,” he said finally, and sighed. “You wound me with your suspicions. I did not mean to imply that I planned to murder the poor fellow. I merely meant I doubt he’ll survive his current wounds.”

All lies. “And if he does?”

His hands moved lower, loosing the long line of buttons down her back. “Why the interest, my love?”

“He seems harmless.”

“So our Mr. Slate does not?”

Could he see them? Was he witnessing her humiliation?

“I am told he killed Vic,” she said.

“Yes,” Poke agreed, then fell silent.

Had he noticed the open armoire? Could he see under the bed? Shandria flitted her gaze to the floor beneath the four-poster again, but there was nothing to be seen there.

“Curious, isn’t it,” Poke said, and kissed her neck. She shifted her gaze to his face and saw that he, too, was staring at the bed. Her heart boomed like a cannon in her chest. She couldn’t bear to witness another death. She wouldn’t survive it. If Will was found, she would do what it took to save him. And damn her duties. “Our Mr. Slate looks so bland…innocuous even. But you have to wonder. Is he, perhaps, some dark and dangerous villain?” He faked a shudder. “Come now. Admit it. You must wonder. After all, he’s a handsome chap, don’t you think?” he asked, and turned his gaze back to hers, as though he didn’t know they were being watched, as though he weren’t, even now, anticipating a kill.

Maybe he didn’t know. He was only human—not the devil himself, thus she must distract him. She must. Reaching up, she pulled a pair of pins from her hair. It fell free, spilling around her shoulders. Poke reached up, slipping his hand into it, letting it slide between his fingers.

“Princess?”

She tried to remember his question, but she’d forgotten his words. Panic stormed through her.

He raised a brow at her. “Do you think our Mr. Slate handsome?”

She forced a shrug. “He’s not you,” she said simply.

“Ahhh.” Poke sighed and, lifting his hands from be-
tween their bodies, slid the sleeves from her arms. “So flattering to know you think of no one else.” The gown fell to the floor. The air felt cold against her exposed skin, but she kept from covering herself, even when he turned her to face him.

“’Twas a lucky day indeed when I first met you.”

He skimmed his knuckles along the frilly edge of her chemise. Gooseflesh followed in his wake. “Don’t you agree, Princess?”

“Certainly.”

“And you’ve been faithful to me?” His gaze settled on hers as he slipped his fingers around her throat. “Body and soul?”

Terror ripped through her, but she remained as she was, vulnerable and sick. “I’m no fool,” she said, and he smiled.

“No love, that you are not,” he agreed, and, opening his hand, skimmed his splayed fingers down her body. “Indeed, you are quite intelligent. And discerning.” His eyes darkened. “Not like MacTavish’s late bitch.” His breathing had become labored suddenly. She waited for the rage, the slavering jealousy. But he stifled his emotions and cupped her breast with trembling fingers. “There’s a new bride now though, isn’t there? A
true
princess.” His gaze raked her. She swallowed hard, trying to breathe through the terror. “What of this one?” His words were hissed, barely discernible, as if he spoke to someone else. “I’m told she’s enamored. Of course I’ve not had her yet. But she’ll not refuse me.”

He tightened his grip, and despite herself, Shandria winced.

“Ohhh, my apologies,” Poke crooned and loosened his grip. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. After all, you’re not like the others.”

Who were the others?
she wondered frantically.
Had they survived?

“Are you?” A wild light gleamed in his eyes.

“No,” she said, barely able to force out the word. “I am not.”

“Good. Good.” He sighed and backed away. Sanity, or a clever facsimile returned to his eyes. “Disrobe for me, love.”

Bile burned like poison in her stomach, but she would not refuse him, and he knew it. Bending, he kissed her lips and sauntered across the room, where he lowered himself to a chair.

She snapped her glance toward the bed again. Could he see beneath the bed from that vantage point? Could he—But no. She wouldn’t consider it, wouldn’t let the thought into her mind, for nothing was safe from him. Not even her thoughts.

Poke settled back in his chair, his eyes half-closed, his full lips lifted in the parody of a smile. Her heart trembled as she untied her chemise, but her hands were steady. Her gaze the same. He met it with lazy anticipation, then watched as her clothing fell to the floor. His eyes gleamed like a rabid wolf’s, but she would not quail. She would not.

