Page 8 of Lord of Mistrust

“The last thing you’ll get from me is my name,” she spat at him.

“I presume then, that it’s not Claude.” He was mocking her, the foul creature, when he should be making an apology. He’d touched her in an intimate place and impugned her honor—he needed to make reparation.

“Nay, it is not. Now, get out of my way.”

“I can’t let you go to the Red Lion alone. Don’t you know that all manner of ne’er-do-wells emerge after dusk? Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to join me? My bed is far more comfortable than the flea-ridden pallet you’ll find at the inn.”

Outrage stopped her breath. She moved forward, ready to grasp his shoulders and execute the maneuver Dela had promised would have a male assailant writhing on the floor in agony. But Robert caught her and pressed her against him, so there was no room to move. His hands went around her waist and held her still.

She craned her neck, trying to get her face as far away from his as she could. To no avail. He lowered his head and swept a kiss across her lips. Her throat tightened. She should be afraid, but the expression in his eyes told her that she had nothing to fear, and the upward quirk of his lips promised pleasure. His body was so firm, and his kiss so self-assured—she’d never felt desired in this way before. Lord Brooke had not a drachm of hot blood in him. This man had it in abundance.

“Where is my locket, wench? I’m asking for the final time.”

“I don’t—”

“Shh.” He pressed a finger against her lips. “I tire of your denials.” Then, before she could take another breath, he tipped her backward, caught her by the heels and turned her upside down. Her cap fell off and her hair covered her face, brushing the cobbles.

Then he shook her.

She hadn’t been upended since she was a child. Then, it had been a moment of joy and laughter—a tease, a treat. This was horrible. She felt a feral urge to bite her assailant’s shins.

Then she was set on her feet again, and her cap returned to her head. This time, she didn’t hesitate. She brought her knee up, connected with the most sensitive part of the man’s anatomy, and darted back into the street, making for the Red Lion as fast as her feet would carry her.

She smiled mercilessly at the sound of Robert’s groan, but didn’t slow until the front entrance of the tavern came into view. Before entering, she took a moment to straighten her clothing and tuck her hair back into its hiding place.

Then she looked down—and realized she’d left her bag in the alleyway. With Sir Robert Mallory.

Chapter Seven

So now he had two with which to contend—his injured foot and an aching groin. A bitter smile curled Robert’s lip as he limped back to his rented lodgings, Claude’s bag in his hand. He would search it before bed and mayhap return it to her in the morning—if he felt so inclined. What was her game? A whore who scuttled about the countryside, dressed as a boy? A bawdy bitch who refused an offer from a client and behaved as if she’d never been kissed or touched before?

Mayhap she hadn’t. Or perchance she was one of those special whores, groomed and sold as a perpetual virgin—he knew of the deceptions they pulled in the brothels. He’d never visited one for the purpose for which they were intended, but only to play at cards and gather information. But Claude, or “Claudette” as he would now call her, had stirred his blood. What would she look like in her female finery? What was she trying to hide? It would be the ultimate pleasure to find out.

Much to his surprise, his housekeeper, Goodwife Chandler, was still up when he let himself in the front door of his lodgings.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but there was a woman came round to see you earlier and left a small package. Then, later on, this was pushed under the door. I didn’t see who left it—probably urchins playing a prank—but I’ve not opened it, sir. I thought you’d prefer me not to.”

He certainly would. None of his recently hired servants knew of the double life he lived, and he’d rather keep it that way.

“Come into the parlor, quickly, and bring those with you. Is Beth still awake? I’d welcome a jug of small beer—it’s been a stiflingly hot day.” And he’d take some brandywine later, to dull the pain that still throbbed between his thighs.

By the time Goody Chandler returned, he’d flung off his cloak, doublet, and hat, removed his ruff and undone the ties of his shirt collar. His injured foot was elevated on a low stool. It was not—as he’d told “Claudette”—a blister, but a wound from a blade, sustained during an ugly fight with a Spanish tar. As things had turned out, he was glad he hadn’t told her the truth.

“Ah, thank you.” He took a deep draft of his beer, then accepted the small package from his housekeeper. He raised an eyebrow at her as he felt the item’s weight. When he unwrapped it, he felt queasy.

It was his locket—he turned it over and recognized his monogram on the back. Then he flipped it open, and there was Meg’s face, gazing demurely back at him, a splendid example of the miniaturist’s art. “Claudette” had not taken the jewel, after all. He’d known of her whereabouts all day, and she would have had no chance to return it. She’d been telling him the truth.

Leaning forward, he ran his fingers through his hair, and pictured himself turning the hapless wench upside down and shaking her. He let out a groan. He deserved the punishment she’d meted out.

“Are you well, sir?”

“Pray, don’t alarm yourself, Goody. ’Tis just that I have made a terrible mistake, it seems. I should be stood blindfold in front of a team of arquebusiers and shot.”

Goody Chandler coughed. “That’s your locket, is it, sir?”

“Aye. And doubtless you’re dying to hear from me how I came to be parted from it. And you’ll want to tell me in what manner it was returned.”

“It was Goodwife Fairclough, sir. She said you’d helped some young lad after an accident.”