I don’t know. Tom is the scholar.”
“Do you curl it on purpose?”
She drew her brows together in question and René again lifted a finger to one of the little spirals behind her ear. She was fairly sure it had dried mud on it. “Sometimes,” she replied.
“But not when you ride?”
“No, not when I ride. You are so full of questions, Monsieur.”
She was on high alert now. René had a look about him, something about the slightly parted lips. It was dangerous. And fascinating. She forgot her pain for the moment and waited, curious to see what he would do. What he did was lean in closer, loose hair brushing her shoulder, his eyes half-closed. He smelled like wood and resin; she’d thought it would have been perfume.
“You have such pretty skin, Sophia Bellamy. Like sugar on the fire. What do you call it?”
“Caramel?”
“Yes, caramel.”
A draft moved across the flickering room, but Sophia didn’t.
“And now that we have been so intimate,” he whispered, voice low in her ear, “do you not think we should discuss that wedding, my love? Or …” He still had fingers on the other side of her face, playing with her hair. “Or do you need a statement from my banker first?”
Sophia didn’t breathe. He was going to kiss her. She ought to say something, back away, tell him to stop. But she didn’t. Instead she wondered what it might feel like to be kissed by a daughter stealer. Turn her head just a little, and she would find out. The air hummed, full of static, stubble just brushing along her jaw. Her eyes closed on their own. And then René’s cheek slipped to her shoulder, leaning there for just a moment before falling straight down onto the bed like a stone.
She opened her eyes and waited, drawing a shaky breath, and when she was sure he was not going to move she lifted his arm from her lap and scooted off the bed, wincing as she stood. She looked at René as he lay facedown on the mattress, running a hand through the curls behind her ear, brushing away a few small grains of white powder that had stuck to her fingers. The same white powder that had been hidden beneath the pale stone of the ring that was hanging around her neck. The same white powder she had poured from the ring into René’s whiskey glass.
Then she walked slowly to Tom’s worktable, dizzy and a little sick, found the glass vial, refilled the cavity in her ring, clicked it shut, and one by one blew out the lamp and the candles. It took a long time. When the only light left was the fire, she looked again at the bed and sighed. With difficulty and not a small amount of pain, she got onto her knees and managed to put René’s booted feet on the mattress, pushing one of his shoulders around so that he turned onto his back. No, definitely not Upper City. He had the body of a man who’d been working a ship. She threw the damp and bloody blanket over his chest. The sanctuary was going to get cold, especially for as long as he was about to sleep.
She banked up the fire, retrieved her vest and knife, breathing hard, and then paused again. For someone who had made it a point not to look at René Hasard’s face, she certainly had stared at it enough today. He was still something wild, dark red hair everywhere, wrapped in a blanket smelling distinctly of homemade bevvy. But the daughter stealer had been replaced by someone different. A bit like Tom when they were little. Almost innocent, but not quite. And he was beautiful.
Sophia stepped back. René Hasard was not innocent, and therefore could not be beautiful. He had blood under his nails, not just hers, but the blood of the hundreds—maybe even thousands—who had gone beneath the Razor. Like anyone who chose to ally themselves with LeBlanc. And he would not be sharing anything he’d seen in this room with that particular man tonight.
She climbed the steps one at a time, a hand over her bandaged side, and when she reached the bright sunshine beyond the little door, she looked
“Do you curl it on purpose?”
She drew her brows together in question and René again lifted a finger to one of the little spirals behind her ear. She was fairly sure it had dried mud on it. “Sometimes,” she replied.
“But not when you ride?”
“No, not when I ride. You are so full of questions, Monsieur.”
She was on high alert now. René had a look about him, something about the slightly parted lips. It was dangerous. And fascinating. She forgot her pain for the moment and waited, curious to see what he would do. What he did was lean in closer, loose hair brushing her shoulder, his eyes half-closed. He smelled like wood and resin; she’d thought it would have been perfume.
“You have such pretty skin, Sophia Bellamy. Like sugar on the fire. What do you call it?”
“Caramel?”
“Yes, caramel.”
A draft moved across the flickering room, but Sophia didn’t.
“And now that we have been so intimate,” he whispered, voice low in her ear, “do you not think we should discuss that wedding, my love? Or …” He still had fingers on the other side of her face, playing with her hair. “Or do you need a statement from my banker first?”
Sophia didn’t breathe. He was going to kiss her. She ought to say something, back away, tell him to stop. But she didn’t. Instead she wondered what it might feel like to be kissed by a daughter stealer. Turn her head just a little, and she would find out. The air hummed, full of static, stubble just brushing along her jaw. Her eyes closed on their own. And then René’s cheek slipped to her shoulder, leaning there for just a moment before falling straight down onto the bed like a stone.
She opened her eyes and waited, drawing a shaky breath, and when she was sure he was not going to move she lifted his arm from her lap and scooted off the bed, wincing as she stood. She looked at René as he lay facedown on the mattress, running a hand through the curls behind her ear, brushing away a few small grains of white powder that had stuck to her fingers. The same white powder that had been hidden beneath the pale stone of the ring that was hanging around her neck. The same white powder she had poured from the ring into René’s whiskey glass.
Then she walked slowly to Tom’s worktable, dizzy and a little sick, found the glass vial, refilled the cavity in her ring, clicked it shut, and one by one blew out the lamp and the candles. It took a long time. When the only light left was the fire, she looked again at the bed and sighed. With difficulty and not a small amount of pain, she got onto her knees and managed to put René’s booted feet on the mattress, pushing one of his shoulders around so that he turned onto his back. No, definitely not Upper City. He had the body of a man who’d been working a ship. She threw the damp and bloody blanket over his chest. The sanctuary was going to get cold, especially for as long as he was about to sleep.
She banked up the fire, retrieved her vest and knife, breathing hard, and then paused again. For someone who had made it a point not to look at René Hasard’s face, she certainly had stared at it enough today. He was still something wild, dark red hair everywhere, wrapped in a blanket smelling distinctly of homemade bevvy. But the daughter stealer had been replaced by someone different. A bit like Tom when they were little. Almost innocent, but not quite. And he was beautiful.
Sophia stepped back. René Hasard was not innocent, and therefore could not be beautiful. He had blood under his nails, not just hers, but the blood of the hundreds—maybe even thousands—who had gone beneath the Razor. Like anyone who chose to ally themselves with LeBlanc. And he would not be sharing anything he’d seen in this room with that particular man tonight.
She climbed the steps one at a time, a hand over her bandaged side, and when she reached the bright sunshine beyond the little door, she looked
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