Cates, Kimberly (21 page)

"Maybe you'd be happier without it," Juliet suggested with acid cheerfulness.

"Juliet, don't tell me you have feelings for Rutledge, that—that scrawny yapping dog of a fool!"

"I do have feelings toward him. Sympathy. Gratitude. He is terribly alone in that little pawnshop, and so very unhappy. And he
was
kind to me."

"Exactly how did this kindness manifest itself? He's the only one in the neighborhood who hasn't heaved a brick through your window? That's not kindness, madam, it's poor aim."

His scorn rankled, driving her to a rash confession she'd sworn never to tell another soul. "I had to pawn two links of my mother's necklace to keep Angel's Fall running smoothly." Juliet couldn't totally hide the twinge of pain the memory caused her, the pulling apart of the precious necklace had been like tearing out bits of her own heart.

"That bauble I sent all the way from Ireland?" Adam stared at her, stunned. "You turned it over to that penny-grubbing fool. I'd have thought you were the sentimental sort."

"He gave me a most generous price. And he tucked the bits into the corner of one of his shelves, half hidden by other trinkets so his customers wouldn't see them. I hope that someday I'll be able to buy the pieces back."

Black eyes glittered beneath the sharp slash of Adam's brows, but he was silent, too silent—a giant jungle cat watching its prey. "I wonder, is that possible?" he demanded a little hoarsely.

"Is what possible?"

"To buy back the pieces that you've stolen from me?" But he didn't explain his cryptic comment, only turned and stalked from the garden house.

Chapter 11

It was quiet. Too quiet, Adam thought grimly as he paced through the night-darkened house. There hadn't been so much as a ripple in the still waters that enveloped Angel's Fall, no threats or angry clusters of Mother Cavendish's throng. Any normal man would have been relieved at the relative peacefulness outside the haven for fallen women— especially since the inside of the infernal place was buzzing like a hollow tree stuffed with honey, the women continually flitting about, stinging each other with their biting words.

But in his years as a warrior Adam had learned to mistrust the most peaceful of glades—the more serene the setting, the more potentially deadly it could be.

He paused at the doorway, and checked the latch, making certain it was still bolted. God knows, two days ago, he'd found it wide open, and Millicent in the garden with the butcher's young apprentice. He'd hauled the woman inside with all the finesse of an outraged papa, sending the fledgling butcher fleeing with a cuff to the shoulder.

He should've turned the girl over to Juliet for a rare fine scolding, but he found he couldn't—especially with Millicent pleading, very real tears streaking her face.

"Please, I beg of you, don't tell Juliet!"

"Do you fear she'll fling you out of the house?"
Adam had asked.

"Never! She never would unless I did something to harm one of the other ladies. It's just... I know you'll never be able to understand. But she'll look at me, so sad, like the madonna in St. Columcille's church where I went as a child. She'll clasp my hand and stroke my hair and tell me to try to do better next time. I know it sounds mad, but I'd rather she get out the horsewhip like my father did, and just beat the devil out of me instead of staring at me, so forgiving."

It was a sentiment Adam understood only too well. There were times he'd have preferred facing a firing squad rather than confront the disappointment in his brother's face.

"I know it's hard to understand, but since I was scarce thirteen, I'd spent every night in a man's arms. I know he cared nothing about me, but still, I could pretend I wasn't alone."

Wistfulness clung to the dulcet tones of her voice, a hollow, aching emptiness that spoke volumes.
"Please Mr. Sabrehawk,"
she'd said.

He'd stroked Millicent's pretty hair the way he would have petted one of his little sisters' curls, and sent her up to bed.

But he'd been shaken by how alike he and the courtesan were—for he'd dreamed night after night of arms holding him, shielding him from his own night-dragons. Arms pale and innocent as the light of the new moon. He'd buried himself in countless romantic liaisons. He'd garnered the admiration of even his most dreaded enemies. He had a family who adored him, who clamored in every letter that they missed him, and a half-brother he knew was hurt by the fact that Adam couldn't bear to face him. But Adam had never realized why he'd withdrawn from his family until now.

He'd been alone forever, until Juliet Grafton-Moore had wept over his scarred hands.

