interspersed with the rougher, more gravelly tones of men who had drunk deep throughout the evening. Ribald laughter gusted upward to the smoke-blackened rafters.
A thin-faced serving girl appeared at his side with a jug of mead. She refilled his glass, holding herself away from him as if she expected him at any minute to grab, pinch, tickle, or slap. But Gareth to his surprise found that he had no interest in the women on sale in the house hard by the cathedral. All around him, men examined, women displayed, and when negotiations were completed, the pair would disappear into one of the many curtained niches ranging along the sides of the great hall.
The bawd who owned the whorehouse, a sharp-featured woman, richly dressed in orange damask, crossed the thronged hall purposefully toward the earl.
“You find nothing to tempt you, my lord?” She sat on a stool beside him, resting her cheek on her hand, regarding him with narrowed, calculating eyes and a smile that didn’t deceive him for a moment. “Your friends seem to be perfectly satisfied.”
Gareth nodded and drank from his tankard. “I find I’m not in the mood for play tonight, mistress.”
“We can satisfy any tastes, my lord. My girls are always ready to oblige in
any
way.” She winked. “Ellie.” The bawd beckoned imperiously to a young woman who had just emerged from behind one of the curtains. “Ellie has some very
particular
specialities, my lord. Isn’t that so, dear?” She smiled at the girl, a smile radiating menace.
Ellie immediately leaned over the earl, encircling his neck with her arms, and whispered into his ear. Her hair brushed his cheek and her skin exuded the scent he always associated with whores—a musky perfume overlaying the dirt and the smell of other men.
Once Charlotte had come to him smelling exactly like this. After one of her wild nights when she’d given herself to anyone who’d wanted her. As usual she’d been drunk, her eyes almost feral in their predatory hunger. She’d rubbed herself against him just as the whore was doing now, whispering lasciviously in his ear, inviting and yet taunting at the same time. Only her husband had ever refused the invitation of her lush body, her sharp little teeth, her ferocious hungers. Hungers that no one man could satisfy.
The whore purred her filth into his ear, moving sinuously around his body, rubbing and pressing herself against him. With a violent oath, Gareth pushed back his stool and stood up. The girl fell back, only just managing to keep her feet. The bawd rose, too, her narrowed eyes filled with anger.
“Stupid girl,” she hissed at Ellie, who stood with her hand pressed to her mouth, utterly nonplussed by the client’s reaction. “A little finesse, a little delicacy. Isn’t that what I’m always tellin’ you?”
“It’s not the girl’s fault.” Gareth imposed his large frame between the bawd and her whore. “Here.” He handed the bawd a guinea and swung on his heel, making for the door and the freshness of the night air.
“Gareth … eh, Gareth, m’boy. Where’re you off to in such haste? The night is young, and there’s some choice wares I’ve yet to sample.” Brian barreled across the room, without his doublet, his shirt unbuttoned, his hose unlaced. He flourished a goblet in the air and beamed. “Kip’s found himself a nice young thing, just what he likes.”
“I’m going back to the inn,” Gareth said brusquely. “I find I’ve no taste for this tonight. Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you in London.”
“Eh, but you won’t journey with us on the morrow?” Brian looked as injured as it was ever possible for such a man to be.
“No, my friend. I’ll be on the road at dawn. You’ll not have opened your eyes by then.”
Brian chuckled. “If I’ve closed ’em by then.”
Gareth merely raised a hand in salute and plunged outside into the quiet street. He strode back to the inn under the bulking shadow of the cathedral. His head cleared
A thin-faced serving girl appeared at his side with a jug of mead. She refilled his glass, holding herself away from him as if she expected him at any minute to grab, pinch, tickle, or slap. But Gareth to his surprise found that he had no interest in the women on sale in the house hard by the cathedral. All around him, men examined, women displayed, and when negotiations were completed, the pair would disappear into one of the many curtained niches ranging along the sides of the great hall.
The bawd who owned the whorehouse, a sharp-featured woman, richly dressed in orange damask, crossed the thronged hall purposefully toward the earl.
“You find nothing to tempt you, my lord?” She sat on a stool beside him, resting her cheek on her hand, regarding him with narrowed, calculating eyes and a smile that didn’t deceive him for a moment. “Your friends seem to be perfectly satisfied.”
Gareth nodded and drank from his tankard. “I find I’m not in the mood for play tonight, mistress.”
“We can satisfy any tastes, my lord. My girls are always ready to oblige in
any
way.” She winked. “Ellie.” The bawd beckoned imperiously to a young woman who had just emerged from behind one of the curtains. “Ellie has some very
particular
specialities, my lord. Isn’t that so, dear?” She smiled at the girl, a smile radiating menace.
Ellie immediately leaned over the earl, encircling his neck with her arms, and whispered into his ear. Her hair brushed his cheek and her skin exuded the scent he always associated with whores—a musky perfume overlaying the dirt and the smell of other men.
Once Charlotte had come to him smelling exactly like this. After one of her wild nights when she’d given herself to anyone who’d wanted her. As usual she’d been drunk, her eyes almost feral in their predatory hunger. She’d rubbed herself against him just as the whore was doing now, whispering lasciviously in his ear, inviting and yet taunting at the same time. Only her husband had ever refused the invitation of her lush body, her sharp little teeth, her ferocious hungers. Hungers that no one man could satisfy.
The whore purred her filth into his ear, moving sinuously around his body, rubbing and pressing herself against him. With a violent oath, Gareth pushed back his stool and stood up. The girl fell back, only just managing to keep her feet. The bawd rose, too, her narrowed eyes filled with anger.
“Stupid girl,” she hissed at Ellie, who stood with her hand pressed to her mouth, utterly nonplussed by the client’s reaction. “A little finesse, a little delicacy. Isn’t that what I’m always tellin’ you?”
“It’s not the girl’s fault.” Gareth imposed his large frame between the bawd and her whore. “Here.” He handed the bawd a guinea and swung on his heel, making for the door and the freshness of the night air.
“Gareth … eh, Gareth, m’boy. Where’re you off to in such haste? The night is young, and there’s some choice wares I’ve yet to sample.” Brian barreled across the room, without his doublet, his shirt unbuttoned, his hose unlaced. He flourished a goblet in the air and beamed. “Kip’s found himself a nice young thing, just what he likes.”
“I’m going back to the inn,” Gareth said brusquely. “I find I’ve no taste for this tonight. Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you in London.”
“Eh, but you won’t journey with us on the morrow?” Brian looked as injured as it was ever possible for such a man to be.
“No, my friend. I’ll be on the road at dawn. You’ll not have opened your eyes by then.”
Brian chuckled. “If I’ve closed ’em by then.”
Gareth merely raised a hand in salute and plunged outside into the quiet street. He strode back to the inn under the bulking shadow of the cathedral. His head cleared
Similar Books
