Beloved Beast Page 2

  Their gazes met and melded, his as gray as a winter storm.

  “Is something unright, lass?” he asked.

  Unright how? Did he suspect her of thievery? Or-

  “Mayhap there be somemat ye wish to tell me?”

  “No!” she blurted, but caught herself and lowered her lashes carefully. Who the hell was he? A priest in plain clothing? A parishioner? A guard? A braw Highlander meant to test the fortitude of frail maids? The last seemed most likely, for though his face was stern and unyielding, it spoke volumes of strength and self control. If a body needed protecting, he’d be just the sort for the task. Luckily for Swift, she was not the needy kind. Nor was she the type to dwell on girlish dreams, though there was that about him that prompted them. “Well, yes. Yes, there is something,” she admitted. “I fear I have sinned.”

  “Have ye now?”

  “Might I…” She glanced at the narrow trio of rooms set aside for sinners. Had her luck held, the damned boxes would have been adjacent to the door, but anywhere was better than near the alms box. “Might I make an admittance?”

  He studied her. He was close now, within four strides. If she bolted would he catch her? He was not a young man, probably past five and thirty years, but judging by the size of his thighs she rather doubted another fifty would make him slow enough to best.

  “Might ye mean a confession?” he asked.

  “Yes. Of course.” She felt herself blush. How the devil had she forgotten that word? “Might I make a confession?”

  “Aye,” he said and remained absolutely unmoving.

  She scowled a little. “I meant…in the…” She glanced toward the boxes, but when she turned back, he was just lifting his gaze from the floor. Had he noticed her shoes? Tipped onto the edge of panic, she stood very still, not deigning to draw her feet beneath her skirts. Surely that would do nothing but signify guilt. And who was he to judge her attire? He was garbed in a wee skirt, for God’s sake. Though, in truth, he wore it well. And the tiny, leather-wrapped braid beside his left ear did even less to decrease his manhood. “I meant in one of them confessional…” She caught herself just before spinning into her native tongue. The inhabitants of Old Town’s Canongate were not known for their elegant speech. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin a tad. “I was hoping to be seated in one of the confessional boxes.”

  “But the confessionals are to hide one’s identity,” he said and for an instant something flickered in his eyes. She couldn’t quite make out what it was. “And I’ve already seen your face, lass.”

  “Well…” Was there interest in his expression? Was he attracted to her? Because she sure as hell could work with that. “Perhaps you could forget,” she said and glanced coyly through her lashes.

  His lips twitched with humor. “I fear the Lord has blessed me with a long and faithful memory, lassie. I shan’t forget features such as yours.”

  So he was attracted. Praise God! “You’ve a distinctive visage yourself, Father.” She was desperately digging for information regarding his reason for being there. Did priests go about in Highlander garb now and again? She had no way of knowing. It wasn’t as if she spent her days in the company of clergy, but her words concerning his features were true nevertheless. Although he was by no means a pretty man, his jaw was chiseled and broad, his chin well nicked by a scar that ran out of sight toward his throat.

  “Distinctive,” he said and chuckled a little.

  The sound was deep and soothing. She smiled, allowing herself a moment of pleasure at the sound. “Did I use the wrong term?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. Even through the voluminous tunic they looked heavy with muscle. “I suspect distinctive is well suited,” he said. “'Tis the word father that failed the test.”

  “You’re not…” She raised her brows, searching for words that wouldn’t make her sound like an uneducated guttersnipe, though the description would be apt. “Not ordained?”

  “Nay. I am but a postulant hopeful.”

  So he could copulate without guilt. Or at least he could hope to copulate with less guilt. God was gracious. “Well,” she said, and took a step forward. She wasn’t above using the heady aura of attraction that lay like opium smoke between them. “Humility looks good on you. But surely postulant hopefuls can hear confessions as well as any.”

  They were very close now, forcing him to bend his broad neck to look down at her. Just a few more inches and she would be within striking distance.

  “And what grievous sins has such a wee lass as ye committed?”

  The question caught her off guard, for there was no flirtation in his tone. Indeed there seemed to be earnest concern. Concern she wanted no part of. “I thought all sins equal in the eyes of the Lord.”

  His brows rose slightly. “You know the scriptures, lass?”

  She shrugged modestly. Blind Pete had taught her to read even before he’d trained her to lift a brooch. Thievery had proven to be the more valuable of the two, but quoting biblical passages had come in handy a time or two. She hadn’t foreseen a use for it on this particular occasion, but she had learned long ago to roll with the punches, literally and otherwise.

  He took a seemingly unconscious step closer. Perhaps she would be wise to leap for the door, but she doubted her ability to best him in a footrace. Surely it was not his masculine allure that kept her there. Nay, she stayed only to incapacitate him. And for that she needed proximity, which she now had. They were inches apart, their bodies all but touching.

  She gazed up at him. He looked down at her. Neither breathed.

