He usually fobbed off such inquiries with frowns. But she wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t likely to see her again, and so he’d not have to bear the burden of her pity. And so what came out was the truth. “When I was twelve, my mother locked me in the cellar. She kept me there for days. There was no light.” He smiled faintly. “There were turnips. Beets. Also onions. A great many onions. I can’t stand them anymore.”
He leaned back on the trunk, looking up at the ceiling. The trunk was bound by metal straps; they were uncomfortable beneath him, and it was just as well, because the discomfort kept him firmly grounded in the present. “And then it began to rain. It was the worst rain that Shepton Mallet had experienced in living memory. The basement walls began to seep water, and then to fill. It came on terribly fast. The water crept to my ankles, and then before I knew it, it was up to my thighs. There were no stairs, just a wooden ladder descending into the cellar. So I clung to the top for hours, beating on the door and praying. If I let go, I would drown. Even if I held on, I had no escape, and the water was rising.” He took a deep breath.
She set her fork down gently. But she didn’t say anything.
“I was trapped. I was certain I would die.” If he shut his eyes, he could still feel the cramp of his hands, clenched around the wood of the ladder. He’d been certain he’d not be able to hold on much longer.
“But you survived.”
“My brother stole the key eventually.”
“What did you do that warranted such treatment?”
“Hanging is fast,” he snapped back. “You think leaving me to drown in freezing water was warranted?”
She held up her hands. “No. That’s not what I meant.”
It was all too easy to see everything as an attack when he thought of the cellar. He forced himself to breathe slowly. He could trace it back, step by step. Years ago, he’d questioned each decision, wondering if he could have averted calamity after all. Now, he simply accepted what it had made of him.
“The day before, I went to the town elders and told them my mother was mad. That if they didn’t intervene, we would be in danger.” He met her gaze. “They laughed at me, and scarcely listened to my tale. I went home. Someone informed her that I’d asked for help, and she flew into a fury. Hence the cellar.” He ripped off another piece of chicken, and passed it under the table. “So I know what happens when justice lapses.”
She nodded.
“It’s why my duty is so important to me. When people come to me, I listen. So that what happened to me doesn’t happen to anyone else. Don’t feel sorry for me. Most people can’t change their past. I change mine every day.”
“I see,” she said quietly.
“Sometimes,” he continued, “rain and darkness and closed quarters have an odd effect on me. It passes quickly enough. All of which is to say, this is quite normal. I haven’t any need for your company any longer.”
An odd smile crossed her face. “How like you, to be arrogant even when you’re vulnerable.”
“I’m not vulnerable.”
“Yes, you are,” she contradicted. “You’re looking at me as if I’m supposed to...”
His eyes riveted on her lips, and she stopped speaking. The heat in the room swirled about him, sinking beneath his skin. She blushed again. He stood. Two steps, and he was standing before her. She tilted her head back to look him in the face. Her eyes were wide and luminous, and he leaned down to her. She smelled softly, subtly sweet—like mint leaves, dried for tea.
“What is it you’re supposed to do?” he asked.
“Kiss you. Kiss you and make it better.”
“No.” His voice rang hoarse. “I don’t want that.”
She drew back.
“I want you to kiss me and make it worse.”
A little gasp escaped her. He touched his hand to the point of her chin, tilted her face up to his. Her skin was warm against his fingers, and she flushed under his touch. She looked utterly dazzled. Dangerous, that look, as if he’d hung the stars for her.
But he wanted to believe he could, so he kissed her.
As predicted, it made everything worse. Her kiss heightened the hunger for company that he’d long ignored. Her lips were slack in surprise at first, but then she came to life under him, kissing him back. That sparked a fierce, possessive desire. He wanted her. That want had the strength of years of loneliness behind it.
She reached up and twined her hands around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down to her. She opened under his kiss, and then it was not just the softness of her lips, but that of her mouth, hot, melding with his. Their tongues touched; she made a little noise in the back of her throat—something fierce and needy.
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him. She came easily, her hands sliding down his frame. She was so warm, so present, that she drove away all thoughts of the cold and distant past.
There was nothing but her—her kiss, her caress. Her breathy gasp of pleasure.
He courted that now, slowing the kiss so that he could slide his fingers up her waist, up the fabric of her dress to cup her breast. It was small in his hand, small but round and perfectly formed. Her gown fastened in the front; he undid a button. Then another. She ran her hands along his chest, urging him on. He, in turn, loosened the laces of her stays, and slipped his thumb under the fabric.
She moaned when he touched her nipple—not loud, but deep in her throat, a noise halfway to a purr that drove him mad. God, he wanted her. Wanted to wring more sounds from her, wanted to lose himself in her pleasure—and his own. He slid her loosened stays down and captured the pebbled tip of her breast between his lips.
She was sensitive—so damned sensitive and responsive to his touch. Her whole body arched against his. Her hand clenched around his arm.
He wanted to take her, to have her—not just her body, but her warmth, her smile, her presumptuous clever wit. He ran his other hand up her leg, sliding her skirts up to bare her knees.
The skin of her thighs was impossibly perfect—not just soft, but taut and supple. He slid his hand up her leg, so close…
She laid her hand over his. “No,” she said distinctly.
