Midnight Jewel
Page 52
Inside, the noise was even more intense. The piano sang with a jaunty tune far removed from anything I’d learned at Blue Spring, and patrons laughed and yelled around us. Some played poker, slamming cards and coins on the table. Deft servers slipped through the crowds with drinks and food. Smoke and the scent of sweat hung heavy in the air. More barely dressed women sauntered around the room—some doing more than sauntering. I stared in disbelief as one couple kissed in a doorway, oblivious to those around them. Another woman had climbed to the center of a table of men, teasing and laughing with them as they tried to lift the edge of her skirt. I became very conscious of my missing wig, with only a mask to shield me.
“I can’t be recognized in a place like this!” I shouted to Grant.
“Better here than jail,” he called back. “Look—a table opened up by the bar.”
We pushed our way through the mob, snatching the two chairs before anyone else could. We sat so close to the bar that Grant only had to stand and call out to the bartender for wine. Moments later, a decanter and cups appeared on the table.
“We’re just having a nice drink. A pleasant time.” Grant’s gaze, anything but pleasant, remained fixed on the door as he spoke. “If the militia does think to look in here, they won’t recognize us from whatever descriptions they got.”
My hands shaking, I filled the cups with wine but didn’t touch mine. “So much for the watchman being too lazy to patrol the other side of the building.”
Grant shot me a withering look. “How bad is your leg?”
“Before or after I fell out a window?”
He grimaced. “You should’ve told me it was still bothering you. I’ll take a look when we get back to—” His focus shifted behind me, and I knew what had happened.
“The militia’s here.”
“Just one. Don’t turn around. Drink your wine. Smile.”
I couldn’t manage the smile but brought the cup to my lips without drinking. A man stormed up to the counter beside us. “I’m looking for a couple of thieves,” he told the bartender importantly. “A man and a woman.”
The bartender didn’t blink. “We’ve got plenty of them. Take your pick.”
“Young blonde girl. Older man.”
“Take your pick,” the bartender repeated, gesturing to the crowded room behind us. “I didn’t notice anyone like that, but then, your description’s a little vague.”
The militiaman scowled and scanned the room, his eyes passing over Grant and me. “Hey,” he yelled, waving at the door. “Come here, and tell him anything else you saw.”
Grant’s fake smile grew even stiffer. “It’s the watchman. He’s walking over.”
I met Grant’s eyes in alarm. I’d been face-to-face with the watchman. Even without the wig, he might recognize me. I averted my gaze as he stomped up to the militiaman and sputtered out what he’d seen.
“I didn’t get a good look at him. But I think he had a beard. Gray. The girl was blonde. Pretty. Had a mask.”
“Search around if you want,” said the bartender, more weary than concerned about housing thieves.
“Let’s split up,” said the militiaman.
I didn’t hear what they said next. All I knew was that I couldn’t let them see my face. I couldn’t be caught, not after everything I’d done to get to Adoria. My heartbeat roaring in my ears, I climbed over to Grant’s lap without any warning and kissed him, angling my body and face away from the bar. His shock lasted only a second, and then he put his hands on my hips, fingers curling tightly into me. His mouth opened against mine, and the taste of his tongue and his lips flooded my senses as my earlier panic melted away. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and one of his hands slid up my back, entangling itself in my hair. His other hand pushed my mask up, and I opened my eyes, meeting his for the space of a breath before our mouths were on each other again. His teeth grazed my lips, and every part of my body tensed, eager for . . . something.
A man cleared his throat loudly behind us, and it took my addled brain several moments to even register it. I quickly shoved my mask down and broke from Grant. We both looked up and saw the scowling bartender standing over us with crossed arms. The watchman and militiaman were nowhere in sight.
“I don’t care if she isn’t one of our girls,” the bartender said. “You want to do that, you take her upstairs and pay for a room like everyone else.”
Grant blinked a few times and then gently pushed me back to my chair. “I’ll take her to my place. Er, that is, we’re leaving.” He stood up and tossed a few coins on the table, though his eyes scanned the tavern as he did. A quick nod at me said we were in the clear, and the two of us walked to the tavern door. Or, well, I limped. We paused once more at the porch, double-checking for our pursuers, but they’d moved on.
We made our way slowly down the street, and he offered once to let me lean on him. I shook my head. “It’s not so bad,” I lied. I was afraid to touch him again. I was afraid to say anything. We walked back to the bakery in silence, and I had to resist the urge to touch my lips and trace where his had been.
“Grant . . .” I found my courage and had to swallow a few times before continuing. “Should we—that is—do we need to talk about—”
“No,” he said, staring straight ahead.
“No? You don’t have anything to say?”