  “I know scriptures well enough to realize I’ll sin again,” she said, and gripping the belt that encircled his waist, rose on her toes as if to kiss him. His eyes seemed to darken as she drew nearer.

  Their lips almost met. His parted.

  “By kneeing a postulant hopeful in the stones?” he asked.

  “What?” Startled, she tried to step back, but he had already caught her wrist.

  “Or were you about to confess for stealing the alms, lass?”

  She tugged at her arm. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Alms that are meant to aid the city’s impoverished youth.”

  “You’re mistaken. I put coins in the box just for that reason.”

  “Ahh, so you’re concerned with the wee ones what land in the gutters and brothels of this dark city?”

  “Of course.”

  He watched her, eyes as steady as stone. “Then we’d best check to make certain your donation got safe to its destination,” he said and began tugging her toward the mite box.

  “Release me!” she insisted, but the air had all but abandoned her lungs, leaving her voice weak. She drew a deep breath, remembering the image she had so carefully erected. She would play it till the end, professing her innocence. Twas the only way to win the day. “Loose me this instant!” she demanded. “Or I shall scream for the constable.”

  He turned toward her, one brow raised over stormy eyes. “That I doubt,” he said.

  There was challenge in his face. And try as she might, she had not yet learned to resist a challenge.

  “Help. Help me!” she shrieked.

  She expected him to release her, or at the least, to jerk in surprise, perhaps allowing her a chance to escape, but he barely shifted a muscle.

  She caught his gaze with hers, meeting the challenge full on. “Rape!”

  The iron-bound door at the end of the ancient kirk thudded open. A constable raced into the sanctuary.

  “You there, unhand…Mr. Mackay?” He slowed to a walk, his tone uncertain. “I thought I heard someone scream.”

  “Aye,” said the Highlander, his gaze never shifting from hers. “’Twas the wee lass here.”

  “Oh?” He lowered his gaze to hers. Twas the baby-faced constable she’d seen but minutes earlier by the alcove where she’d handed off her chapeau. Her heart was beating like a hammer in her chest. Had he seen her pass her bonnet off to the gawky
lad? Had he guessed her intent? “Is something amiss, lass?”

  “Yes. This man…” Her mind spun. She hadn’t a leg to stand on. She’d gambled and lost, but surely it was better to deal with a man of the church, no matter how damnably unflappable, than a constable paid to bring in her sort. “This man startled me.”

  “Startled you?”

  “I shouldn’t be so fidgety. Everett tells me so time out of count. But my mind had wandered. You see, my poor father is so dreadfully ill, and I’ve been caring for him endlessly. I don’t think he’s going to last much…” she began, and sniffling softly, buried her face in her free hand.

  “Oh.” The constable shuffled his feet uncomfortably, suddenly eager to be off. “Is that what happened, Mr. Mackay?”

  The Highlander was silent for several tense seconds. She prayed for divine intervention.

  “’Twas somemat like that,” he rumbled.

  There was a moment of silence. “Well then, I’ll leave you to comfort her,” said the constable, and hurried away.

  When the door closed, Swift lifted her head and scowled. Mackay raised one brow and stared a question.

  “I had no wish to find trouble for you,” she said.

  “Is it me that should be worried?” he rumbled.

  “What would the good constable think if he found you accosting a perfectly innocent woman?”

  “Innocent are ye, lass? And here I thought ye had sinned.”

  “In the past,” she said. “Minor offenses. I certainly did not take the church’s money. I would do no such thing.”

  “Me own mistake then, lass. Let us fetch your wee bag. I believe ye dropped it beneath the front pew,” he said and began dragging her in that direction.

  “I don’t have a…” she began, but he was already bending to retrieve her little purse. Frantic, she kicked at his face, but he twisted abruptly. The blow struck his shoulder. He grunted slightly but didn’t loosen his grip on her arm.

  “Sir?”

  Swift jerked her gaze to the right. A boy of nine or so stood twenty feet away. A red stain marred his cheek, but his eyes were bright.

  “Is something amiss, Sir.”

  “Nay, Rye, all is well.”

  The boy’s brows rose above mischievous eyes. “I thought fisticuffs were forbidden, Sir.”

  The Highlander’s brows lowered slightly. “We’re not fighting, lad.”

  The boy’s lips twitched in uncertainty.

  “We’re not fighting are we, lassie?” the Highlander rumbled.

  Although Swift would never be certain why, she straightened her back and shook her head. “Certainly not. That would be wrong.”

  “There now, go back to your bread and jam,” Mackay ordered.

  The boy skimmed his quick gaze from him to her. “And you’ll join me?”

  “As soon as I’m able,” he vowed, and the lad disappeared.

  Mackay sighed, straightened, and tugged Swift back to the front of the sanctuary. Their gazes met, and then, with one callused hand, he opened the draw string top of her reticule and dropped the contents onto the baptismal font. A wallet, a diamond bracelet, a ruby ring, and a mixed handful of coins clattered onto the stone font, spraying against the solid, ceramic pitcher that stood in the exact center.

