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noticed the overturned glass on the table and looked around for a bottle. He reached down to the edge of the bed and found one still standing with about three swallows left in it—for a small person.
He picked it up, held the bottle in her direction and raised his eyebrows.
Her chin moved, but she didn’t open her mouth.
‘Speak your business quickly,’ he commanded. ‘Your bonnet is giving me a headache.’
He relaxed his arm, still holding the bottle. None of this would have happened if his wife had lived. The thought of her stabbed at his chest, and he wished he didn’t breathe in the blackness with every breath.
Just the touch of Mary’s finger at his cheek had given him more pleasure than he could ever find in a bottle.
He finished the liquid, then flipped the bottle into the corner, enjoying the clunk.
The lady with the overgrown bonnet watched him and her face condemned him. Her nose wrinkled and the corners of her lips turned down.
‘Makes two of us.’ His eyes swept over her.
Her gaze narrowed as she tried to guess his meaning. He enlightened her. ‘I’m not pleased with the sight of you, either, Love.’
The words were true. But, not completely. Something about her stirred his memories. Reminding him of a time when a woman’s beauty could touch him.
She wore a matronly fichu tucked into the bodice. Surely she had a body somewhere underneath, but he couldn’t be certain. He wagered she double-knotted her corset and wouldn’t walk past a mirror unless she had her laces done to her neck.
‘I had heard...’ She paused, seemingly entranced by the torn curtain. ‘I had heard,’ she repeated, rushing the words, ‘you might be a man of a somewhat, perhaps only slightly, disreputable nature.’ When she said disreputable nature, she looked at the floor, then at his eyes. Her hand clasped into a fist. ‘That might have been an error. Your nature is less—’
‘If gambling and drinking and spending my time in a tavern constitutes, then I suppose my nature could be under question,’ he interrupted. Who was this little dash of condemnation, he wondered, to be appearing on his doorstep, discussing his life?
‘You, miss—’ he speared her with his glance ‘—seem to be a woman who frequents places where no decent woman would be found and you appear to be looking for a man of impure habits.’ He paused, narrowing his eyes. ‘Which makes you...’
She stared at him. ‘Determined.’
He couldn’t believe it. She stepped a bit closer, her hand tight at her side. ‘If a bear prowled about me and the only trap I had near was rusty, covered in the stench of ale and might not be able to snap closed fast enough to catch a turtle, I’d use it. If only to sling the weapon at the bear’s head.’
He sniffed his arm. ‘Ale would be better than the smell of me.’
She tensed her body, near snarling the words into the room. ‘Are all men beasts? I had not expected a man such as yourself to have had a father, but I am surprised you have never had a mother either as no one has taught you manners.’
‘Ah, milady,’ he said with a sweeping bow. He gave her his darkest glare. ‘I must retire and you know where you can put your manners. Or lack thereof. Leave your calling card with the butler.’
* * *
Katherine tried to take her mind from the sight she had just seen on the bed. The man had been unclothed.
She bit the inside of her lip. She had stepped into a world of wickedness unlike anything she could have ever expected. And the wicked one on the bed—she had chosen him to save her virtue. She had made an error. An error of magnificent proportions. But she couldn’t think of another choice and she had so little time left.
‘I would like to speak with you as if we are two respectable people,’ Katherine said.
‘That beetle has already left the dung heap,’ he said.
‘When you were born,’ Katherine said, although she wasn’t sure she spoke the entire truth. The rumours said he had fallen from a life of prosperity straight on to the floor of a tavern.
He didn’t look as though he spent his life sotted.
The form he had might take some getting used to. His shape had covered most of the bed and his feet had reached past the end.
He wasn’t overgrown with hair on his body either, until she looked above his shoulders. She couldn’t have described much of him to a magistrate, except for his eyes. They were shadowed into a dark, soulless stare.
His face showed through locks of straight hair, which hung to his shoulders and mixed with a healthy scattering of whiskers.
This would have been a man she wouldn’t have stopped near on the street.
He would have to be harnessed to do her bidding and to save her. But she wasn’t quite sure she shouldn’t slam the door and run back to her home. His room spoke of his desperate circumstances though, so surely he could be hired to do her bidding?
Only the memory of Fillmore kept her standing firm.
Katherine couldn’t let him send her away. Her eyes darted around the room. In the morning light, shadows cloaked the furnishings. The bed was small and the covers fallen on the floor were rough, and worn. The clothing hung on pegs and he had few pegs. The stove stood in the centre of the room, its black chimney crookedly going to the roof. The table was made with the minimum of wood and had two chairs, one missing a rung in the back. Her servants would refuse such a room.
‘Don’t waste my time.’ He planted his feet firmly and opened the door. ‘I’ve got business to get back to.’ His smiled crooked at the side. ‘My pillow.’
‘Wait.’ She raised her hand to stop him from closing the door and somehow, she wasn’t quite sure how, her gloved fingers alighted on his muscled skin just above his elbow.
All words fled her thoughts. She could feel his strength, almost touch the anger in his eyes. And she could feel the blood in her veins and it moved with such speed it took her breath.
His eyes locked on hers as if she were a blackguard trying to ravish him. His jaw tensed and scornful eyes seared into her.
She jerked her hand back. ‘I got carried away in my quest. I shouldn’t, as I’ve heard you might also be considered somewhat honest.’
She had to take the burning anger from his eyes—or she would be lost. Her stepfather would have won, as he always did. He always won—even choosing the dress her mother was buried in. A dress her mother had hated.
She controlled her voice, softening it. ‘You’ve been described as a decent sort. With clear speech,’ she added, hoping to appease him. In fact, he’d been noticed because he spoke with society’s tones.
He was a man with an unknown past and the voice of a lord. He’d lived in a fine house, that was certain. And now he was no longer a part of it. People wondered whether he was a wastrel second son, a thief or the bastard child of a wealthy man, and some decided on all three.
‘And a kindness to children,’ she added softly, her eyes wide to pacify him.
She couldn’t remember any other good qualities about him without risking he might realise who’d spoken to her concerning his ways.
‘You’re good to small animals,’ she added, having no idea, but hoping.
He raised an eyebrow, lips firm. ‘Continue.’
‘You’re an excellent judge of horseflesh.’ She’d never heard of a man yet who wouldn’t agree to the statement.
He tilted his chin down a bit and she thought humour flashed across his eyes. ‘Yes...’
The silence was a bit too long and