Mermaid of Penperro Read online

  He removed one of his hands from hers and touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You’re frozen half through. We’ve got to get you home.”

  She let her teeth chatter noisily at him in response, enjoying his concern and hoping he felt a little guilty for keeping her out all night.

  Her fingers were so stiff she could barely grip her skirts to raise them for the climb up the rocks. Tom put his arm around her waist, cursing softly at the dampness of her pelisse. He felt warm and strong beside her, and she let him help her up the rocks. Once at the top he scooped her up into his arms.

  She could have walked, but she was tired and Tom was warm. Despite the long night he was still somehow full of energy, carrying her in a smooth lope back toward the cottage. She shut her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck, nestling her face against the wool of his coat. No one had carried her since she was a child, and she planned to savor the experience. She wasn’t making eyes at him, so surely it was an innocent enough indulgence.

  Her mind was already in that bleary state halfway to sleep when they reached her cottage. She knew she should have him put her down before Hilde saw them and made a fuss, but it was so very nice being carried she did not say a word. Tom managed to open the door with her in his arms, and carried her into the warm kitchen. She was vaguely aware of Hilde jumping up from her chair near the fire.

  Tom set her down in the vacated seat, and she looked up into his eyes while his face was still near hers. For a criminal, he was awfully attractive. She reluctantly took her arms from around his neck, and thought she might have felt the slightest hint of reluctance in him as well, before he withdrew his arms from beneath her knees and behind her back.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He gave her a wry smile. “My pleasure.”

  “Where have you been? Why did he carry you? Are you hurt?” Hilde was barking in German.

  “I’m fine, just cold and tired,” Konstanze answered in the same language.

  “She needs to get out of those wet clothes,” Tom said to Hilde. “She should soak her feet in warm water, too.”

  “You don’t need to tell me what to do,” Hilde said in her own tongue. “As if I don’t know how to take care of her! You were the one who got her in this state, you with your plots and schemes—”

  “Hilde, enough,” Konstanze said, glad Tom couldn’t understand the maid’s words. By the angry set of his jaw it was apparent he understood Hilde’s tone well enough, though.

  “I’ll be going, then,” Tom said. “I see you’re in capable hands.”

  “Stay and warm yourself. Have a cup of tea, at least,” she said, laying her hand against his sleeve.

  He looked down at her hand, then at her, and as she let her hand drop he stepped away. “No, you need to get into dry clothes and be put to bed. I’ll not hold you up.”

  She stood as he moved toward the door. “The costume should be done by tomorrow evening. Will you want to see it?”

  He gave her a short nod. “I’ll come by after dark.” ‘Tomorrow evening, then.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said, and then he was gone. Konstanze sat back down, her clothes suddenly feeling more damp, her limbs wearier than when he had been in the room.

  “He is trouble, that man,” Hilde said. “You should not be making eyes at him.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Hilde snorted, and poured hot water into a basin.

  “I know enough to stay out of trouble,” Konstanze said, and hoped she would heed her own good sense.

  Chapter Eleven

  London

  Bugg II woke with a smile on his face. He rolled onto his back and stretched, then turned his nose to his armpit and sniffed, enjoying his own scent. He smelled like a man who had performed admirably in bed.

  The prostitute he had hired the night before was long gone, departing while he slept, sated from his exertions. He yawned, then grimaced at the sticky, cheesy taste of his mouth, and rubbed his tongue over his front teeth. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the lumpy bed in his rented room and reaching under it for the chamber pot. He sighed as the pressure on his bladder was released, and winced as the hot acid fumes of his urine met his nose.

  Yesterday had been a day of victory, and his hiring of the prostitute his celebration. After two weeks in London he had finally found the pawnshop where Konstanze had sold the family silver, jewelry, and the ormolu clock that his mother had left to him. Although he had been unable—and unwilling—to buy the items back with his cash on hand, he had bribed the pawnbroker to write out a letter confirming Konstanze’s actions, and to give him copies of the pawn tickets.