“No.” His voice held its usual flippancy, but it felt fragile. Like it was a struggle to maintain it. “Is there something you want me to say?”
Lots of things. Like why he hadn’t been faking. He was an exceptional actor, but he hadn’t kissed me like he was putting on a show. He’d kissed me like he wanted to consume me. And he pulled me to him like . . . well, like he just wanted me, pure and simple.
“I can’t be recognized in a place like this!” I shouted to Grant.
“Better here than jail,” he called back. “Look—a table opened up by the bar.”
We pushed our way through the mob, snatching the two chairs before anyone else could. We sat so close to the bar that Grant only had to stand and call out to the bartender for wine. Moments later, a decanter and cups appeared on the table.
“We’re just having a nice drink. A pleasant time.” Grant’s gaze, anything but pleasant, remained fixed on the door as he spoke. “If the militia does think to look in here, they won’t recognize us from whatever descriptions they got.”
My hands shaking, I filled the cups with wine but didn’t touch mine. “So much for the watchman being too lazy to patrol the other side of the building.”
Grant shot me a withering look. “How bad is your leg?”
“Before or after I fell out a window?”
He grimaced. “You should’ve told me it was still bothering you. I’ll take a look when we get back to—” His focus shifted behind me, and I knew what had happened.
“The militia’s here.”
“Just one. Don’t turn around. Drink your wine. Smile.”
I couldn’t manage the smile but brought the cup to my lips without drinking. A man stormed up to the counter beside us. “I’m looking for a couple of thieves,” he told the bartender importantly. “A man and a woman.”
The bartender didn’t blink. “We’ve got plenty of them. Take your pick.”
“Young blonde girl. Older man.”
“Take your pick,” the bartender repeated, gesturing to the crowded room behind us. “I didn’t notice anyone like that, but then, your description’s a little vague.”
The militiaman scowled and scanned the room, his eyes passing over Grant and me. “Hey,” he yelled, waving at the door. “Come here, and tell him anything else you saw.”
Grant’s fake smile grew even stiffer. “It’s the watchman. He’s walking over.”
I met Grant’s eyes in alarm. I’d been face-to-face with the watchman. Even without the wig, he might recognize me. I averted my gaze as he stomped up to the militiaman and sputtered out what he’d seen.
“I didn’t get a good look at him. But I think he had a beard. Gray. The girl was blonde. Pretty. Had a mask.”
“Search around if you want,” said the bartender, more weary than concerned about housing thieves.
“Let’s split up,” said the militiaman.
I didn’t hear what they said next. All I knew was that I couldn’t let them see my face. I couldn’t be caught, not after everything I’d done to get to Adoria. My heartbeat roaring in my ears, I climbed over to Grant’s lap without any warning and kissed him, angling my body and face away from the bar. His shock lasted only a second, and then he put his hands on my hips, fingers curling tightly into me. His mouth opened against mine, and the taste of his tongue and his lips flooded my senses as my earlier panic melted away. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and one of his hands slid up my back, entangling itself in my hair. His other hand pushed my mask up, and I opened my eyes, meeting his for the space of a breath before our mouths were on each other again. His teeth grazed my lips, and every part of my body tensed, eager for . . . something.
A man cleared his throat loudly behind us, and it took my addled brain several moments to even register it. I quickly shoved my mask down and broke from Grant. We both looked up and saw the scowling bartender standing over us with crossed arms. The watchman and militiaman were nowhere in sight.
“I don’t care if she isn’t one of our girls,” the bartender said. “You want to do that, you take her upstairs and pay for a room like everyone else.”
Grant blinked a few times and then gently pushed me back to my chair. “I’ll take her to my place. Er, that is, we’re leaving.” He stood up and tossed a few coins on the table, though his eyes scanned the tavern as he did. A quick nod at me said we were in the clear, and the two of us walked to the tavern door. Or, well, I limped. We paused once more at the porch, double-checking for our pursuers, but they’d moved on.
We made our way slowly down the street, and he offered once to let me lean on him. I shook my head. “It’s not so bad,” I lied. I was afraid to touch him again. I was afraid to say anything. We walked back to the bakery in silence, and I had to resist the urge to touch my lips and trace where his had been.
“Grant . . .” I found my courage and had to swallow a few times before continuing. “Should we—that is—do we need to talk about—”
“No,” he said, staring straight ahead.
“No? You don’t have anything to say?”
“No.” His voice held its usual flippancy, but it felt fragile. Like it was a struggle to maintain it. “Is there something you want me to say?”
Lots of things. Like why he hadn’t been faking. He was an exceptional actor, but he hadn’t kissed me like he was putting on a show. He’d kissed me like he wanted to consume me. And he pulled me to him like . . . well, like he just wanted me, pure and simple.
