The Maiden's Hand by Susan Wiggs Page A

wherry, Dr. Snipes was busy preparing to cast off. Lark cleared her throat. “You look too perfect for the dirty work ahead of us.”
    He gave a supple bow. “Is this a problem?”
    The problem, she decided, was not with the clothes, but with the man himself. He was simply conspicuous. Even in black garb, with nary a bauble nor plume in his hat, Oliver de Lacey stood out. It was his height and breadth, his pale silver-blond hair, which caught the moonlight and shimmered like a halo.
    He had a presence. A high vigor, an almost frenzied lack of restraint, an ineffable yet undeniable quality that commanded attention.
    “Lark?” he prompted.
    She scowled at him. “I cannot think how to make you less noticeable, my lord. Let us go. We should hurry.”
    The grin he flashed her shone like a beacon through the darkness. She shot him a quelling look. “Do not smile. It makes you even more conspicuous.”
    “Ah.” He sobered instantly. “No smiling. I can’t think why I would smile around you, anyway.”
    “Our work is deadly serious,” she snapped, giving vent to her temper. “The life of an innocent man is in danger. We do not break into prisons, risk our lives, stop executions and defy the law to amuse ourselves, but because it is right.”
    “And if you should happen to have a good time doing it?” Mockingly he fanned his face with his cap. “Jesu forfend!”
    She brought her fist down on the mooring post. “You’ll probably be caught and named a fugitive.”
    His laughter caressed the night air. “A vain hope, sweetheart. It was Oliver Lackey they condemned and hanged. If you did your job well…”
    “We did,” Snipes assured him.
    “Then no one even remembers the poor sod.” He spread his arms, the magnificent black cloak fanning out around him. “I ask you, what resemblance bear I to that rude, unshaven, unwashed, ill-mannered commoner?”
    “He talked just as much,” Snipes observed. His withered arm stirred uselessly at his side. “I wish you would have more respect for the risks you’re taking.”
    Oliver swallowed. He seemed discomfited. “You were caught, weren’t you, Phineas? That’s how your arm was injured.”
    Snipes turned to face the river. The cold breeze blew his loose breeches. “It was a long time ago. I broke.”
    “Dr. Snipes,” Lark said softly.
    “I broke,” he said, his voice harsh. “I think about it every day.” He shook his crippled arm. “This is my reminder. Snipes was a coward. Snipes betrayed his friends.”
    “As you said, it was a long time ago. We should go,” Oliver said.
    Lark allowed him to help her into the wherry. As always, there was more to his touch then simply a handhold. It was a lambent heat that grazed her, subtle as a secret kiss. He made her breath catch and her stomach lift.
    That was the problem, she decided, settling on the low-backed bench. She tried not to watch him as he swept off his cloak and pulled on a pair of shiny leather gloves,slashed at the cuffs. He picked up the oars and began rowing with a graceful, concentrated rhythm. She felt too much pleasure being around him. It couldn’t be right.
    And Lark had spent all her nineteen years being taught what was right. She had faltered only once, and that memory was as much a part of her as Phineas’s bad arm was to him. But like him, she had to go on.
    Turning astern, she glanced at Dr. Snipes, who worked the tiller. A staid and silent man, he rarely revealed his thoughts as he had a few moments earlier. Yet he, too, seemed caught by Oliver de Lacey, watching the younger man as a bettor might eye a champion prior to a wrestling match.
    Once they were out in the middle of the river, Oliver’s powerful oar strokes enhancing the strong current, he began to talk.
    “Tell me about this man we’re going to rescue, this Richard Speed.”
    Lark looked to Dr. Snipes again. How much should they reveal? Snipes lifted his shoulders in bewilderment.
    Oliver seemed to sense the unspoken question.