The Danger of Desire (15 page)

“Where’re you gonna be?”

“Out. Following our suspects into places where you, my lass, would be most conspicuous.”

She gave him her patient look. “Never been
con-spicuous
a day in me life. Made my reputation on it.”

“So you’ll fit in at a brothel? Or a gaming hell? Or a fashionable gentleman’s club?”

“Oh.” Well. That’d teach her to brag like a jackass. “Leave that to you, I will, thank you very much.”

“Thank
you
. Now up to bed with you.” He rose and seesawed his way toward the door.

“Up? I’ll sleep down in the kitchen. Night, Cap’n.”

“I’ve had Mrs. Tupper make up a room for you. And one for Timmy as well.”

A room? To herself? What was that stupid flutter of hope in her chest? She batted it down like a moth. “I don’t mind the kitchen. I like to be close to the fire.”

“You’ll be warm enough. There are plenty of blankets.” He looked back at her over his shoulder, frowning at her idiocy. “Wouldn’t you rather have a proper bed instead of a pallet on the floor?”

She made like it was no import. “I’m used to choosing the softest plank.”

That stopped him. He smiled at her strangely—his mouth tried to turn up at the ends, but it didn’t reach up to his eyes, and his voice got quiet and grave. “I imagine you are. Let me show you, and then you can choose.”

Talk of beds, however soft, still made her nervous as a lamb at a butcher’s. “What about my brother?”

“I imagine Mrs. Tupper already showed him up. He was exhausted.”

Timmy didn’t have a right to be tired, the little traitor. He’d been the one larking about on carriages all day while she’d been made to scrub and mop.

But Meggs hugged her hurtful resentment close and kept her knife closer, and followed cautiously after him, up the narrow servants’ stair, into the attics on the top floor of the house, where there were small, but private rooms with low, slanted ceilings. The captain had to bend his back to fit under the roof. He filled the narrow doorway, frowning at the lack of space as he gestured her into one of the rooms.

He took the single candle and set it on a chest of drawers, illuminating the narrow room with its dormer windows with curtains—
curtains
—closed across the glass, shutting out the blank darkness of the night. Gingham curtains. It was small, but light and airy and clean. So clean, it smelled of lavender. And the bed, even the spindly, narrow, iron-framed cot, so lowly it was fit only for his servants, was a bed the likes of which she had not seen for longer than she could remember.

“It’s not much, I grant you.” The captain stayed in the doorway, slouching against the frame and looking grimly about the room. Looking for things she could steal, no doubt. He needn’t bother. He could lock her in for all she cared. She’d even prefer it.

He didn’t understand, did he? He had no idea the temptation he offered. The money was nothing in comparison, really. Money, she could eventually get. She would have grubbed and stolen and saved and eventually, with luck and perseverance, she would have had the money.

But a room of her own. With a bed?

It was a real bed. With a real mattress and real sheets and blankets. It smelled like starch and lavender. It smelled like paradise. She let her fingers glide momentarily across the counterpane. “Where’s Timmy?”

“Right next door.” He hooked his thumb past his shoulder. “Would you like to check on him?”

“No, thank you.” She wasn’t quite ready to talk to Timmy yet. She’d rather wait till he was asleep before she checked on him. Though it would be the first time in forever they had ever slept apart. Or in beds, for that matter. Meggs wondered if she should mention that to the captain. What would he think, to know she and Timmy had most often slept like sheep in a barn, one practically atop the other for warmth and comfort? But if Timmy found he could sleep without her, she could certainly find her way to sleeping without him. Probably.

She turned round and bobbed a curtsey to the captain. “Thank you, Cap’n.”

“You’re welcome.” Himself shifted his hands to hang on to the top of the door frame, but he didn’t leave. It left them, the captain and her, in the small, yellow circle of light cast from the remaining candle and awkward, penetrating silence.

She stood there facing him, her heart galloping away in her chest, feeling the heat of her blood leach out into her skin. What was she supposed to say? What was he going to say? What was he going to do? Surely with Timmy, however he had been won over to the captain’s side, right next door, surely the captain wasn’t planning to try anything?

