She stirred on the bed. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For guarding the door, and for taking me with you.”
There were many questions he wanted to ask her. He wanted to know where she was from, why she had run away to the Edge, and how her ex-husband had hurt her, but the fatigue smothered him. Richard closed his eyes and surrendered to sleep.
FIVE
WHEN Charlotte awoke, sunlight was spilling through the windows into the room, the delicate and pale radiance of the late morning coloring the light yellow bedding a faint peach.
Richard stood by the door, with his bare back to her. He’d changed into dark trousers and was holding a white shirt. Muscle corded his back, hard and powerful, bulging under bronzed skin, as if he had absorbed the sun’s warmth and now was suffused with it. He was built like a predator, lean, strong, fast, and perfectly balanced. Frightening in his potential for violence yet irresistibly compelling. She wanted to run her hand up his back, tracing the contours of the muscle underneath. It was a completely sensual desire, a physical need free of rational thought. He was so different from her, so very masculine, and she wanted to reach for him.
Richard raised his arms, pulling on the shirt. The muscles flexed under his skin, bulging on his broad shoulders. She watched, mesmerized. Last night, when she had crawled into a strange bed, feeling half-dead, it occurred to her that she was in the house of a criminal, deep in the worst part of the city. If Jason Parris wanted to murder them, he could at any time and with complete impunity. Nobody even knew where they were. Her fear had spiraled, threatening to explode into a panic attack. Then Richard had sat down with his back against the door last night, and her anxiety had faded. Somehow she was completely sure that nothing would make it past him to harm her. It was selfish, but she closed her eyes knowing he wouldn’t move till morning, and she slept well.
No woman could mistake the way he had looked at her last night when she had stepped out of the shower. She had looked at him too, through the curtain of her eyelashes, when he emerged, his skin clean, his hair damp. She looked at him even though she knew she shouldn’t have. He embodied strength, and she felt weak, despite knowing otherwise. Further, she had survived terrible things, and she was tempted to remind herself that she still lived in the most primal of ways. She wouldn’t do it to him, however. First, it was simply not done, not in this fashion and not after a mere two days of knowing each other. Second, Richard made it plain that his effectiveness depended on having no attachments. He would resent her.
Neither of them were in their right mind. People who had nothing to lose often did crazy things, and she had to listen to the voice of reason.
He turned.
She’d remembered that he was handsome, but his face caught her by surprise. His intelligent, intense eyes took her measure, and she had to fight not to stammer.
“Good morning,” Richard said.
She called upon her years of training, and when she spoke, her voice was completely even. “Good morning.”
“Jason’s people brought us new clothes,” he said, pointing to a stack of clothing in the chair. “They’re old and probably not quite as nice as what you’re used to, but we mustn’t attract attention. In the Cauldron, new clothes are likely to get us killed, and we probably want to avoid that, if at all possible.”
He should’ve slept a lot longer, considering his injury. “How long have you been up?”
“Not that long.”
“Come here, please.”
He approached the bed. Charlotte sat up, holding the sheet over her chest, raised her hand and touched his neck with her fingers. His skin felt hot under her fingertips. An excited flutter dashed through her. She smelled the light scent of soap emanating from his hair and skin, a hint of spice and citrus.
Really now. She was thirty-two years old. She could hold her libido in check. Charlotte focused. Her magic slipped out of her fingers and sank into his skin. The wound had almost completely healed. His temperature was normal. Mild dehydration, slightly elevated pulse. In fact, it rose in the brief seconds she touched him. Of course, she told herself. He’d seen her butcher sixteen people. Naturally, he would be alarmed when she touched him. Charlotte dropped her hand.
“Clean bill of health,” she said.
“Glad to hear it.”
He was looking at her. The daylight streaming through the gap in the curtains painted a light gold stripe across his face, tinting his skin gold and bringing a rich russet tint in his irises. He was handsome, his body was strong and fit, and the danger he radiated just enhanced his pull. When Charlotte looked at him, really looked at him as she did now, he was striking.
And she had no business looking at him. Both of them were on a mission, and it left no room for softness or attraction.
“We never talked about the plan,” she said.
“It’s simple,” he said. “We impersonate slavers and their catch, board the ship, and ride it to the Market. Once we near the port, you may have to eliminate the crew. It will have to be done quickly and silently, so as not to alarm those on land.”
“Can Jason’s people operate the ship?” she asked.
“He assures me that they can. Whatever his other faults are, Jason is efficient and competent. This is a port city, and there are many former sailors in his crew. We’ll dock and let Jason and his cutthroats do what they do best. Meanwhile, you and I will go and find the bookkeeper. We must eliminate the people at the top of the slaver’s food chain, and for that we will need the bookkeeper alive. Once we know the identity of his superiors, we’ll go from there.”
She would have to kill again. She knew what she had signed up for when she demanded to come with him. Now wasn’t the time to get squeamish. “It’s a sound plan,” she said. “How large a crew do you expect me to kill?”
“The ship they will be using is likely fast, maneuverable, and unremarkable. I’m betting on a brigantine or albatross, which means fifteen to twenty people at most. Will it be an issue?”
That was a complicated question. “No. No issue,” she told him.
Richard stood up. “I’ll wait outside the door for you.”
He took his sword and stepped out.
In that moment, when she found that red spark inside, she had known exactly what the consequences would be. Her life as a healer was over. Her life as an abomination would be brutal and devoid of sympathy or warmth, but probably short. It would be worth it, she told herself. If no other child ever had to cry the way Tulip had because the slavers had taken someone from her, it would be worth it.