Kasey Michaels - The Return of the Prodigal

“I believe it is called patrolling,” she said, snatching the half boots from him and moving across the small room, to the bed. She pushed herself up onto it and pulled first one boot, then the other, over her feet. “We can not all rest like innocent children, unaware, when the world can come tumbling down on our heads at any time.”

She was so suddenly indignant, he held back his laughter at her expense. “Ah, not your grace, but my little General Lisette, patrolling our perimeter. And so, General, as you mention time , isn’t it still the middle of the night? Where do you think you’re going now?”

“Not me, Rian Becket. Us . And we are leaving. There is a man downstairs, in the tavern, who seems suspicious. I am not sure, but I may have seen him before, although I was careful not to let him see me. We must not linger here. I was waiting only for you to wake.”

“Bloody hell, Lisette,” Rian said, reaching for his boots, knowing he couldn’t pull them on by himself. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

She shrugged. “I told you a sip, only. The laudanum lets go in its own time. It would have been fruitless to even attempt to wake you.”

Considering the fact that she’d managed to have him carried to this room without awakening him, he supposed she was right. “No more laudanum, Lisette. Even if I ask for it. Even if I beg for it. You understand?”

“But you need your rest, Rian,” she told him as she took one of his boots and motioned for him to take his own turn sitting on the edge of the bed, which was the only place to sit in this small room under the eaves. “What do I do with a man dead from fever?”

“We’re back to that, are we? You say a quick prayer if the spirit so moves you, and leave his body in a ditch after withdrawing the bag of coins from his pocket—you might also be able to sell these boots for a good price—and strike out again for the coast. Damn, I hate needing your help this way.”

She knelt before him on the floorboards and struggled to push on the boot that had been fashioned especially for him by the talented Ollie in Becket Village, and fit like a second skin. “And then what, Rian Becket? I take myself to your home and tell them I had been bringing their son back to them—before I left him dead and barefoot in a ditch? Do you think they’d slay the fatted calf for me then, hmm? And I don’t even know where to go, do I, to deliver this so sad news? Where are we going?”

“Home,” Rian said shortly, pushing his foot deeper into the boot.

She glared up at him even as she picked up the other boot. “Maybe I don’t believe you, Rian Becket. Perhaps you are taking me to London, to sell me to some low brothel.”

Now Rian did laugh. “Where on earth do you get an idea like that?”

She tugged and tugged on the second boot. “Sometimes ladies would come to the convent, sent there by their husbands who wanted them to learn to be more obedient. They would bring novels with them and share them with me.”

“The convent, Lisette?”

She gave one last pull on the leather straps, and the boot slid up and over his calf. “My papa , he would sometimes teach the nuns English. I told you that. You remember nothing, Rian. How can I trust you to know how to get home?”

Rian looked down at her, trying to engage her gaze, but she was already getting to her feet once more, moving away from him. What a pretty girl. How little he really knew about her. “I don’t remember you saying anything about a convent.”

“Men never listen to women, when they speak of themselves. Only when the woman speaks of the man. It’s the way of men, to listen only when they are the subject of the conversation.”

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