He gave a final tug on the lock, then froze as he heard a noise out of synch with the night.

It was coming from the direction of the pantry. Stealthily, he crossed to its half-open door, then, every nerve humming with readiness, slammed it open. A startled cry reverberated from within. Light from the kitchen lamps spilled into the space, and he caught a glimpse of golden curls and wide blue eyes that appeared guilty as bedamned.

Juliet. She whipped around, facing the worktable and the pantry wall, thrusting something beneath a linen towel. Adam scowled at the back of her neck.

"What the devil are you doing running about?" Adam demanded, oddly irritated.

"Eating gingerbread. If you must know, I have a secret passion for the stuff." A kind of light fog seemed to obscure the words, her voice the tiniest bit indistinct. Blast if she didn't sound a little tipsy.

She was so obvious in her efforts to conceal something, Adam couldn't resist tormenting her. "I'm rather fond of the stuff myself. Perhaps I'll try a piece."

"No!" she exclaimed far too emphatically, rushing to dump the whole pan into the rubbish pail. Adam knew he'd never seen her waste so much as a thimbleful of food, always gathering every scrap to put out for the poor.

"This batch is absolutely dreadful," she rushed to explain, never even turning to glance at him. "I'll make another tomorrow. Now shouldn't you be off changing the guard or whatever you and Fletcher do all night?"

Suspicion stirred in Adam's chest. His angel was the sort who liked looking straight into the eyes of whomever she was speaking to. What the devil was the matter with her? What was she hiding?

Adam closed the space between them. "What are you up to, lady? Dipping into the medicinal wine?" He grasped her arm, to turn her toward him. He was stunned as she resisted, grabbing up the linen towel, pressing it to her mouth, as if dabbing away the crumbs.

"I'm gorging myself on sweets. I do it when I'm nervous. Now are you satisfied?"

"So you're human after all, I—" Adam started to tease, then his gaze locked on the bright crimson stain spreading upon the towel. "What the hell! You're bleeding!" he accused.

"It's nothing! The tiniest cut."

He ripped the towel away from her face. A wound as long as Adam's smallest fingernail marred the ripe perfection of her bottom lip, a droplet of blood marking the injury. "How the devil did that happen?"

"There was something in the gingerbread. A piece of glass." She gave a brisk laugh. "That's one of the hazards in teaching cooking to reluctant students. I should have made it clear they were supposed to crack the
eggs
into the
bowl,
not the
bowl
into the
eggs."

Adam looked down at the worktable, saw the crumbling piece of gingerbread she'd attempted to hide. A shard of blue bottle glass nestled in the spicy cake, a wicked point at its end. He shuddered as he pried the triangle of glass free. "Who the devil did this! It was damned careless! Hell, you could have been badly hurt."

"I—I don't remember who baked today. I—I'm sure it was my own fault the bowl broke."

Something about her protests made Adam scowl. His gaze locked on the shelf above the worktable, crockery bowls lined up in careful precision. He held the piece of glass to the light. "Just a damned minute, lady. How stupid do you think I am? There's no way in hell you'd have a glass bowl here. Too damned expensive. How the blazes..."

She turned away, but not before he saw hot color flood her cheeks. A sick sensation gripped his stomach. "If this glass couldn't have broken into the batter by accident then someone did it on purpose."

"Adam, please. Don't jump to conclusions! There's no harm done."

"No harm done!" he roared. "You're bleeding, damn it. Whoever planted this in Angel's Fall meant for someone to cut themselves. And badly."

"That's one blessing. No one else was in danger."

"How can you say that? How could even the most devious of minds know that you would be the one to take that particular piece of gingerbread? They'd have to be some sort of conjurer, able to predict the future."

"I'm the only person at Angel's Fall who likes gingerbread. It's a particular weakness of mine. Papa's cure for all ills—a nice hot plate of it with some milk. I know it's silly, but the taste of it has always made me feel safe, somehow. As if I were sipping a bit of my own childhood." Trembling fingers touched the cut, and Adam saw the dart of sorrow in her eyes, knew instinctively what she was thinking. Now, instead of remembering warmth and safety and her father's love, whenever his angel smelled the spicy cake, she'd remember this—something lethal buried inside it by someone who hated her, wanted to hurt her. The knowledge made him wild with impotent rage.

