Beloved Beast #2
“My apologies, sir.” Her London accent was a bit rusty, but she pushed ahead.
“I fear I’m in a terrible rush. I was to meet my dearest father at the …
” Behind her, a man growled a warning. Feet scuffled.
She imagined Knobby careening towards her.
Her mind stalled, frozen in terror, but she kicked it impatiently back into gear, raised her gaze past the gentleman’s left ear and found inspiration in the small stone church at the end of the street.
“At the chapel,” she finished breathlessly, “And I must away.”
It was all she could do to remain steady as she strode past the venders and hawkers that lined the boulevard.
Behind her in the growing crush, a woman gasped and a man cursed.
Reaching up with stiff fingers, she slipped the straw chapeau from her head.
Every fibre in her ached to glance over her shoulder, but she resisted.
Instead, she pulled the copper pins from her hair and dropped them into her reticule.
Chestnut curls fell around her face and down her back as she shifted her eyes side to side, searching for relief. And then she saw it.
Two young men were watching the crowds from a dark alcove. One was tall and gawky, one near her own height. And now she did chance a glance over her shoulder. Knobby was not yet in sight.
“I’ve a proposition.” She joined them in the shadows. They straightened abruptly. Perhaps their cocky, devil-may-kill expressions should have scared her, but she knew nothing of these boys, and far too much of Knobby Hooks.
“A proposition?” said the gawky one and shifted his weight restlessly. “Might it involve you flat on your back with me––”
“It involves this hat,” she said, and kept herself from wasting precious time by listening to him jabber.
“Methinks I’m more interested in you.”
“How about in this?” she asked and held up a fob watch. She hadn’t really meant to take it from the gentleman she’d last bumped into, but if he didn’t want it filched why did he wear it right out in the open like that?
“You giving us a watch, Strawberry?” asked the shorter of the two.
“I shall,” she said, “if you’ll wear the hat and run through the crowds until you reach the square.”
They stared at her for a second, then snorted in derision.
“Tell me this then, Strawberry, why don’t we just grab you and the watch all together?”
She took time to give them her most comely smile. She’d left plain behind some minutes ago. “Because I’ll knee you in the forbiddens and scream bloody murder. How long do you think you’ll last when that swell mob finds you molesting one of their own?”
“I think––”
From some yards away a man’s affronted voice rang out. “Hey there, watch what you’re about.”
“Time’s up!” she said. “Do it or don’t.”
“I’ll do it,” said the shorter of the two, and snatching the hat from her hand, slammed it on to his head. She handed over the watch with barely a shiver of regret, and then he was gone, leaping from the alcove towards Charlotte’s Square.
Swift hid in the deepest shadows, but even from there she could see Knobby dodge past, skirting skirts and careening after her straw chapeau.
She almost smiled as she watched him go, but just then she noticed a baby-faced constable scowling in the direction of the rapidly retreating Knobby.
Chances were good the authorities would never connect her with the criminal element dressed as she was, but there seemed little reason to take chances.
She’d had a fine, relaxing morning thus far and had no wish to ruin it now.
So, dodging her eyes right and left, she stepped from the alcove and strode to the end of the street.
Ducking her head in silent reverence, she opened the arched, iron-bound door of a small, stone kirk.
Inside, it was cool and dim. A dozen stout candles flickered near the chancel.
She paused momentarily, admiring the stain glass windows, the vaulted ceiling, the trio of wooden confessionals.
She’d always appreciated churches. They were fine places to hide. Quiet and dark, they more often than not had a mite box set out to collect alms for the poor.
She was poor.
Bowing her head, she made the sign of the cross against her chest as she’d seen others do.
Kneeling on a padded plank, she glanced surreptitiously from side to side.
No one seemed to be minding the store. And, thank the good and gracious Lord, there was the collection box.
Iron bound, it was cylindrical in shape and crafted of dark wood.
A small slit had been cut into the top and it was kept by a rusty metal hasp.
God was with her.