He froze. He was inches from the juncture of her legs. He was burning for her. He was rock hard and ready; she was interested, too. His breath feathered against her nipple, erect in obvious arousal. “No?” he echoed in disbelief.
She struggled away from him and adjusted her stays. Her hands were unsteady, and tangled in the laces. “No,” she repeated. “I can’t do that.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I have one child I can’t manage. I hardly need another.”
It was on his tongue to make promises to her—that he’d keep her, that he’d shoulder any burden that she might encounter. Or he might have simply leaned forward and taken her breast in his mouth again. He knew the sound of an objection that could be easily overridden with a bit of judicious action. It would be the easiest thing in the world to seduce her.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said earnestly. “But despite any appearances to the contrary, I’m not that kind of girl.”
He took the edges of her corset in his hands and looked into her eyes.
What a damned joy it would be for her—a quick tumble with him. After he’d slaked himself on her warmth, her generosity, she would turn to him, expecting what he could never give. He wanted to rip her stays off altogether, to slide against her bare skin.
But there was no point in wallowing in what he wouldn’t have. Instead, he pulled his hands away. “Lucky for you,” he said softly. “I’m not that kind of man.”
Nothing to do for it but tidy up her gown.
“I did want that kiss,” she said earnestly. “It was a lovely kiss.”
He tucked the ends of her laces in, before meeting her eyes. “Then here’s another one.”
This one was bitter in its sweetness. If the soft brush of her lips had driven away his loneliness before, her kiss now served only to remind him that this, too, was
coming to an end. This kiss wasn’t companionship or warmth. It didn’t even encompass lust. It was farewell, and when it ended he’d be alone once more.
He pulled away before it could become anything else.
“Stay safe,” he told her. “Eat well. I’ll walk you back—and I’ll hear no argument from you.”
“You’ll take me to the Bristol Bridge,” she corrected. “It’s dark. I won’t be safe in your half of the city, but you’d not be safe in mine.”
He leaned in and rested his forehead against hers.
“You won’t see me in your hearing room again,” she murmured. “I…you’re right. You and Jeremy both. I have to walk away from that. And Robbie is old enough to make his own decisions.”
“If I did see you again,” he said, “I’d not render judgment. I believe I’ve misplaced my impartiality in regard to you.”
“Will I see you at all?”
He shook his head. But he couldn’t yet make himself move away. He was unwilling to relinquish his hold on her, unwilling to say that final good-bye. He held her for a minute, then two, then three, simply holding her and committing to memory what he could not have in life. There was a sweet, comforting scent to her.
His memory was very, very good, but she was better.
He only loosened his grip when he feared he might not be able to let go of her at all.
Chapter Nine
FOR ANOTHER MAN, THE memory of Miranda Darling might have faded over the days that passed.
But Smite’s memories never faded, and he found himself strangely reluctant to push thoughts of her from his mind entirely. It was easy to withstand loneliness when the alternative was to saddle himself with some doe-eyed innocent who could not follow his conversation, and whose only experience in deprivation amounted to a few hours of boredom. It was harder to resist thoughts of a wary, green-eyed woman who knew Greek plays and made her own way on the streets.
He could call to mind what it felt like to have her walking next to him in the rain, her cheeks pink with exertion, that wide smile on her face as she teased him about his name. He woke some nights, not from one of his usual nightmares, but hard with want, the memory of her skin swimming through his mind.
No matter how he tried, he couldn’t remember her scent—just that it had calmed him—and that failure was driving him wild.
He tried to tell himself it was nothing but lust. Except that he didn’t only think of the heat of her mouth, her response to his kiss. He lusted after her smiles. After the easy way she teased him. It was deeply irrational, that want. But then, it had been a long while since a woman had laughed at him, and he couldn’t help but treasure the memory.
There was nothing to do about such thoughts—nothing, that was, except to hope that she was eating well, and to send his clerk off to seek word of George Patten. But Palter had found nothing from the men in the gaol; days ago, he’d gone in search of those who’d been released since then. The inquiries were taking time.
This morning started as any other morning would. Palter brought him a summary of the prior day’s dealings: licenses issued, hearings held.
Midway through the morning, a constable came in. “I’ll need a warrant issued to hold a man until the Assizes,” he said.
Across the room, Jamison, a fellow magistrate, spoke without looking up from his reading. “I’ll sign,” he offered. “Give the papers over.”
“You can’t just sign,” Smite interjected. “You haven’t heard the evidence. The man hasn’t even been charged, and besides, there’s a bail hearing to be had.” He was long past feeling appalled at the lax way in which weighty matters of law were decided. He wasn’t past arguing, though.
“What’s the point?” Jamison shrugged. “The constable wouldn’t have brought the man in were he not guilty, and if he’s guilty, he’ll just run.”
“It’s almost an insult, sir,” the constable said, nodding his head. “When you ask all those pointed questions. It’s like saying that you don’t trust my judgment.”
Smite met the man’s eyes. “This has nothing to do with your pride or your integrity or any of your finer personal feelings. It is not about you at all. It is about fidelity to the duty demanded by the laws that we have both sworn to honor. Adhering to the requirements of the law is never a personal slight.”