  She made her eyes go wide. “How dare you rummage through my private possessions like a wild boar on a rampage?”

  “Your possessions, lass?”

  She almost winced as she noticed the name stamped into the wallet’s fine leather.

  “So you’re…Sir Edgar Templeton?”

  A string of curse words stormed through her head. But she had set her course, thus she held them at bay as a dozen possibilities presented themselves. All of them were flawed. Thus, she cried. It was as simple as that. Her eyes teared up on command. Her nose began to sting, and one hot droplet rolled down her unhappy cheek. She sobbed gently, prettily.

  He watched her. “It won’t work, lass.”

  She hiccupped, as pathetic as a lost babe. “What…what won’t work?”

  “Half the young ones in Edinburgh be going to bed hungry most nights of the week. The other half is beaten or raped. Consider yourself fortunate I’m letting you go free,” he said and loosed her arm.

  She staggered a little. “What?”

  “I’m setting you free,” he said. “If you’ll vow not to steal…” He paused, seemed to read her face and toned down his conditions. “If you’ll vow not to steal from this wee small kirk again.”

  She narrowed her eyes and watched him. “What do you want?”

  “What’s that, lass?”

  “I won’t prostitute myself.”

  “But you’ll steal for Cryton.”

  She felt herself tense at the sound of his name. Cryton was the personification of evil. “Not so long as I draw breath,” she said.

  He nodded. “’Tis good to know ye draw the line somewhere, then.”

  She watched him in silence for a moment. “You’re setting me free with no strings attached?”

  He nodded once.

  “Why?”

  He straightened his back, broad and intimidating. “What’s that?”

  “I asked you why you’re doing it.”

  “Surely a scholar such as yerself kens that the scriptures has a good deal to say concerning forgiveness.”

  “So you’re…” She shook her head. “So you’re just going to let me walk out of here.”

  “Aye.”

  “Even though the constable is just outside the door.”

  He shrugged as if weary. “Ye made a fair play of it for a bit, lass. I was beginning to doubt meself.”

  “What the devil gave me away then?” she asked and tilted her head at him, curious.

  “Naught but the evidence. I fear I saw ye drop your wee bag.”

  “And what of my shoes? Surely you noticed them ugly buggers,” she said, lifting her right foot for inspection.

  He glanced at her homely footwear, unsurprised. “You don’t command the Black Em…” He paused. “I’m fair observant.”

  She remained silent for a moment, thinking. “You were military.” She’d heard of the Black Embers. The ensuing tales of heroism and bravery were rarely considered true, but there was something about this man that made the ridiculous seem plausible. She watched him. He had the bearing of a general. The build of a god. “You look the part.”

  He said nothing.

  “A brawny bloke like you must have made a fair bit of coin at it.”

  Still he remained silent.

  “More than you can come by here,” she said. “Even if you claim the mite box yourself on a fair regular basis.”

  He made a quiet sound of derision. “You’d best be off now before the constable-”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because he might not believe you’re the blushing innocent the second time around, and Father Thomas takes theft rather-”

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  He watched her, face solemn. For a full ten seconds he failed to answer. But she waited.

  “Have you ever caused a man’s death, lass?”

  She shook her head.

  “’Tis a hideous thing. A horrible soul-wrenching thing. But it cannot compare to the death of a child.”

  She said nothing.

  “War…” He shook his head. The tiny braid brushed his left ear. “’Tis the children what suffer most. The wee--” He stopped, drew a heavy breath and forced a laugh. “Truth be told, I quit when I became weary of the scars. The church is more staid. Less violent,” he said and rolled the shoulder she had kicked only moments earlier. “Usually.”

  “So that’s why you joined the kirk here.”

  “Aye.”

  She nodded. He was lying and not particularly good at one. “I don’t suppose you’d be a sweetmeat and let me take the bracelet.”

  He shook his head once. “It’ll fetch a fair bit for the lads.”

  “So you’ll not tr
y to find its owner?”

  He shrugged a heavy shoulder. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. I dare not question his methods.”

  She chuckled, charmed by the spark in his eyes. He’d seen pain. That much was clear. But he was not beyond seeing happiness. ’Twas a rare gift these days. “I don’t think you and I are so very different, Mackay.”

  “Your fingers be a good deal smaller. Better for sleight of hand.”

  She smiled and turned away. “Would you believe me if I said I, too, was trying to free a young lad from poverty?”

  “I fear our brief acquaintance has made me a wee bit of the skeptic.”

  She stopped at the baptismal font and glanced over her shoulder at him. “I promised old Pete I’d see to Tav’s care.”

  “Blind Pete?”

  “My mother,” she said, then laughed at his expression. “Or as close to one as I’ve known. He took me in when I had nowhere else.”