He fought it down, and tipped her face up into a puddle of lamplight, then grabbed up a bit of clean cloth. "Open your mouth, sweetheart," he ordered. "Let me see..."

"It's nothing. I told you—"

"Open your mouth or I'll pry it open with a spoon," he threatened.

She grimaced, wincing in pain, then surrendered. Those ripe lips that had been the most kissable he'd ever tasted parted, and he saw another small gash on her tongue and one on the inside of her cheek.

"You didn't swallow any of the glass? You're sure of that?"

"I'm sure."

"Thank God." A streak of relief shot through him that the injury wasn't far worse. Adam dabbed at the cut on her lip, certain he could have cheerfully used the bit of glass to carve into ribbons whichever sick son of a bitch was responsible for hurting her. But first he'd have to find out exactly who it was. He raked through his mind, trying to grasp infinite possibilities.

"Whoever planned this would have to have been inside this house," Adam mused, a sick knot tightening in the pit of his stomach. "And they'd have to know your ways. Hell, what are the chances that you'd be the only person in this whole place who liked gingerbread? I didn't even know it, and I've been living in your infernal bedroom for days."

Horror beyond imagining dawned inside him, his voice grating like the hinges on a long-sealed tomb. "The only people who could know such a thing are living here," he said slowly. "Isabelle, Millicent, all your angels."

Juliet struggled to pull away from him, but Adam held her still with one mighty hand. Hot indignation flooded her eyes, turning her features militant. "None of my ladies would do such a cruel thing to anyone! I'll not tolerate you accusing them of something so despicable!"

"Who else could have arranged this little present for you? No one else has been inside this benighted place since the day I first arrived. The doors are latched, the windows barred. The gingerbread has been in the kitchen the whole time—"

"No it hasn't. I put it out in the garden to cool. Anyone could have gotten to it there."

"But the gate was locked, wasn't it?" Adam almost bellowed, but no one knew better than he did how fragile such measures of security could be. He'd picked more locks, broken more bolts, and wedged open more windows than a house-breaker in his years earning his bread at the point of his sword.

"I don't know if everything was locked. I think so, but— but the butcher's lad has to be able to bring the chickens I ordered for pie tonight into the kitchen, and the ladies are constantly having things delivered to the house—fans and bits of ribbon."

Fear throbbed through Adam's veins, an unfamiliar elixir that made him feel helpless and weak for the first time in his life. The notorious Sabrehawk who had made a fortune guarding black-hearted villains and greedy tyrants with his sword hadn't been able to protect this compassionate angel of a woman, not even here in her own house.

Was it likely that someone had managed to break into the garden? Adam puzzled in desperation. That the perpetrator of this vile deed had merely slipped into Angel's Fall like a shadow, left their horrendous warning, and then melted into the night?

There was always the possibility that it was so. But there was another possibility so bitter Adam could barely form it in his mind—the chance that more delicate, more trusted hands had slipped the glass into the gingerbread. That someone inside Angel's Fall was responsible for Juliet's injuries. Adam had spent a lifetime witnessing the starkest of betrayals—his father's betrayal of his wife, officers' betrayals of the men they led into battle, but never had the prospect of such dishonor stricken him more deeply.

Adam gathered her into his arms. "What in heaven's name are you doing?"

"Carrying you upstairs where you belong."

"I can walk by myself, you know. I didn't cut my feet."

What would she say if he admitted the truth? That he was holding her for himself, to assure himself she was safe. That he felt as if he would keep her there forever if by doing so he could keep every danger that stalked her at bay.

After a moment, she stopped her struggles and nestled against his chest, burying her face in the lee of his shoulder with a sigh. He carried her up the stairs, heedless of the noise he made, his boots sounding like cannonfire against the risers. Doors popped open along the faintly lit corridor, mob-caps of every size and style poking out into the hallway as women thrust out their sleepy heads.

"What is amiss?" Millicent cried, rubbing at her sleep-crusted eyes with one fist.

"Nothing," Juliet said, struggling against his arms. Adam held her pinioned against his chest as if she were a fluttering hummingbird.