James McGee - Ratcatcher

She feigned annoyance and gave his arm a playful slap then lowered her head and kissed the spot tenderly. She regarded him levelly and her expression grew serious. “So, tell me, my Captain, when you were a soldier, did you kill many men?”

“I never kept a tally.”

She elevated herself on to one elbow, ran a fingertip along the muscle in his forearm. “But you did fight and kill?”

“Yes.”

“Frenchmen? Bonaparte’s soldiers?”

“Mostly.” Hawkwood wondered where this was leading.

She sensed his hesitation. “You do not like to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

She frowned. “It disturbed you? The killing?”

“Not at the time.”

She stretched languorously. “So, you enjoyed it?” It sounded almost like a challenge. Once again Hawkwood was reminded of a cat sated after a saucer of cream.

“It was war. I was a soldier. They were the enemy. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Is that why you let Lord Rutherford live? You had the choice?”

“Let’s just say I’ve grown tired of seeing men die needlessly.”

She sat up quickly. “Had I been you, I would not have been so forgiving. I would have killed him!”

Her sudden vehemence startled him.

“You doubt me?” she asked. Her look dared him to contradict.

“Not for a moment,” Hawkwood said truthfully. He went to sit up. As he did so, his hand brushed the underside of the pillow.

“Christ!”

The pain was so sudden and so intense he thought at first that he’d been stung by something. He jerked his hand away quickly and stared at the tiny dark red bubble of blood that had appeared as if by magic on the end of his finger. Certainly no wasp or bee sting.

Hawkwood lifted the pillow cautiously. The knife lay on the sheet. The blade was some six inches long, very thin, and needle sharp. The handle was of a similar length to the blade, black in colour and inlaid with an intricate gold filigree design. The workmanship, Hawkwood could see, was exquisite. It was a weapon as finely wrought as it was deadly.

Humour danced in her eyes. Her hand moved to her mouth as if to stifle laughter. She reached over him. The tips of her breasts dimpled his arm as she lifted the stiletto from its hiding place. “Oh, my love, forgive me! I’d quite forgotten it was there!” She laid the knife aside and took his hand in her own. “Here, let me see.”

She bent her head, as if to examine the wound. Before he could stop her, she had closed her mouth around his fingertip. He felt the warm curl of her tongue. Slowly, she slid her lips down the length of his finger. Hollowing her cheeks, she closed her eyes as she sucked the still warm blood from his flesh.

Releasing his finger from her mouth, she raised her head and smiled again. “Am I forgiven?”

Hawkwood stared down at the knife.

She followed his gaze. “We live in dangerous times, my love. A lady needs protection.”

“From whom?”

“Why, Bonaparte’s agents, of course. It is not unknown for the Emperor to send his people against us.”

“Us?” Hawkwood said.

“Those of us who wish to see Bonaparte deposed.”

“Royalists?”

“King Louis is the rightful heir. Did you know that this year alone the Emperor has twice sent agents to murder the Comte d’Artois? That means anyone who supports the Bourbon cause is at risk. We must be able to defend ourselves. Would you deny me that right?”

Hawkwood was about to suggest that her honour would probably be better protected by a brace of pistols, but he was silenced when she leaned over and plucked the weapon from the bed sheet. He watched, fascinated, as she raised the stiletto to her lips and kissed the blade. It was a mime as erotic as her scent and the feel of her lips sliding over his knuckle. Looking down, he thought he saw her nipples harden. For a fleeting second, it was as if she and the knife were one, bonded together like lovers and, despite the incongruity of the moment, Hawkwood felt the stirrings of arousal.

Her dark eyes flashed. “Had you not come to my rescue, I’d have used it on that pig Rutherford without a moment’s regret.”

She stood, placed the knife on the armoire, turned to him, and grinned.

“But enough of this! What must you think of me, speaking of such things?” She leaned over him, breasts swaying invitingly, and chuckled seductively. “When I can think of much more pleasurable ways of passing the time!”

It was mid morning by the time Hawkwood arrived at the Blackbird. The tavern occupied the corner of a quiet mews at the lower end of Water Lane, one of the many winding arteries leading from the south side of Fleet Street down towards the river. Hidden deep within a maze of secluded courtyards and passageways, less than a stone’s throw from Kings Bench walk and the Inner Temple, it was inevitable that the majority of the tavern’s patrons should be members of the legal profession. The tavern’s proximity to Temple Church and St Dunstan’s also ensured regular custom from those of an ecclesiastical persuasion. Writers, actors and politicians-callings that often went hand in hand-had also been known to duck through its low portals in search of a late supper and a soothing dram.

To Hawkwood, however, the Blackbird was more than a convenient watering hole. It was home. The two rooms he inhabited beneath the tavern’s sloping roof were a quiet haven to which he could retreat from the bustling streets that were such an integral part of his life.

Several booths were occupied. One or two of the regulars glanced up and nodded in silent recognition as he entered. Not everyone was eating. Some groups conversed over drinks. A few customers had paired off and were engaged in games of chess. Others played whist, while a number of individuals, at ease with their own company, were content merely to sip coffee, enjoy a quiet pipe, and peruse the morning papers.

“Well, now, if it isn’t Officer Hawkwood! And I suppose you’ll be wanting breakfast?”

The voice came from behind. Hawkwood turned and smiled.

“Morning, Maddie.”

Maddie Teague was a woman who carried her beauty without a trace of vanity. Tall and slender, her most arresting features-a pair of emerald eyes framed by a halo of dark auburn hair-had been known to strike men dumb at over fifty paces. It was safe to say that those striking good looks were as responsible for attracting the many and varied customers into the comfortable dining room as the tavern’s Epicurean delights. Maddie Teague ruled the place with an effective combination of grace and efficiency. Under her guiding hand, the Blackbird had become one of the area’s most respected establishments.

Watching Maddie and her girls distribute an assortment of steaming platters among the diners reminded Hawkwood that it had been a while since he had last eaten. The aroma of the food wasn’t helping matters either. A late breakfast, Hawkwood decided, wouldn’t go amiss. He placed an order for eggs, ham and cheese.

“Coffee, too, Maddie, if it’s no trouble.”

Maddie wiped her hands on her apron, all efficient. “No trouble at all, Officer Hawkwood. You just sit yourself down and I’ll be with you in two shakes.” She looked Hawkwood up and down and arched an eyebrow. “You look as though you could do with a decent meal inside you. Hard night was it?”

Hawkwood forced a grin. “You know what they say, Maddie. No rest for the wicked.”

“Do they indeed?” Maddie responded wryly. “And that’s why you’ll be wanting me to send your shirt to the seamstress, I suppose?” She paused before aiming the killer punch. “That’ll be after the blood’s been washed out, no doubt?” Having delivered her parting salvo, Maddie straightened her shoulders, turned on her heel and headed back towards the kitchen.