the drapes. Hawkwood pulled the sheet over them both.
Hawkwood stroked the smooth cleft of her buttocks. She sighed, pressed herself to him, rotated her hips, and kissed the underside of his jaw. “You realize,” she murmured, “I don’t even know what they call you.”
He frowned. “Who?”
“Why, your friends, of course. Or do you expect me to address you as Captain Hawkwood all the time?” She looked up at him and smiled. Her fingers traced small circles on his chest.
A moment passed.
It occurred to Hawkwood that the number of people he might have regarded as friends was depressingly small. Over the years there had been acquaintances, men he had fought alongside; some brave, some foolish, a few cowardly. But true friends? Individuals he would willingly have given his life for away from the fever of battle? Precious few, when it came down to it. Probably no more than could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and most of them already dead. There was Jago, of course. All things considered, he supposed the ex-sergeant was as close to him as anyone, or at least had been before their return to England. These days, he wasn’t so sure, given that Jago now ran with the hares while his own allegiance lay with the hounds. And in any case, in all the years they had been together, Jago would never have had cause nor, for that matter, the inclination to address him by his first name. In the army, even where friendship was concerned, rank would always prevail. As for the present, there was a wellworn saying among his fellow officers: a Bow Street Runner never made friends, only informers.
“Matthew,” Hawkwood said. “My name’s Matthew.”
“So, my Matthew,” she said softly. “Tell me about the scars on your throat.”
Not so much scars as an uneven necklace of faded bruising running from the hollow below his right jaw-line to the area of skin below his right ear. Hidden beneath his collar, the discoloration might have gone unnoticed, but in removing his shirt the marks had become visible.
Hawkwood reached up and covered her exploring hand. Sensing the change in him, she frowned. “You’re afraid to tell me?” Then she gave a small intuitive gasp. “Wait, I understand.
Hawkwood stroked her flank, marvelling at the satin texture. It was not the first time he had been asked about the marks on his throat, nor was it the first time he had avoided an explanation of their origin. They were not a birthmark, nor were they a souvenir of his soldiering or his career as a Runner. They belonged to a more distant past; a dark time of his life he had no desire to revisit, and a reminder of how, in the blink of an eye, a man’s destiny could be changed for ever.
“Oh, my poor Matthew,” she said, sensing his disquiet. Resting her arms across his chest, fingers entwined, she looked up at him. “Tell me everything. I want to know it all.” She eyed him speculatively. “Is it usual for an officer of the law to fight a duel? Over a woman?” Her kittenish expression mocked him.
“It would probably depend on the woman,” Hawkwood said.
She feigned annoyance and gave his arm a playful slap then lowered her head and kissed the spot tenderly. She regarded him levelly and her expression grew serious. “So, tell me, my Captain, when you were a soldier, did you kill many men?”
“I never kept a tally.”
She elevated herself on to one elbow, ran a fingertip along the muscle in his forearm. “But you did fight and kill?”
“Yes.”
“Frenchmen? Bonaparte’s soldiers?”
“Mostly.” Hawkwood wondered where this was leading.
She sensed his hesitation. “You do not like to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.”
She frowned. “It disturbed you? The killing?”
“Not at the time.”
She stretched languorously. “So, you enjoyed it?” It sounded almost like a challenge. Once again Hawkwood was reminded of a cat sated after a saucer of cream.
“It was war. I was a soldier. They were the enemy. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Is that why you let Lord Rutherford live? You had the choice?”
“Let’s just say I’ve grown tired of seeing men die needlessly.”
She sat up quickly. “Had I been you, I would not have been so forgiving. I would have killed him!”
Her sudden vehemence startled him.
“You doubt me?” she asked. Her look dared him to contradict.
“Not for a moment,” Hawkwood said truthfully. He went to sit up. As he did so, his hand brushed the underside of the pillow.
“Christ!”
The pain was so sudden and so intense he thought at first that he’d been stung by something. He jerked his hand away quickly and stared at the tiny dark red bubble of blood that had appeared as if by magic on the end of his finger. Certainly no wasp or bee sting.
Hawkwood lifted the pillow cautiously. The knife lay on the sheet. The blade was some six inches long, very thin, and needle sharp. The handle was of a similar length to the blade, black in colour and inlaid with an intricate gold filigree design. The workmanship, Hawkwood could see, was exquisite. It was a weapon as finely wrought as it was deadly.
Humour danced in her eyes. Her hand moved to her mouth as if to stifle laughter. She reached over him. The tips of her breasts dimpled his arm as she lifted the stiletto from its hiding place. “Oh, my love, forgive me! I’d quite forgotten it was there!” She laid the knife aside and took his hand in her own. “Here, let me see.”
She bent her head, as if to examine the wound. Before he could stop her, she had closed her mouth around his fingertip. He felt the warm curl of her tongue. Slowly, she slid her lips down the length of his finger. Hollowing her cheeks, she closed her eyes as she sucked the still warm blood from his flesh.
Releasing his finger from her mouth, she raised her head and smiled again. “Am I forgiven?”
Hawkwood stared down at the knife.
She followed his gaze. “We live in dangerous times, my love. A lady needs protection.”
“From whom?”
“Why, Bonaparte’s agents, of course. It is not unknown for the Emperor to send his people against us.”
“Us?” Hawkwood said.
“Those of us who wish to see Bonaparte deposed.”
“Royalists?”
“King Louis
Hawkwood was about to suggest that her honour would probably be better protected by a brace of pistols, but he was silenced when she leaned over and plucked the weapon from the bed sheet. He watched, fascinated, as she raised the stiletto to her lips and kissed the blade. It was a mime as erotic as her scent and the feel of her lips sliding over his knuckle. Looking down, he thought he saw her nipples harden. For a fleeting second, it was as if she and the knife were one, bonded together like lovers and, despite the incongruity of the moment, Hawkwood felt the stirrings of arousal.
Her dark eyes flashed. “Had you not come to my rescue, I’d have used it on that pig Rutherford without a moment’s regret.”
She stood, placed the knife on the armoire, turned to him, and grinned.
“But enough of this! What must you think of me, speaking of such things?” She leaned over him, breasts swaying invitingly, and chuckled seductively. “When I can think of much more pleasurable ways of passing the time!”
It was mid morning by the time Hawkwood arrived at the Blackbird. The tavern occupied the corner of a quiet mews at the lower end of Water Lane, one of the many winding arteries leading from the south side of Fleet Street down towards the river. Hidden deep within a maze of secluded courtyards and passageways, less than a stone’s throw from Kings Bench walk and the Inner Temple, it was inevitable that the majority of the tavern’s patrons