“Your stockings,” Poke said, and she bent to loose her garters and roll the sheer fabric down.

He was smiling when she straightened. Her stomach tightened with dread.

“Come remove my shoes, love,” he said, and unbuttoned his shirt.

She crossed the floor like one in a trance, then bent and tugged off his shoes. He stroked her breasts as she straightened.

“Now my trousers.” He stood, and for a moment, for
one weak second, she was sure she couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear to touch him, but she did.

Loosing the buttons, she pushed his trousers down. He was flaccid. But that didn’t mean she was safe. Stepping out of the garment, he kissed her neck. Her lungs ached. She remembered to breathe.

“Princess.” He drew back, finding her eyes with his. “Are you nervous?”

She was going to be sick. “Should I be?” she asked.

The room went silent, then he laughed. “My lady, as regal as a queen. As loyal as a slave.” He slipped his hand lower, down the midsection of her body. His fingers slid like a serpent into her private hair.

“And all mine,” he whispered.

She stifled a shiver. Her reprieve was over. Hell had come, she thought, but in that instant he stepped away.

“Good night, my love,” he said, and, tossing his shirt aside, strode naked to the bed.

Shandria held her breath, waiting hopelessly, but he did not pull the pistol from beneath the pillow, did not laugh as he admitted he knew the truth. There were no screams of rage. Instead, he sighed as he pulled the blankets over his pale body.

She stood frozen in place. He glanced at her as if curious, and she forced herself to turn. Pacing to the nearby trunk, she opened it with clammy hands. The hinges moaned. She drew out a nightrail like one in a trance. The fabric sighed over her hair, drawing her marginally back to reality.

All was well. He didn’t know of the intruder. But eventually he would. Eventually there would be blood.

Fear clawed at her guts. She dare not cross him. She glanced toward the candle Will had left behind, but the frail wisp of smoke was long gone. Maybe she’d been
wrong. Maybe she was imagining, she thought, but she knew better.

She had no choice.

“I shall fetch you a tonic,” she said. “For your ailment.”

Poke propped himself on one elbow, watching her with sloe eyes. “How thoughtful of you,” he cooed. “But tell me, Princess, is it loyalty or fear that makes you the perfect companion?”

She could find no words. Fear had left her numb.

“Or do you stay in the hopes of protecting your friends?”

She found her tongue and her demeanor with icy desperation. “I have no friends,” she said.

“Not even in this room?”

Terror flashed through her. Dear Jesus! He
did
know. Her mind scrambled, searching wildly for an explanation, an apology, a weapon. But in a moment she recognized his tone.

It was pouty. Teasing. She felt weak with relief. Sick with the tight remains of panic.

“Not even in this room,” she said, and he laughed.

Turning on wooden legs, she lifted the candle from the commode and exited.

It only took her a moment to find the bottle of his favorite Scotch. Her hand shook as she tipped it into a glass, then she delayed, praying hard. But in the end she pulled a tiny cloth bag from behind the flour in the kitchen. Glancing breathlessly about, she added a pinch to the drink, replaced the bag, and forced herself back to the bedchamber. The flickering candlelight wavered across the floor like a ghost leading her to her doom.

Poke sat up as he took the glass from her hand. His chest was narrow and sprinkled with dark hair. “Thank you, my love,” he said, and took a sip.

She watched him, forgetting to breathe, neglecting to move, and he raised his brows.

“You seem strangely tense this night,” he said, and smiled before he took another sip. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to poison me.”

Jerking herself back to reality, Shandria casually cupped the fragile flame and blew the world into darkness.

“No comment?” Poke asked.

“If you were gone…” She forced her tone to be fluid and level. “Who would take your place?”

Poke laughed and set the glass aside. “My Princess,” he said. “Pragmatic till the last. Sleep well, love.”

It was almost impossible to keep from collapsing like an abandoned doll of rags. Almost impossible to force her legs to carry her to the far side of the bed.

But she did so and finally lay, staring into the darkness, and praying.

T
he world was quiet. Shandria liked the darkness, liked the night, for she could hide there. When no one was looking she could be a child. Unmasked. Herself. She was not afraid of who she was, only of what she might become. But she put that thought behind her now.

