Page 15 of Lord of Mistrust

Mistress Emmerson’s larger bag contained the remnants of the vittles she’d had for breakfast, an empty costrel, and a small Latin primer. There was also her male attire—from whom had she purloined that? He couldn’t help but recall how provocative her behind had looked in the tight hose.

There was female clothing, too, obviously—a spare shift and petticoat, a bodice and skirt, garters, aiglets and leather thong for her lacings, and a fresh coif. All were of good quality cloth—this innocuous little beauty was well rewarded for her trade.

But there was no dispatch in the bag. Folding the clothing carefully, Robert attempted to replace them as he’d found them, so she wouldn’t know he’d rifled through her belongings. He felt the sides of the bag for hidden pockets but found none.

One thing that struck him as odd about the luggage was the absence of jewelry, rouge, or white lead powder. Not that the lady’s charms needed any embellishing, but whores usually tried to improve upon Nature. Whatever faults Mistress Emmerson harbored, vanity—it seemed—wasn’t one of them.

Robert ran a hand through his hair, cursing beneath his breath. Could she have passed the document on already? Was it concealed somewhere in the room?

There was a soft moan from the bed. Jesu! Was she waking? He’d have to search the chamber in the morning when she went down to break her fast—there was no time to lose now. He must search her person before she was lucid enough to resist.

Settling beside her on the straw mattress, he unlaced her bodice, then lifted her to a sitting position so he could slide it from her arms. Then, keeping his touch as light as possible, he skimmed her arms, waist, and breasts. Nothing. Except an unfortunate tingle in his loins. Running a finger around the inside of his collar, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

He lifted her skirts but didn’t interfere with the rouleau that cinched in her waist and exaggerated the width of her hips. Tension made him clumsy—he’d never be able to do it up again without her noticing that it had been interfered with.

He ran his hands over every inch of her skirt, shift, and starched linen petticoat, hunting for hidden pockets, but again—nothing. It was impossible to avoid brushing her naked flesh as he performed his search, and each time he did, his face felt hotter, his blood more deeply stirred.

No dispatch. Swiftly, he pulled her various layers of clothing back into position, then eased her limp body down onto the bed. Now, he had the awkward task of lacing up her bodice again. He’d undressed enough women—not that he wanted to boast about it—to know one didn’t just lace a bodice over the breasts. One had to lift them and keep the lacing tight beneath, so the breasts were supported high on the torso and not crushed.

He performed this task with great tenderness and shameful enjoyment. Faith, but he was a vile creature! Brushing moisture from his brow, he castigated himself for allowing his judgment to be clouded by lust—if he was a Catholic, he’d have to do penance for his sinful thoughts. As he was not, he’d just have to tell himself that he hadn’t taken advantage of her and had only done what was needful. He was no more—and no less—than a man and would challenge any fellow with blood in his veins to be unmoved by a curvaceous figure.

He rolled the dozing woman onto her side, lest she feel nauseous when she finally awoke. She moaned softly, and he froze, his hands still on her shoulder and hip. There was no further sound, so he slowly released his grip and backed away. His body shook—part in fear, part from lust. How much more exciting a luscious female form was when it was forbidden! The country’s enemies had chosen well if they’d appointed this comely wench to intercept him—they’d exploited his greatest weakness.

But she did not have his dispatch on her person. Recalling that he had a small costrel of brandywine in his chest, Robert fumbled in his scrip for the key and helped himself to a deep draft of the fiery liquid. He glanced back at the hunched figure on the bed, his fingers still tingling from their delicious contact with her naked thighs. Lord, but he nursed a perverse hope that he wasn’t wrong about her. For if she was innocent of any crime against him, what he’d just done was beyond the pale.

He replaced the stopper in the costrel, laid it atop the rest of his luggage, and stole back to the bed to see how she fared. As he did so, he chanced to glance out the window—and went rigid.

A shadow in one corner of the stable yard suddenly resolved itself into a person, who scuttled across the open space and into the stables. It was clearly a man, and by his build and the way he moved, might well be the weasel-faced man from the alum cart.

Whoever it was, he looked up to no good. Robert hurried back to his chest, removed and primed both his guns, then tucked one into his belt. He took Mistress Emmerson’s stub of candle, put it in the small covered lantern he always carried in his luggage, then hastened to unlock the door.

Forgetting all need for stealth, he charged from the chamber, raced the length of the passageway and down the stairs, cursing at every step. He now had to face an unpleasant possibility. While he’d been preoccupied searching a completely innocent woman, his dispatch’s real thief was getting away.

Chapter Twelve

Chloe opened her eyes and saw naught but darkness. Startled, she waited, staring at the shadows until gradually the shape of the window revealed itself. There was a sliver of moon beyond it, riding high above the village rooftops.

How could she have slept for so long? Why was she still fully dressed? Swiveling her legs off the bed, she eased herself upright, shocked at the dizziness that assailed her. Had she fainted again, as she had when that falling masonry had almost hit her?

She felt along the windowsill for the stub of candle she’d left there. At least, she thought she had, but it wasn’t there now. Odd, because the room stank of tallow. No matter—she always carried a precious beeswax candle in her scrip in case of need, and her tinderbox went everywhere with her.

As soon as she’d lit the candle, she put it in a holder and held it aloft, trying to get her bearings. No sound could be heard from the public rooms below. There was no bustle of servants, no rattle of pots or chink of crocks from the kitchen—it must be the middle of the night. Such a pity she hadn’t managed to sleep through until dawn! Now, she’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and fret that all her schemes had come to nothing. And doubtless think about Sir Robert Mallory more than she ought.

Why was her mouth so dry? It felt as if she’d slept with it open, and someone had trickled sawdust into it. Thankfully, she had a pitcher of water. Filling her horn beaker, she swilled the liquid around her mouth, and then gulped it down.

This revived her a little, but she couldn’t get rid of a growing sense of unease, as if something were badly amiss, or an event had occurred which her memory couldn’t quite grasp.

Then her eyes fell on Sir Robert’s chest. It was open. But it had been closed before she fell asleep. Had he been so bold as to enter a lady’s chamber while she slept? She grimaced. That was a question that needed no answer—he was bold enough for anything. But she’d have some choice words for the man when she saw him again.

Items of masculine clothing were strewn over the sides of the chest and the floor, as if it had been ransacked. Taking up her candle, she knelt beside the open box, intrigued by some strange objects poking out from the mess within.

There was a chatelaine ring, hung with several pieces of metal that looked like bent nails. A small box with a buckled strap contained some glass phials of liquid. There was a set of apothecary’s weights with scales, a crowbar, and a polished walnut box with its key still in the lock.

If Aunt Philippa could see her poking about in a strange gentleman’s belongings, she’d have an apoplectic fit. But the fact that Sir Robert had so sorely misjudged her, had manhandled her, and generally made a nuisance of himself, made Chloe unrepentant. She would find out what was in that box—such receptacles usually contained items of interest.

It was heavy. As she opened it, she discovered that the velvet-lined interior contained a deadly-looking firearm. There was an impression next to it which looked as if it had contained its twin, and another depression the shape of a miniature costrel—having recently held a powder flask, mayhap?

Her heart thumped painfully beneath her ribs. Where was the gun’s owner? And where, perhaps more importantly, was the other gun? Judging by the state of the chest, Sir Robert had departed in a hurry—and he’d been armed. Only a perilous circumstance would make him behave thus.