  Not only had finding the pawnshop put him on Konstanze’s trail, but it had given him the means to see her hanged for theft. Although it was debatable whether the silver and jewelry were hers to do with as she wished, it was beyond question that the clock had been his. There were those who got transported to Australia for as little as stealing a few linen handkerchiefs, and a theft of more than two pounds from a house was a hanging offense. Why do the dirty work of killing her himself, if the Crown would do it for him? And transportation to Australia was as good as a death sentence. She’d never survive.

  He nodded to himself. It was a brilliant plan. He had the upper hand now, and he’d use it, once he found her. The pawnbroker had given him the name of the inn that Konstanze had given as her address. It was only a matter of time now.

  He set down the chamber pot and stood, stretching again, then looked around for his clothes. Where had they gone? He’d been drunk as well as horny as a bull last night, and dimly remembered dropping them to the floor as the prostitute helped him strip.

  There were no clothes on the floor. A short search of the small room revealed that his bag was present, but empty except for one ratty old handkerchief, a pair of stockings with holes, and the pawnbroker’s letter and tickets. He dropped to his knees, searching for the shoes he knew he’d left under the bed.

  Gone. And in the toe of one of them had been stashed all his money.

  He stood and gave a mighty roar of anger, and yanked all the covers from the bed, throwing them on the floor in a fit of pique. His foot caught the edge of the chamber pot, spilling its contents. He kicked the offending pot away, then threw himself upon the stained mattress and wept, with his bare, hairy butt exposed to the chilly air.

  Chapter Twelve

  “It was like she was taunting me,” Foweather said, and took a sip of his tea. He was sitting on a settee across from Tom, in Tom’s parlor. “We’d hear her on one side; then there’d be a splash and a silence, and then we’d hear her from a different direction. She must have swum under the boat a half dozen times!”

  Tom nodded sympathetically. Foweather looked pale and weary, purple shadows under his eyes. “And this went on all night?”

  “Nearly. She tried to lure us onto the rocks, even. If it had been rougher weather we might have perished!”

  Tom shook his head and made tsking sounds. “I fear you may be right, and it is you she has set her cold, fishy heart upon.”

  Mrs. Toley came in with a fresh pot of tea and a plate of cakes and biscuits. She set them down near Tom. Foweather’s head lifted at sight of the goodies, his eyes roving avidly over the assortment. With the edge of her hand Mrs. Toley pushed the plate closer to Tom. She gave Foweather a narrow-eyed glare and went back to her kitchen.

  “May I?” Foweather asked.

  “Please,” Tom said, and handed him the plate.

  Foweather sat back with the plate on his lap, his tired features showing the first hints of life. “You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had a decent meal,” he said. “My clothes are hanging on me.” He selected a small cake and devoured it.

  “You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping well.”

  “I can only nap when the tide’s out. It’s the only time I’m certain she will not be swimming up to the boat.”

  “But surely you are safe with all
your men around you?”

  “I remember what you said about Ulysses. She may tempt them as much as me. They were the ones who persuaded me to chase after her last night. They wanted to catch sight of her.”

  “If she’s as lovely as you say, and her voice so sweet, perhaps becoming her husband would not be such a bad thing,” Tom suggested.

  Foweather stopped chewing a mouthful of tart, and spoke with crumbs falling from his lips. “Become her husband! I could not! I don’t want to spend my days under the cold waters. It is every mariner’s nightmare.” He shuddered. “Her husband. Indeed!”

  “Isn’t there some small part of you that is tempted?”

  “’Twould be an unholy match.”

  Tom looked at him, waiting.

  Foweather’s cheeks began to pinken, and he dropped his eyes to the half-empty plate, selecting another cake. “’Twould be a sin against God to mate with such a creature,” he mumbled, and popped the cake into his mouth. He glanced up under his brows as if checking for Tom’s approval of the statement.