The day had gone well enough. She had been left alone for most of it. When evening had fallen she had traveled to Fairberry in search of game. She was not particularly adept at sleight of hand, but she could sneak into a house as quiet as a mole. Thus, she was returning to the Den with a silver-capped walking stick and a pair of ivory earbobs. Poke would be pleased.

Her stomach cramped. Her steps slowed. Yes, Poke would be pleased but it was impossible to guess what that would mean. He was unpredictable, but so were serpents.

“My thanks.”

She jumped, clutching her hands and shoving her back up against a nearby wall. But no one lunged toward her. No one threatened. Indeed, no one spoke, but she managed to make out the intruder’s face even in the darkness.

“Mr. Slate.” She made certain her tone was level. “You again.”

He stepped closer. He was not a giant of a man, but evil came in many sizes and was oft impossible to identify immediately. Had she misjudged him? she wondered, but she didn’t retreat.

“For helping me,” he explained, and took hold of her arm.

“I’ve no idea what you speak of.” She tilted her head and scowled as if trying to see his expression in the darkness. “Perhaps you’re confusing me with Gem.”

“You knew,” he said, his eyes gleaming with bright intensity in the darkness.

Her heart lurched, but she held her ground. “I do so hate to be the one to tell you,” she said. “But I fear you may have lost your mind.”

He gritted his teeth as if wanting to shake her. “Are you trying to say Poke always sleeps so soundly?”

Dear God, she’d guessed right! He had sneaked into Poke’s bedchamber. He had hidden beneath the bed, and sometime during the night, he had managed to creep back out. She had almost convinced herself that she had imagined the entire episode. Had certainly hoped as much. But in the small hours of the morning she had heard a faint rustle of noise. Had heard and hadn’t dared to do so much as glance up, lest she disturb Poke’s slumber. Her stomach churned at the thought of the consequences just avoided. Damn him! Did he know nothing of pain, nothing of death? she wondered, but she gritted a smile. “’Tis difficult to say. Whyever do you ask?”

“You gave him a potion.” He bored her eyes with his own, but an eternity of uncertainty was there, an ocean of roiling confusion. Even in the darkness she could see that much. “You knew.”

“Knew what?” she rasped, and yanked her arm from
his grip even as she skimmed the darkness, searching. There were spies. Everywhere. Always.

A host of emotions flashed across his face, but finally he shook his head. “Tell me, Princess, how can he keep himself from you?” His voice was low and entrancing. But he did not reach out, did not touch her.

And yet she was falling, losing her footing, slipping into the abyss of his earnestness. “I don’t know what you speak of,” she repeated, but her voice was weak and trembled dangerously. Could he hear it warble? Could he feel her frailty?

“You lie,” he said, and in that moment she knew he sensed her weakness, for he did the unthinkable; he told the truth. “You knew I was in your chamber. You knew, and you protected me.”

“You’re insane,” she whispered, and desperately wondered if it were true.

They were face-to-face, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. The world slowed. Their gazes met and melded. And then he kissed her, not with wild heat or frenzied lust, but with slow, deadly tenderness.

He pulled away, his eyes finding hers again. “Why?” he whispered. “Is it because…Might you feel something for me?”

Her knees felt weak, and her hands trembled, but fools died bloody, and their friends died with them. “No,” she said. “Nothing.”

His face was absolutely solemn, his eyes steady and somber in the aching silence, but finally he spoke. “Then I’ll consider it a compliment,” he said. “For at least you’re not repulsed. Not as you are with Poke.”

How did he know? She was so careful. Ever vigilant
not to let her emotions show. Her heart fluttered frantically, but she kept her expression stoic, her hands steady. “Feel free to flatter yourself, Dancer. I only ask that you try not to get me killed with your self-indulgence,” she said, and stepped away unsteadily. For a moment she was certain he would pull her back, would, at least, follow her, but he did not. So she strode away, her steps steady and even until she was certain she had left him behind, until she could match her footsteps with the pace of her racing heart.

What was happening to her? She dare not feel. She rushed toward the Den. With any luck, Poke would be gone, and she would be alone, insulated by the others’ fear of him.

Except for the fire that burned in the parlor, the house was dark when she stepped inside. Quiet as a wraith, she closed the door behind her. Caution was her salvation. Fear kept her alive. But the thieves who shared her world were gone, all but Gem, who guarded her patient with hollow-eyed persistence. Why? Why the tenacity? Why the caring? she wondered, but she dare not ask, for if she did not know, she could not tell.

