A Scandalous Countess: A Novel of the Malloren World (59 page)

The dog only whined again, the cowardly cur, but she, with her weapon and her fierce, determined eyes, pale hair glowing in the candlelight—she was magnificent.

Cate raised both hands. “I intend no harm, ma’am. My word on it.”

“
And why should I trust your word? Leave. Now.”

“Why?” he asked, taking evidence from the room.

The tallow candle gave too little light and too much odor, but it illuminated poverty well enough. The tiny kitchen, like the whole house, was cold. If there’d been a cooking fire in the hearth it had long since burned to ashes. He saw no sign of food.

The only furniture here was a deal table with two chairs at it, and a rough sort of sideboard holding cheap pottery. Alongside pots, however, sat a few pieces of pretty china and glass. Remnants of the better life that showed in her well-bred accent and proud demeanor?

Why was this goddess alone and in such desperate straits? Why was she bedraggled and dressed so poorly? Her encompassing gown was a particularly dismal shade of black, her knitted shawl an ugly brown.

Had she truly been out on the streets attempting to earn some pennies in the only way available?

Her thinness told of hunger, but it etched strength into a face worthy of a Roman empress—high brow, long straight nose, perfectly curved lips, and a square chin. Not a face to conquer the fashionable world, but, by God, it was in danger of conquering him.

“Go!” she commanded again, but without confidence. The cowardly cur whined again, somewhere amid her skirts.

He realized his height was frightening her and sat, placing his hands on the table. Holding her eyes, he said, “I admire your courage, ma’am, but you won’t scare me away, and if it comes to a fight, you’ll give me no more than a scratch. Simpler by far to sit down and tell me your story.”

She tried to hold on to her strength, but her lips quivered.

Oh, ’struth.

Cate quickly took the leather flask from his pocket and put it on the table. “Have some of this.”

“
What is it?”

“Dutch courage.”

“What?”

“Geneva. Gin.”

“Gin!”

“Have you never indulged? It can sweeten bile.”

She changed her grip on the knife. Startled, he half rose to defend himself, but then she drove it, two-handed, deep into the rickety table.

“My, my,” he said after an appreciative moment. “Do please sit, drink, and tell.”

“You’ve already had too much to drink, sirrah.”

“It’s never too much unless I’m unconscious. You have glasses, I see. We could even be elegant.”

Suddenly she laughed. It was ugly, but a release of sorts. She pushed straggling hair off her face, then took two glass tumblers and slammed them on the table. She went back to open a low cupboard and returned with a bottle.

“Brandy,” she said, putting it beside the glasses. “My mother’s medicinal supply. I’ll get some water.”

“Seems a shame to dilute it.” Cate picked up the bottle and unstoppered it. “Your mother is abed upstairs?”

“My mother is dead.”

“My condolences.”

“Four months ago.”

Cate cursed his drink-blurred mind. He was being tossed pieces of a picture but couldn’t quite put them together.

She sat down opposite him, straight and proud. “Pour me some, then.”

The knife stood upright between them. Some vague reference to the sword of Damocles struggled to form, and failed.

He sniffed at the brandy. Not good stuff, but perhaps not atrocious. He poured half an inch into one glass and pushed it over to her. He poured the same into the other. He’d
normally take more, but even half an inch might be enough to send her under the table. He didn’t want her sozzled, only loose tongued.

And in his arms?

No, he had no place in his life for folly like that, but he’d help her if he could.