clamped shut and his eyes narrowed.
‘You haven’t fed her, or given her a drink? Has she been crying? Restless?’
Another bout of silence. Aliette had no patience with it. Maybe the wealthy had time for waiting, but if she stalled or waited for anything she’d have starved to death. ‘She needs oats or bread all warmed with milk and honey.’
‘You want me,’ he said in that terrifyingly even voice of his, ‘to provide that for you.’
‘I don’t know this place. These men don’t follow my orders. How else am I to get it?’
‘This isn’t—’
‘Whatever you want of me, I won’t do it, not when this child needs me.’
He looked to the child and to her. He looked to argue, the superiority of his expression one she’d seen many times when a shopkeeper thought to abuse a street urchin. She stared him down. If he meant to kick or strike her, he could join the others. She’d survived many such blows over the years.
If he intended to kill her, there was nothing she could do to defend herself, though she’d try to protect the child first. But if this was her day to die, it was simply like every day she ever lived. In truth, she wasn’t meant to have made it this long.
With another narrowed gaze, he pivoted towards the door, but not before she saw a flare of victory in his eyes.
What he thought he’d won Aliette didn’t care about, as long as the child had what she needed. She’d seen enough suffering in her lifetime—the fact that this child was surrounded by gold and silk and was still hungry she couldn’t tolerate.
Reynold left the room and closed the door. The two men who had escorted the thief were on the other side and he gave them the unusual tasks. If they wondered about the requests, they didn’t ask. He paid them not to question. Although one of them looked behind him. To see if the thief was unharmed? He would have to be dealt with later.
When they marched down the stairs, he turned to go back into the room, but stopped. The door was partially closed and the thief wasn’t looking his way, her attention fully on the child in her arms.
She was doing this walking, swinging motion and singing softly.
The morning sun filtered through the unwashed windowpanes delicately lighting its two occupants, the shimmering reds and greens of tufted cushions and the rich browns of well-polished carved furniture.
The woman was slight, not much more substantial than the babe she held. Her clothes were an odd, but practical mixture of layers. Two coarse surcoats, one much shorter than the other, over a thick, overly large chemise. She had no gown and her shoes had distinct holes. Grace’s greying swaddling dragged on the floor as the thief swept them from side to side. Both were slight, filthy, their clothes unkempt.
The room was small and the subtle distinct tang of abject homelessness, blood and fresh dirt clashed with the resonating fragrance of lavender and lemon, the warmed silk from the tapestries and the musty familiar perfume of his books.
But she was perfect. Everything about this was perfect. Hair that almost matched Grace’s and both appearing filthy from the streets. No parents to care for her. No one to suspect or question the child she held so carefully and sang to so beautifully was his.
Even more so now that her mothering instincts resurrected themselves. Against him, which both grated on and amused him.
The thief was the solution to keep Grace close to him. A woman of childbearing age in a desperate situation. She would be a servant to him and raise the child. He could then see Grace, keep her close through the years. And because the thief and Grace would be perceived as servants, his arrogant family wouldn’t perceive Grace as his greatest vulnerability.
He turned to the mercenaries taking the stairs behind him and instructed them to place the food for the babe, the woman and himself on an empty table. He’d propose to the thief what needed to be done and she would thank him profusely for saving her from gaol and poverty. It was all too easy.
Although...there was that one moment of lapse in his control which was concerning. Her request to take Grace catching him off guard. The blade was out of its sheath before he thought to draw it. An indication of how much he cared though he hadn’t had his daughter for a day.
Such action would be an anomaly from now on. People did not catch him unawares and now that he knew his feelings existed, he’d hold them in check so he didn’t reveal anything more. Until he dismantled his family, not even his daughter or the thief could know him.
Aliette was startled when the door swung open and the two mercenaries who had carted her here carried in large trays with mouthwatering food and freshly poured ale.
They set them down, one of them glancing at her from head to toe before they walked out the opened doors. A moment later, her captor entered. Silently, steadily, he closed the doors behind him and stood with no direction of what he intended for her.
But the food was here for the child, and she wouldn’t wait another moment. Whatever this man had told the kitchens, it was correct. A bowl, a mortar and pestle, cooked oats, and copious warmed milk all ready to be prepared.
Glancing at the man who hadn’t moved from the doors, she set the child down on the bench and propped her with cushions. Another glance, as she prepared the bowl and dipped the tiny spoon in the mixture.
The near silence made her heart and her breath unnaturally loud. For a clarion moment she wanted to fill that silence, but the way he held still made her think he was expecting her to question and accuse.
She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Silence had done her well in the past when she needed to hide or surprise. So she sat with the child on her lap, covered her finger in milk and honey and dabbed it on the sweet lips until she took sustenance.
The man at the door shifted, she didn’t raise her eyes. Her entire world now was this room and this child.
Another dollop and the child suckled, its incoming teeth gently scraping across her finger. Another, and another, until she sat her up and filled the small spoon.
Her dark, telling, grey-coloured eyes were distinct and explained much. Dark hair, dark grey eyes. Her captor said he wasn’t the father, but the way he watched them, and the way he’d pulled the blade, told a different story...but maybe she was wrong. She trusted her instincts, but she didn’t trust this man or anyone. Lies were too easily told.
Another shift and he strode to the chair nearest them, his dark presence and intent cloaking him. He reminded her of a raven, perched, watching, waiting.
She watched right back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the way his thick lashes fanned his cheeks, the sardonic bowing of his top lip. The way his fine, almost beautiful hands folded in front of him as he rested his elbows on his knees. One hand perfect, the other marred by a large circular burn scar.
A growing tension threaded its way between them, but she ignored it.