“I see,” the constable said with a frown, “but still, it’s my judgment you’re questioning.”
Smite sighed and rubbed his forehead. “The law demands that an impartial observer consider the evidence.”
Jamison exhaled noisily behind them. “Then you consider it,” he said, turning a page of his newspaper. “I’m busy.”
Smite had had similar conversations any number of times in his tenure as a magistrate in Bristol. He always felt as if he were fighting a losing battle with his colleagues. How hard was it to listen? To truly think of the requirements of justice, instead of mechanically signing whatever came their way?
Apparently, it was next to impossible.
“You haven’t any family to speak of,” Jamison continued. “If you did, you’d not be able to devote the hours you do. The rest of us, well, we’ve found it useful to accept that some of the legal technicalities can be set aside. No point in being slaves to formality.”
“I have a family,” Smite said quietly. The man who was being held out there might have one, too. “That’s why I consider it imperative to discharge my duty to its utmost.”
“Well then.” The other magistrate waved his hand. “My sincerest compliments, Lord Justice.”
Smite gritted his teeth at that insult—at the implication that his duty was little more than a ribald commitment to a stone woman. This was how he ended up shouldering far more than his fair share of the work: nobody else would do it. Still, if he was the only one available… He stood.
“Well,” he said, “let’s see the fellow.”
The constable shook his head. “Bloke’s just this way.”
He turned the corner…and his heart sank. It wasn’t a fellow or a bloke. It was a boy.
To be more specific, it was a tiny rapscallion of a boy—scrawny, sullen, his hair mussed and standing up in untidy spikes. The tracks of fallen tears had wiped clean lines down his dirty cheeks. And when he saw Smite, his eyes widened in recognition.
Robbie.
Smite’s thoughts turned instantly to Miss Darling. I’m guilty the instant a constable lays eyes on me and decides I appear out of place, she’d said. Nobody listens.
I do, he’d answered.
But he could already feel his emotions engaging, searching for an excuse on Robbie’s behalf. He knew the boy. And he knew that if he authorized a grand jury to charge Robbie, Miranda would be devastated.
Smite took a deep breath. “Your full name, young master?”
“Robbie. I mean—Robert Barnstable.”
He’d just lectured Jamison and the constable on fidelity and honor and duty. His duty in cases such as these was clear. With his emotions engaged, he had to step down and ask one of his brother magistrates to hear the evidence in his stead. The law required an impartial assessment, and Smite very much doubted that he could deliver.
“Are you going to hang me?” Robbie asked, his voice shaking.
But if he didn’t act, who would? Jamison wouldn’t listen; he had practically announced as much. He wouldn’t think. He’d simply hold the boy for days until the grand jury laid an indictment.
There was no right choice. If Smite had any integrity, he’d walk away. If he cared at all about justice, he’d stay. But he couldn’t sit here and dither over his options. And so Smite took a deep breath, checked his instinct, and came to a decision.
THE INSIDE STEPS UP to Miranda’s rooms were always cold, but today the stairwell held a particularly drafty chill. She saw why when she came to the second-floor landing.
The window was ajar and Robbie sat on the sill, legs dangling out into open space as he stared at the city. Night had come on, and fog blanketed th
e buildings. A street away, a few lamps burned orange holes through the mist, but everything else was shadowed.
He wasn’t smoking. He simply glanced at her as she walked by and then looked quickly away, his shoulders hunching in misery.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
His chin fell, and he contemplated the top of the adjacent building, scarcely a foot away. But there was nothing there but coal-blackened brick and, far below, brown drifts of paper-dry leaves.
“Very well,” Miranda said, and slid past him.
He let out a second, wearier sigh as she went by. Just a noisy exhalation—not even his usual handful of terse, disapproving syllables. Still, the sigh said it wasn’t nothing, and at this point, Miranda would take any form of communication she could get from him.
She sat on the steps, just behind him.
“So tell me about this nothing.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
She’d been looking after Robbie in some capacity for seven years. His mother had been an actress—and one of the flightier ones at that. She’d attached herself to Miranda’s father’s troupe just before everything had fallen to pieces. Robbie’s mother had asked Miranda to take care of her son during the day, in exchange for a few pennies. For a few years, Miranda had watched Robbie. She’d not minded; they’d needed all the pennies she could find.
One day, long after the troupe had fallen apart, his mother had disappeared for good, leaving Robbie behind. For months, Miranda had tried to find someone—anyone—to take him. But nobody had wanted an abandoned eight-year-old child.
So Miranda had kept him. At first, she’d entertained hopes that the two of them might form a family of a sort. In books, women reduced to straitened circumstances always surrounded themselves with kind, adoring loved ones through pluck and determination.
The authors of heartwarming books apparently had no contact with actual adolescent boys. They weren’t kind. They didn’t know how to adore. They were just surly.
She’d hoped to mirror the laughing, tempestuous feel of her childhood, where family and friends merged. But instead of warmth and love, Robbie left Miranda in a constant state of near-terror. What was he going to do next? How was she to stop him?