But Himself stayed still, looking at her with those cunning, icy hawk eyes for a long moment, giving nothing away. Finally his mouth moved slightly, as though he might try to say something and was still testing the taste of the words before he spoke them. Or as though he might try to ...

There was that damned flutter again—hope. Or indigestion. But she didn’t want to find out. Not tonight. So she nodded to him once, all professional-like, and then, without a word or any further to do, she shut the door firmly closed in his face.

Meggs turned the lock and waited. Waited for him to say something. Do something. Anything.

Nothing came. And then, after a long minute, there was the heavy sound of his uneven tread down the stairs and away, below.

Meggs let out her breath on a long sigh and moved slowly into the room, touching everything, letting her hands and her eyes work together to confirm the reality, the solidity of each and every object. It was all real. She sat down on the side of the bed to test the mattress, springing against it a little, and put her hand out to touch the plump pillow and the soft linen night shift Mrs. Tupper had left folded on the bed. She’d thought of everything, hadn’t she? Such thoughtfulness brought a hot, itchy fist of gratitude welling up in Megg’s throat.

It had been such a long time since anyone had thought of her, or thought of her needs. But here she was, wasting time and a very good bed on mawkishness. But first, no matter how sore at him she was, she had to check on Timmy.

He was curled up in the nest of quilts like an exhausted puppy. “Meggs,” he smiled up at her when she touched his face. “Isn’t this the best?”

“Try not to get too used to it.”

“What’s the matter with it? Prime setup it is. All the grub we can eat. I grown an inch since we come, in just one day, Mrs. Tupper says.”

“She’s only being nice to you, on account the captain needs our work.”

“You don’t like him, do you? Why can’t you be nice to the captain? Why can’t you make him like you, so’s we can stay and work for him?”

“It’s not like that, Timmy. It makes no matter if the captain likes me. He hired me—us—to do this job, and after that, he’s going to go back to sea. Mrs. Tupper says he used to have a ship of his own before he got his leg near blown off, and that he’ll be going back to it, once we do his dirty work.”

“Cor. Ship of his own.” Timmy yawned out the last of it. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”

“Hmm. Good night, my Tanner.”

“Meggs.” His voice brought her back. “Stay with me?”

“Sure, love. Just let me get out of my apron and I’ll come back in.”

The plain work dress and apron Himself had given her had a drawstring up the front, and the stays laced up frontways, too, as servants’ clothes did, so she was out of it in a trice. She peeled down to her shift, laying the sturdy gown and petticoat over the iron railing at the foot of the bed. Then she checked the lock one more time, just to be sure, before she peeled off the shift as well, to wash herself with the warm water and soap.

It had been so long since she had had either privacy or clean clothes, really clean—the nightgown was new, never been worn before—she was loath to dirty it even by sleeping in it, even though she’d had her first real bath in years and she was clean. Really clean. She took another deep breath of herself. And smiled.

But it was chilly. She waited no longer to throw the nightgown over her head, pad across the hall, and slide in next to Timmy. It was so lovely to slide her legs along the clean, soft linen. The quilts, for there were two of them, pressed down comfortably, the weight making her feel secure and safe.

Oh, he had no idea, the captain. Lord, to think of all those years with nothing but maybe a pallet on the floor and some scratchy, wool blankets to share between them. And they had been lucky to have that. Old Nan had been a generous kidwoman, as kidwomen go. But Nan had never had sheets like these. Sheets that were enough to make her forget her resentment of Timmy, and all her troubles, and the mess she was in. Oh, Lord, she’d have sold her soul a time or two just for the chance to be as clean and well fed and encased in downy warmth as she was now. And would be again.

She would take the money and be finished with it. And he had said amnesty yesterday, hadn’t he? If he truly meant what he said, she could leave London and know she wouldn’t have to spend the rest of her days looking over her shoulder, waiting for the sword of Damocles to drop down on her neck.

She’d ask tomorrow. No she’d insist, but right now, she’d let herself sink into the heavenly abyss of the feather pillow. Tomorrow was soon enough.

But it wasn’t. It never was. Something could always go bad.

