What? A year now?"
Not a full year. He knew it perfectly well. The frozen ground had been buried beneath a
January snow last he'd seen Richard Parsons.
And they'd both seen the girl's blood that stained the snow dark crimson.
"Richard, is it? When did you become so formal as that? Were we not boon
companions, Griff and Dick, the two who could drink any other man under the table and
still weave upright from any pub"—he grinned—"with our pockets heavier from the coin
we lifted to make his lighter."
He grabbed the chair, dragged it from the table, and straddled it. Then he cast a wary
glance toward Griffin's obscured left hand. "Do you greet an old friend with the threat of a
slit throat?"
"A man can never be too careful." Not about his enemies … or his friends.
With a laugh, Richard held his hands out, palms up, and only raised his brows when
Griffin reached out to shove the sleeves up above the wrists and take a look for good
measure.
"No, it's not been a year since last we met, my friend," Richard said, watching with
narrowed eyes as Griffin leaned down and shoved his knife back into the sheath set in his
boot. "Mayhap nine months. Since that girl—a teacher, was she not?—was found at the
edge of the woods, killed by some … beast."
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 50 of 103
Griffin gave a small nod. The reference was meant to unsettle, but he'd long ago learned
to show none of the strong emotion that burned in his gut, to hide his temper behind a
bland mask.
The silence dragged. Richard shifted on his chair, toyed with his watch, cleared his
throat. Finally, he spoke.
"Glad I am to find you here, Griff. 'Tis good to meet a friend along the way. Why, I do
remember…" He laughed, and launched into a tale of their shared exploits, though to
Griffin's recollection the telling leaned far across the line between truth and imagination,
and bore little resemblance to actuality.
Taking up his fork and knife, he returned his attention to the remains of his meal. He
murmured appropriate responses to Richard's anecdotes and comments, letting the other
man fill the silence. At length, he pushed the empty plate aside and rocked back in his
chair.
"So what do you do in Northallerton, Richard?" Griffin asked, sipping his ale and
studying his companion over the rim of the glass.
Richard was handsome enough, dark haired, dark eyed, with a touch of arrogance to his
features, and a touch of brutality. He dressed the part of the gentleman he ought to have
been had life and poor choices not set him on a different path, but careful perusal showed
his coat to be threadbare at the cuffs and not quite right in the fit of the shoulder, as though
the garment had been made for another and then poorly altered.
From a distance, or in meager light, he looked of an age with Griffin. Closer
examination proved the fallacy. Richard's jowl was beginning to fall and heavy pouches
sat beneath his eyes, testament in part to the start of middle age, and in part to a life of
debauchery and excess. But his smile was as ever it had been, wide and infectious,
inviting the unwary companion to murmured confidences and shared good humor.
Unless that companion knew a little of Richard Parsons. Of his past. Of the barren place
than might once have been his soul.
Griffin knew. He had such a place at his own core.
"Business drew me to Northallerton, dear boy," Richard said. "Business, and perhaps a
little pleasure."
Griffin nodded. "Honest trade?" he asked, his relaxed posture and tone maintained by
will and not by natural inclination.
Honest trade. He thought not. Which left only the dishonest kind. There had been a time
when they had shared both the enjoyment and the profits of such.
With a wink, Richard laughed. "What would be the fun in honest trade?" He lowered
his voice and leaned his forearm on the table. "A question, dear boy. Do you know of a …
well, no way to be delicate … a woman who might ease a man, lad?
Not a full year. He knew it perfectly well. The frozen ground had been buried beneath a
January snow last he'd seen Richard Parsons.
And they'd both seen the girl's blood that stained the snow dark crimson.
"Richard, is it? When did you become so formal as that? Were we not boon
companions, Griff and Dick, the two who could drink any other man under the table and
still weave upright from any pub"—he grinned—"with our pockets heavier from the coin
we lifted to make his lighter."
He grabbed the chair, dragged it from the table, and straddled it. Then he cast a wary
glance toward Griffin's obscured left hand. "Do you greet an old friend with the threat of a
slit throat?"
"A man can never be too careful." Not about his enemies … or his friends.
With a laugh, Richard held his hands out, palms up, and only raised his brows when
Griffin reached out to shove the sleeves up above the wrists and take a look for good
measure.
"No, it's not been a year since last we met, my friend," Richard said, watching with
narrowed eyes as Griffin leaned down and shoved his knife back into the sheath set in his
boot. "Mayhap nine months. Since that girl—a teacher, was she not?—was found at the
edge of the woods, killed by some … beast."
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 50 of 103
Griffin gave a small nod. The reference was meant to unsettle, but he'd long ago learned
to show none of the strong emotion that burned in his gut, to hide his temper behind a
bland mask.
The silence dragged. Richard shifted on his chair, toyed with his watch, cleared his
throat. Finally, he spoke.
"Glad I am to find you here, Griff. 'Tis good to meet a friend along the way. Why, I do
remember…" He laughed, and launched into a tale of their shared exploits, though to
Griffin's recollection the telling leaned far across the line between truth and imagination,
and bore little resemblance to actuality.
Taking up his fork and knife, he returned his attention to the remains of his meal. He
murmured appropriate responses to Richard's anecdotes and comments, letting the other
man fill the silence. At length, he pushed the empty plate aside and rocked back in his
chair.
"So what do you do in Northallerton, Richard?" Griffin asked, sipping his ale and
studying his companion over the rim of the glass.
Richard was handsome enough, dark haired, dark eyed, with a touch of arrogance to his
features, and a touch of brutality. He dressed the part of the gentleman he ought to have
been had life and poor choices not set him on a different path, but careful perusal showed
his coat to be threadbare at the cuffs and not quite right in the fit of the shoulder, as though
the garment had been made for another and then poorly altered.
From a distance, or in meager light, he looked of an age with Griffin. Closer
examination proved the fallacy. Richard's jowl was beginning to fall and heavy pouches
sat beneath his eyes, testament in part to the start of middle age, and in part to a life of
debauchery and excess. But his smile was as ever it had been, wide and infectious,
inviting the unwary companion to murmured confidences and shared good humor.
Unless that companion knew a little of Richard Parsons. Of his past. Of the barren place
than might once have been his soul.
Griffin knew. He had such a place at his own core.
"Business drew me to Northallerton, dear boy," Richard said. "Business, and perhaps a
little pleasure."
Griffin nodded. "Honest trade?" he asked, his relaxed posture and tone maintained by
will and not by natural inclination.
Honest trade. He thought not. Which left only the dishonest kind. There had been a time
when they had shared both the enjoyment and the profits of such.
With a wink, Richard laughed. "What would be the fun in honest trade?" He lowered
his voice and leaned his forearm on the table. "A question, dear boy. Do you know of a …
well, no way to be delicate … a woman who might ease a man, lad?
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