Joanna Bourne: The Forbidden Rose

“That’s fixed, then. No more flowers.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hawker stoop and pick up a rock, draw back and throw. Glass fell with a thin, silver discord. The heroic revolutionaries of Voisemont had missed one pane. Destruction was now complete.

“It would have bothered me all night, knowing there was one window left,” Hawker said.

“Anything else you need to break to make it homey in here?”

“That’ll do.” The boy poked at pottery pieces where somebody’d beaten an orchid apart, pot and all. “They hated this place. Hated it more than the big house. I’m surprised they didn’t take it down, stone by stone.”

“They may yet. It’s early days.” Lots of hate in you, isn’t there? But you’re worth trying to save if you see things like that. “Put the animals in the kitchen garden. If you walk them through any of this glass I’m going to make you pick it out of the hooves with your teeth. And fetch some straw. We’ll put it between us and the ground. No reason we shouldn’t sleep soft tonight.”

“Straw. I love luxury.”

Three barn swallows shot out of the gable end of the stable, sudden as arrows. If he’d been facing the other way, he would have missed it.

It probably didn’t mean a thing. Birds pick any odd minute to get spooked. But the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. And the donkeys were nervous. Somebody’s watching us.

“What?” The boy’s hand hovered over the knife he kept hidden under his waistband.

“Don’t turn.”

“Where are they?”

“The stable. Far left end. You walk off slow and get out of the line of fire. Go busy yourself with our four-footed brothers.”

“Your brothers, maybe. Not mine.” He gave a fluid shrug for anyone watching—that was a damned eloquent French shoulder he was developing—and sauntered off, whistling, without a backward glance. The boy was born for this work. He’d make a spy of him yet. If he didn’t have to kill him.

He strolled out to the six-foot stone wall that edged the kitchen garden, adjusting his trousers like a man picking a good spot to piss. When he had a substantial boxwood between him and the stable, he boosted himself up and over the wall and dropped into an herb bed on the other side.

Basil crushed underfoot when he landed. He was going to smell like basil. Going to yell his approach to all and sundry. Couldn’t be helped. He loped along the garden wall, keeping in its cover, staying on the dirt so it was quiet. Thirty feet, and he was coming up behind the stable. He went back over the wall again. Nobody on guard. All quiet. All deserted.

The feeling that somebody waited inside got stronger and stronger.

The back door to the tack room was open. He stalked forward, hunting whatever waited for him in there.

SHE KNEW HOW TO STAY STILL. THAT WAS THE FIRST important thing Doyle learned about her. She had a controlled patience that made her just about invisible. Most people couldn’t pass two minutes without fidgeting.

The woman stood in the shadow under the stable loft, outlined against the window, watching the courtyard. Breaths slipped in and out of her body like ghosts. Her face was turned away from him. She wore country clothes, like an upper servant or a farm wife. Dark blue skirt. White apron. A plain linen fichu tied around her shoulders. She had clogs on her feet. Her hair was pulled back from her face and braided in a thick tail that hung down her back, tied at the bottom with a scrap of bright red cloth. Her arms crossed her chest, one over the other, hugging tight and protective.

The smear of mud on her skirt and the scratches on her arms said she’d been hiding in the woods, living rough. She’d be one of the household—a lady’s maid or seamstress or the wife of the steward.

The stable window she’d picked had a wide, unobstructed view of the chateau and the avenue between the coach house and the back lane. By chance or planning, she’d picked a first-rate lookout post.

Even as he thought that, her hand went to the back of her neck. She could feel when eyes were on her, a skill that wasn’t as common as mice in a closet.

She turned. Saw him. The instant stretched tight.

He’d put himself between her and the back door. She hadn’t thought of keeping two lines of retreat. One for your enemy to block off. One so you can run like hell.

Skirt and apron whirled. She exploded into flight, down the stalls, long braid trailed out behind her. He caught her halfway to the door. Wrapped his arms around her and held on.

She twisted and tried to rake her nails at his face. When he caught her wrists, she curled like an eel and bit the hand that held her, digging her teeth deep.

Well, that hurt. “I’m not going to—” A sabot hit his shin. “God’s . . . tortoises. Will you hold still? I’m trying not to damage you.” He shifted his grip and she broke a hand free and pulled out a knife.

Enough. He kicked her legs out from under her. The knife bounced away. He flopped her down on her back into the piled straw.

That was the end of it, to all intents and purposes, except she was going to keep fighting for a while.

She was light for her size and panicked and dead ignorant of fighting. He’d make short work of a man her size. This girl had no chance at all. She kneed him in the belly, missing the vital goods by a margin narrower than he liked. That seemed to be sheer luck. None of the men in her life had taught her how to do damage to the male of the species. That was a pity because she was approaching this business of hurting him with lots of enthusiasm.

He didn’t blame her for trying. He’d do the same himself. He climbed on top and held her down. “Biting everything in sight don’t do you any noticeable good, and it’s annoying the hell out of me.”

The ending was abrupt. She gave up, all at once, all over. She lay under him, looking up. They were wrapped together like lovers. But this wasn’t even the distant cousin of lovemaking.

I am scaring her to death.

Then she got a good look at the scar on his cheek and stopped breathing.

That scar was a work of art, seven inches of grotesque, running from his eyebrow to his chin. The major geographic feature of his face. It made him look fairly depraved.

“This face of mine’s always been a great trial. I’m lucky I don’t have to look at it.” He stayed as he was, still and heavy, on top of her.

Her eyes were the color of coffee pouring from the pot—intensely brown, translucent. She was pale under the sunburn, and scratched and dirty. Her muscles, hard with fear, vibrated in his hands where he had her pinned down.

“Let me go.” Her throat clenched and unclenched.

The fichu kerchief around her neck had got itself pulled loose. Her breasts were nudging out of her bodice. And . . . he had his hand on one of them. When did that happen? God. He jerked away fast and took hold of her shoulder instead. That was neutral ground up there. “Sorry. Don’t mean anything by that. An accident.”

Fine pair of breasts she had. White as split almonds. Round as peaches. The nipples peeked out, since the fichu wasn’t doing its job. A pair of dark little roses, pulled up into buds. Tasty looking. And if he got any closer he could put his mouth down and lick them.

That’s going to reassure her—you slavering at her tits.

He levered himself up some, so he wasn’t crushing her. “I wanted to know who’s spying on me. That’s all. I’m not going to hurt you. See. I’m letting you go. What you do is, you don’t hit me. You might hold off on that biting, too.”

He watched a bit of rational thought come tiptoeing into her mind. Watched her turn his words over, considering them from all sides. She unfroze, muscle by muscle.