Slipping silently into the hallway, Shandria headed for the bedchamber, but a noise snagged her attention. It was no more than a quiet moan of sound, but senses sharpened by fear could not be fooled.

“You’re awake,” Gem breathed, and in the hall, Shandria let her eyes fall closed. The Scotsman lived, but for how long?

“I worried.” The girl’s voice broke. “Thought you’d forgot ’bout me.”

So she’d been right. They knew each other from the past. Shandria’s heart fisted. Had he come to take Gem away? Had he come to save her? Some warm unbidden
emotion smoked through her, but it was drowned in survival instincts. Regardless of his size, regardless of his fortitude, he could not best Poke. Not now. She stepped into the doorway to tell them that, to warn them, but the sight of his face stopped her.

His nose had been broken, his lips split. An angry gash ran from his high-boned cheek into his hairline, but it was not his wounds that stopped her breath. It was his eyes.

They were as steady as the earth, as deep as the sea as they settled on Gemini’s face.

Silence spilled like ink into the room. He reached toward her, then paused and curled his battered fist into the blanket.

His throat constricted and his lips moved, but there was no sound except for a tortured croak.

Gem pulled her gaze from his, fumbled with a nearby cup, and bore it hastily to his lips. He drank, deep and long, but his gaze never for a moment slipped from her face. The cup bobbled as she set it aside, then he shifted as if attempting to rise.

“No!” Her hand looked fragile and pale against his chest as he struggled to push himself to a sitting position, but she held him down. “Don’t. Don’t move.”

His eyes bored into hers, his throat contracted, and he winced as he spoke, but his voice were audible. “Why?” he rasped.

Gem’s eyes were bright. Too bright, but she held on, pretending not to hear as she fiddled with the blanket that covered his massive chest. “You’ve been sore ’urt,” she said, shifting her eyes restlessly away. “But you’re on the mend. Big bloke like you. It’d take a good deal more—”

He grabbed her wrist. Their gazes met with a snap, his
narrowed and angry, hers round and terrified. “Why’re ye here?” His voice was gruff, but his hand shook with violent tremors.

Her face contorted, but she brought it back under control and tilted her head at him. “You gotta rest, Viking,” she said.

He growled something inaudible, but his head had already dropped back against the pillow, as if that exertion was too much for his straining muscles. His eyes fell closed.

Gem’s lips parted. Her fingers crunched the blanket against his chest. “Viking?”

“Not safe,” he murmured deliriously.

She closed her eyes as if in prayer, and her lips twitched with emotion, but suddenly he was sitting upright, his eyes like blazing coals.

“Leave!” he ordered, and grabbed her arm. “Leave now.”

Her face contorted, but she shook her head. “No. I ain’t goin’.”

For a moment neither moved, and then he dropped back against his pillow, his skin as pale as death.

Gem leaned over him, terror in her eyes, but he spoke again, proving his determination.

“You’d stay?” His words were gritty and labored. “Just to spite me?”

A tiny whimper slipped from her lips, but she set her jaw. “That’s right, old man. I ain’t leavin’ ’ere.”

He whispered something, but his words were drowned in his raspy breathing, then his hand slipped from her wrist and onto the mattress.

Terror, sharp and bright and horrible, filled Gem’s eyes. “Viking! Viking!”

His eyes opened, slow and heavy.

She loosened her clawed fingers in the tattered blanket. “I ain’t goin’,” she said. “Not ’less you make me.”

Anger flared in his eyes, and for a moment it almost seemed as though he would rise. His broken body trembled with the effort, and then, like a huge child too long aplay, he fell back against the pillow and did not move.

It wasn’t until that evening that Shandria saw Gem again. She took her place by the table quietly, her eyes shadowed, her face pale.

“Leavin’ the corpse in peace?” Ox asked.

The girl gave him a muted glare but said nothing as she glanced toward Poke.

He smiled fondly. “Your large friend hasn’t awakened yet, Gemini?”

She was silent for the slightest moment, then, “Just once, for a short time.”

“Truly? Perhaps your vigilance is not wasted then.”