  Tom shrugged. “Her mother went to church. Perhaps she would become Christian to secure your heart.”

  Foweather dropped his eyes and selected another biscuit, chewing vigorously on the cake in his mouth.

  “Come now,” Tom coaxed. “Can you honestly say you are not the least bit tempted?”

  “But it’s wrong!” Foweather suddenly declared, throwing wide his hands and knocking over his cup of tea. “Damn me!” he exclaimed, and jumped up. The plate of goodies fell to the floor and he took a step toward the mess of tea, stepping on a tart and squishing its contents into the carpet.

  “Don’t fret yourself,” Tom said, and gave Mrs. Toley a shout. “Mrs. Toley will take care of it. Please, Robert, sit down.”

  “A damned mess, I’ve made a damned mess,” Foweather said, sopping up the spilled tea with his handkerchief.

  “Sit, Robert.”

  “And the cakes!” he said, lifting a foot and spying the mess attached to his sole.

  “There are more. Sit, please.”

  “My apologies. Look at your carpet—”

  “Forget the damn carpet, Robert. Sit down!”

  Foweather gaped at him, blue eyes bugging, then obediently moved to the end of the settee and sat.

  Mrs. Toley came in, saw the mess, and gave a great sigh. As she was going out to get cleaning supplies Tom asked her to bring more cakes. She was back in a minute, and Tom gave the fresh goodies to Foweather, who sat with a sad and guilty expression. He let the plate sit on his lap untouched while Mrs. Toley made a show of cleaning up the mess.

  “My apologies,” Foweather offered again in a small voice.

  “There are more important things at stake here than cakes on the carpet,” Tom said. “It sounds as if part of you is secretly attracted to the mermaid. We must discuss this. These are dangerous waters, Robert. Dangerous!”

  “I know,” Foweather said mournfully, and turned his attention to the plate and reluctantly selected a biscuit. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.” He stuffed the biscuit into his mouth and chewed unhappily.

  Tom almost felt sorry for him.

  Tom saw Foweather off through the front door, the Preventive man trudging wearily away as if he were a Greek hero burdened with the weight of a tragic, inevitable fate. Tom had him half convinced that his encounters with the mermaid would someday become the stuff of legend. Foweather seemed equal parts horrified and fascinated by the notion of such fame.

  Tom retreated to his office before Mrs. Toley could catch him and try to press some fried eggs or fish on him, or perhaps some of the leftover trifle from last night. He slipped into his chair and propped the soles of his boots up on the edge of the desk, leaning back on two legs of the chair and staring out the window to his right, ignoring the piles of papers on his desk.

  He was troubled by the interview with Foweather. His own blatant lies to the man ate at him a bit, but not too much. The smuggling would happen with or without his mermaid plan, but at least with the deception there was less chance of anyone getting hurt. Smugglers caught red-handed were liable to panic and fire off a shot or two, thus putting themselves at risk for getting shot in return or hanged for firing on a revenue officer. The mermaid plan protected the Preventive men as well—it kept them out of dangerous situations.

  No, it was something else that was gnawing at him, something that left him feeling unsettled. There was something about the way he had badgered Foweather into admitting an attraction to his mermaid—Konstanze—that had him feeling squirmy in his own skin. He had been unable to stop himself from harping on the topic, when that hadn’t been his plan at all. He had thought to take a more passive role today, and let Foweather spill all his thoughts without much prompting. He had thought to take on the role of benevolent listener and wise older brother.

  He had not thought to nag the man into admitting he harbored secret lusts for the mermaid.

  So why had he done it? And why had he felt a spark of angry jealousy when Foweather admitted his stirrings of passion?

  He chewed a hangnail, frowning out the window at the bright nasturtiums, and did not like the conclusion to which he came: not only did he feel a normal animal attraction for Konstanze, but he was beginning to feel possessive of her as well. That was not a good sign, not a good sign at all.