CHAPTER 11

H
is second day of the tutelage of his thieves had been hell—tedious and then exhausting. The boy had gotten hurt while they were on Lord Harold Cummings’s trail. Stupid mistake. At a chance word from Hugh, the Tanner had darted too close to a brewers dray and ended up slightly the worse for wear. He escaped with only a profusely bloody nose where his face had collided with the corner of the wagon, and a goose egg–size bruise on his temple.

Timmy had taken it all in stride, only whimpering a little when Hugh had mopped up the copious blood with his handkerchief. And thankfully, the boy hadn’t been concussed. Hugh had more than enough of that to worry about with Meggs as it was.

Hugh’s leg ached like a hot ball of tar was lodged in it by the time they made it home to face Meggs. As they came into the kitchen, a movement in the garden above caught his eye.

She, Meggs, was taking in the washing before the afternoon waned into early winter twilight. It was a Monday, and under Mrs. Tupper’s regime, like nearly every other house on the block, linens of all descriptions had been hung out in the fitful sunshine to bleach and dry.

Hugh moved to a better vantage point to watch her. He felt more than a little ridiculous—an officer of His Majesty’s Navy, spying on a maidservant, even if she was an accomplished, professional thief—but he didn’t want to be seen. It seemed important to be able to watch her without her knowing it, without her putting up that hardened veneer of cheek she tossed over herself like a heavy sea cloak whenever he came into a room.

She was out in the cold afternoon without so much as a shawl, and she hugged her basket close to her side as she scurried under the lines of clothing. Her skin looked pale and white in the chill air, and he noticed something he hadn’t before, a mole, dark and intriguing, against the side of her neck at her collarbone. Beckoning him to let his gaze linger on the long slide of her alabaster neck, running down to her shoulders and on her fine hair, one long tendril dancing loose across her nape.

She wasn’t precisely beautiful. She was too spare and prickly for English beauty. No, she was more like an exotic plant from a desert. They, too, had blooms. And she all but hummed with a potent, alluring life force that blossomed out of her face. When she wasn’t masking it.

Meggs moved directly to the makeshift line strung across the garden and began to unpeg the wash. He watched her swift, economical movements with a sailor’s appreciation of her agility and physical dexterity. There was grace in each one of her movements. She shook out the clothes, tucked them under her chin, and folded them against her body, smoothing her hands down the fabric to flatten them out. He watched as she quickly unpegged and folded one of her own chemises without even thinking about it, then she hesitated in front of his small clothes.

Was she embarrassed? He was almost embarrassed for her. No, not embarrassed. The heat under his skin was something entirely different.

After her initial hesitation, she moved quickly, taking down the drawers and folding them in a rush before she moved to the next piece of clothing. It was a shirt—one of his linen shirts. There were several of them on the line—he went through at least one a day. She shook it out once, an elegant, forceful snap of her wrists, and then slowly, as if she couldn’t decide if she really wanted to, she crushed the shirt between her hands and brought it up to her face to visibly inhale its scent.

He nearly staggered. His fingers dug into the wooden windowsill to keep himself steady, gutted by the intimacy of the gesture. He understood her impulse far too well. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in her neck and inhale her scent, her very essence.

And with that simple action, she also told him the compulsion was not by any means one-sided. She felt an attraction, too—perhaps not as strongly as he—but she felt it nonetheless. Their curiosity, at least, was mutual.

By the time she brought her basket in and saw Timmy, Hugh was across the room, accepting a hot mug of cider from Mrs. Tupper.

Meggs reached her brother as fast as a rifle shot. “What happened?”

Timmy smiled sheepishly and shrugged her off. “I’m all right.”

She ignored him, combing and cataloging his body with her hands, feeling across the architecture of his bones and searching with her hands for something broken or out of place.

“I’m all right, Meggs,” Timmy insisted. “Leave off. It’s just a bloody nose.”

“It is not. It looks like you got clouted. What happened?” she asked again.

Tanner’s eyes slid toward him. “We had a bit of a dust up,” Hugh answered.

She visibly battened down her temper and raised her eyebrow in silent question, simmering hot, like the pot of cider on the stove.

“Don’t take on, Meggs,” Timmy begged quietly. “Not in front of the captain.”