Opening her reticule, she rose to her feet and stepped forward. To an observer, it may well have seemed as if she was fetching a coin. Instead, a small copper pin came away in her hand.
Head bowed again, she sheltered the wooden box with her body while fiddling soundlessly with the lock. In less than ten full seconds it made a rusty creak as it popped open. One more glance to the rear assured her she was alone. The top rose almost soundlessly.
Her fingers were as quick as minnows as she fished out the coins and dropped them into her reticule. One more. Just one more and––
“Might I help ye, child?”
Her breath froze in her throat. The voice came from behind her, cutting off her exit.
But surely there was another door. Without moving her head, she glanced right and left.
No hope on either side. Easing the mite box closed, she prayed the man behind her was short, ponderously fat and older than black pepper.
The lock clicked quietly as it sank home.
She gritted her teeth, then fixed a humble expression on her bonny face and turned slowly, eyes lowered.
“Father.” She said the word reverently and raised her gaze to meet his.
Her eyes travelled up a goodly distance, but they did not encounter the woollen robes she’d expected.
Instead, he was dressed in a simple tunic and dark tartan.
Belted at his lean waist with a broad strap of leather, the plaid was pinned at his brawny shoulder with a brooch the size of her fist. Beneath the plaid, his thighs bunched with strength.
Every shifting muscle spoke of power. His hair, however, was laced with grey.
A small indication, perhaps, that the Lord did, indeed, have a rare sense of irony.
“Oh …” She smiled shyly. “I assumed you were a priest.”
He remained absolutely silent, neither confirming nor denying.
If intimidation was his intent, he had a fine start; muscles roiled like mooring lines beneath the turned-up sleeves of his tunic.
She swallowed but refused to fidget. “Well, I’d best be off.
I but came to leave a wee contribution for the city’s poor,” she said, and making sure her little purse was well hidden in the folds of her voluminous skirt, glided towards the door.
He said nothing. She could feel the tension build in the soles of her feet and creep up the back of her legs, but she held steady.
Many had fallen from weak nerves. She would not be amongst them.
Not Swift Torree of Canongate. Instead, she let her reticule fall gently against the slope of her gown and tumble noiselessly behind the solid leg of a pew meant for a parishioner not important enough to obtain one of the private boxes.
Though she was loathe to leave it, ’twas far better to be parted from it for a time than to be caught red-handed with the alms in her possession.
“’Tis very generous of ye lass,” he said finally.
His Highlander’s burr seemed to rumble from the very earth beneath them, but she managed to inhale and lowered her gaze modestly.
Even staring at the floor, however, she could tell he was already stepping forward, stealing the air from her lungs.
And though she told herself to remain calm, she couldn’t help but snap her attention to his stern countenance.
Their gazes met and melded, his as grey as a winter storm.
“Is something unright, lass?” he asked.
Unright how? Did he suspect her of thievery? Or—
“Mayhap there be somemat ye wish to tell me?”
“No!” she blurted, but caught herself and lowered her lashes carefully.
Who the hell was he? A priest in plain clothing?
A parishioner? A guard? A braw Highlander meant to test the fortitude of frail maids?
The last seemed most likely, for though his face was stern and unyielding, it spoke volumes of strength and self-control.
If a body needed protecting, he’d be just the sort for the task.
Luckily for Swift, she was not the needy kind.
Nor was she the type to dwell on girlish dreams, though there was that about him that prompted them.
“Well, yes. Yes, there is something,” she admitted. “I fear I have sinned.”
“Have ye now?”
“Might I …” She glanced at the narrow trio of rooms set aside for sinners. Had her luck held, the damned boxes would have been adjacent to the door, but anywhere was better than near the alms box. “Might I make an admittance?”
He studied her. He was close now, within four strides. If she bolted would he catch her? He was not a young man, probably past five and thirty years, but judging by the size of his thighs she rather doubted another fifty would make him slow enough to best.
“Might ye mean a confession?” he asked.
“Yes. Of course.” She felt herself blush. How the devil had she forgotten that word? “Might I make a confession?”
“Aye,” he said and remained absolutely unmoving.