  It was that long talk in the cave that had done it. Or maybe it had been the way her eyes filled with tears when he’d sworn he would never harm her. Or maybe it was walking home with her from the church, hearing her talk about her life.

  Hell, he didn’t know. Somewhere along the line she had stopped being some rich man’s runaway wife and had started being an interesting woman, and God knew how long it had been since he’d had a real conversation with a woman he found interesting.

  Come to think of it, had he ever talked with a woman for as long as he had talked with Konstanze last night? The strange intimacy of the situation— working together, waiting in the dark—and her apparent friendly interest in him had prompted him to pour out information he had thought to keep bottled tight inside. Why, for God’s sake, had he told her that pathetic tale about Eustice and the failed school? He cringed to think of it.

  He didn’t need this. He would have to keep an eye on himself to ensure that he didn’t become the same obsessed fool he had become over Eustice. Being in love had been a painful, terrible experience during which logic had gleefully abandoned him, and if he valued the life he had built for himself here in Penperro he would do well to avoid repeating past errors.

  Besides, Konstanze was married, and, even if she somehow had it annulled or obtained a divorce, she had already shown herself to be decidedly lacking in loyalty to her spouse. She was trouble, and any interest he had in her would best be limited to their business dealings and the conscientious concern he felt for her as the great-niece of Robert Penrose, a former client and friend.

  He remembered carrying her back to the cottage, her arms around his neck, her body soft and curvaceous against his chest. She had seemed deliciously vulnerable and trusting, her face close enough that if he had but bent his head he could have taken her lips with his own. He had thought his concern was that she not fall ill from being so thoroughly chilled, but his body had paid detailed attention to the feel of her. Once back at the cottage he had scampered out of her kitchen like a frightened rat, unwilling to stay and sip hot tea while she went upstairs and stripped off her wet clothes. The very idea of her undressing had given him a glorious, brief image of her naked on her bed, her legs parted, an inviting smile on her lips.

  This would have to stop. No more imagining having sex with Konstanze. He was enjoying it far too much. He had found over the years that thinking of doing something made one much more likely to attempt it. He didn’t want to find himself actually making a pass at her at some opportune moment.

  No, he would have to remind himself as often as necessary that she was married. Her husband sounded li
ke he was a real monkey’s butt and undeserving of her, but married she still was. As far as he was concerned, such women were forever forbidden fruit.

  Now if only he could convince himself that he wasn’t looking forward to seeing her this evening.

  Konstanze took the pins from her hair and unwound the coils she had just finished arranging. She tugged the string of fake pearls free of the twisted tresses, a few strands of hair getting caught around the string. She picked at the hairs with fingers made shaky by too many cups of tea.

  “Let me,” Hilde said, and came over to where she was sitting on the floor of the kitchen, in front of a mirror propped against the stones of the hearth. Hilde deftly untangled the hair and dropped the pearls into Konstanze’s lap.

  “Thank you.”

  “You are going to too much fuss,” Hilde said. “Why are you trying to impress him?”

  “I’m not,” Konstanze lied, and picked up the curling iron, quickly touching its surface to test the temperature. She wound one of the short tresses near her face around the iron rod, trying to repair the damage done to the ringlet by her last attempt at a hairstyle.

  “Mermaids don’t have curling irons,” Hilde grumbled.

  “But they might have natural curls in their hair. I’m enjoying the chance to be in costume is all, Hilde. This has nothing to do with Mr. Trewella. Didn’t Mama take forever to prepare for a performance?”

  Hilde gave a mutter that Konstanze took for reluctant assent. The maid went back to putting the final stitches in the costume they had both been working on for several days.

  Konstanze released the ringlet from the iron and sat staring at her reflection, feeling the flutterings of a sort of stage fright in her chest. She did not know what Tom was going to say about what she had come up with to solve the issue of the bare breasts. She did not know quite what she thought of it herself. She looked over her shoulder at the bodice that lay over the back of a chair, and felt a nervous giggle bubble up her throat.