“She’s lyin’,” Ox scoffed. “You ask me, the ugly bastard’s already dead, in his ’ead, leastways.”

“’E ain’t dead!” Gem’s voice was strident, but she caught control in an instant and steadied herself. “’E spoke.”

“Did he?” Poke asked, seeming pleased, as if he weren’t to blame for the man’s condition. As if he’d had nothing to do with the mangled face, the pool of blood. An actor on his favorite stage. “What did he say?”

Shandria held her breath, but she needn’t have worried, for Gem’s survival was founded on far more than blind luck. “’E wanted water.”

“He said as much?”

She lowered her eyes as if hiding the true extent of his debilitation. Poke wasn’t the only actor in the room. Indeed, the Den was full of them. “I knew what ’e wanted.”

“Ahh,” Poke said, and smiled again, though the expression was gently pitying this time. “So you’re not certain if his mind is clear.”

She delayed for several seconds. “I’m afraid ’e may be addled, Master Poke.”

“Ohhh.” The other sighed as if deeply disappointed. “I am so sorry, Gemini. I know how you’ve taken to him.”

“Aye,” Ox said. “’Tis a terrible shame. I bet ’e was brilliant afore.”

“Compared to you any road,” Gem hissed.

“Shut yer trap!” snarled Ox.

“Hush now, my little cubs,” Poke soothed. “I’ve some business to discuss.”

The room went quiet as all eyes shifted to Poke. The man called Slate watched from a nearby chair. Who was he? Shandria dared not glance his way, but she knew how he would look. Shabbily elegant, almost relaxed, as if he’d spent each day of his life in circumstances just as deadly, just as macabre, and was not moved a whit. But there was something wrong. Something she couldn’t quite decipher. Something sad in the depths of his amber eyes.

“I’m afraid profits have been a bit short of late,” Poke said. “What with two new mouths to feed, it seems more money is going out than coming in. Thus I’ve decided to set certain tasks for each of you. Of course, I shall assist. In fact, I fear I’ll have to leave you for a time again soon to see to some distant business, but until then we must all bear down. I expect profits to double.”

“But Master…” Gem’s voice was strained. “If I could ’ave but a few more days, I’m sure the big bloke will be on ’is feet and—”

“Aye,” interrupted the Ox. “I’m sure of it. If she prods a stick up ’is arse and props ’im in the corner.”

“Shut your filthy—”

“Quiet!” Poke said, then softened his tone. “I’m sorry, Gemini. Truly I am, but you must admit, I’ve been more than generous, letting you tend him these past days.”

“But ’e’s almost—”

He raised a hand in gentle admonishment. “The truth is this, lass, I’m worried for you. I fear you are becoming too attached. But for the buckle you gave me some nights past, you’ve contributed naught to our little family. No.” He shook his head sadly. “I must insist that you return to work and let our guest fend for himself.”

She nodded, and he smiled.

“I want you and Nim working the docks together. Fetching as you are, you’ll have no trouble distracting the gentlemen so that the lad can lift a few purses. Am I right, young Jack?”

The boy nodded solemnly. Shandria’s gut twisted. The docks were always dangerous. Picking pockets made them deadly.

“Ox, I want you to spend some time round about the gambling hells.”

“Glad to do it,” said the Irishman.

“But try not to kill anyone.”

“I’ll do me best,” Ox said, “but sometimes there’s naught else for it.”

Poke shook his head and chuckled as if humoring a wayward child. “Peter, get to the market when the maids are making their purchases. That handsome face of yours is bound to garner you some coin.”

“And some titties if you play your cards right,” Ox added.

Poke ignored him. “And you, Mr. Slate,” he said. Turning slightly, he stared at the Den’s newest denizen. “How would you like to spend your days, I wonder?”

Slate shrugged. “I’m at your disposal.”

“Yes, you are. Princess,” he said, twisting toward her as if suddenly inspired. He smiled, but his eyes were too alive, too eager. Trouble was brewing, boiling up a storm that could destroy them all. “I believe you and Mr. Slate should join forces since you work so well together.”

He knew! Somehow he’d found out that she had saved Slate at Pentmore Hall. Her mind screamed, but she forced herself to remain still, to stay quiet. There was nothing worse than a panicked denial. Think, she insisted, but Ox was already on his feet.