Touch of a Thief (14 page)

She’d have time to touch one of the jewels at least. She couldn’t be sure how long he’d owned the diamond studs and she despised the screech of diamonds. The medal for valor was ornamented by a small topaz. It would probably show her something military and she wasn’t sure she had the stomach for seeing Quinn in mortal danger.

The signet ring would probably yield the most information since he’d been his father’s heir for a couple decades and presumably had worn it often. The set was very old-fashioned; the Ashford barony had been created before Cromwell. Heavy gold filigree surrounded a cabochon sapphire carved with the Ashford crest intaglio style. It seemed to wink at her, tempting her with its secrets. If she was quick about it, perhaps she could avoid the sick headache that accompanied prolonged use of her gift.

It was worth the risk.

She ambled over to the tray, cast one last look toward the door, and stretched out her hand for the ring. She picked it up by the gold circle and then pressed the carved crest into her palm.

The sapphire wailed like the damned.

W
ater shot up her nose. She couldn’t breathe. A hand thrashed before her face, stubby fingers with nails bitten down to the quick. Sickly green light filtered through the murky water. The signet ring flashed on the right forefinger. The hand clawed the water. Yarn was wrapped around the backside of the heavy ring to make it fit the childish finger.

Her head broke the surface, but only long enough to gulp a quick breath. Arms and legs pumping furiously, a boy was running along the dock toward her.

No, not toward
her
. Toward the one in the water.

She struggled to separate herself from the vision, but she continued to see through the eyes of the floundering child. Arms flailing, she sank like a stone
.

Slimy dock posts wavered before her. Waterweed grasped at her ankles. Sediment sparkled in a shaft of dying sun.

She looked up. It was hard to tell how much water separated her from the surface. The boy knelt on the dock and leaned out, stretching a hand toward her. The whites showed all the way around his gunmetal gray eyes. His lips were moving. She could hear his voice, frantic and rising in pitch, but she couldn’t make out any of the words. The hand with the signet ring strained upward, trying to catch hold.

She looked down, past a bare flat chest with nipples no bigger than a pair of pimples, past a little boy’s penis contracted to almost nothing, and on to the boy’s feet. They were churning furiously, knobby knees rising and falling as if he were running uphill.

She seemed to be moving upward, but not nearly fast enough. Her lungs burned for air.

Then a hand reached down into the water.

Relief melted her bones.

Instead of grasping the stubby-fingered hand, the hand settled on the top of her head, pushing her down. She thrashed and kicked. She clawed at the arm, but the hand wouldn’t let go.

She tried to look up, but the hand held her immobile. Its long fingers wrapped around her skull like a vise. Her vision tunneled.

An explosion of bubbles escaped her lips and, muffled by water, she heard one long wavering cry. Her senses couldn’t make out the child’s last word, but it echoed clearly in her brain, a despairing howl. “Greydon!”

“Viola. Viola.” The voice grew more urgent.

She slitted one eyelid. Quinn loomed over her, his gray eyes wide.

Oh, God. The same eyes.

She squeezed hers shut. A claw sank its talons into the base of her brain, sending a shrieking message of pain. She shouldn’t have held the ring so long.

But she hadn’t been able to turn it loose. She’d never had such a vivid vision, never been inside the body of a jewel’s previous owner before. She’d always been able to pull out of an unpleasant Sending, but the jewel had forced her to stay till the bitter conclusion of its tale. It sucked her in. Made her part of the ring’s story. It was as if the ring demanded that she see, feel,
know
, . . . something she fervently wished she didn’t.

“Viola, what’s wrong?” Quinn’s voice cut through the pain. Someone was tapping her wrist and trying to make her sit up. “Sanjay, call for a doctor.”

Quinn wrapped his arms around her and rocked, pressing her head to his chest.

“No,” she murmured, forcing her eyes open. The screaming headache made her clamp them shut again. “No doctor, please.”

A physician would only bleed her and make her weaker than she already was. Bile rose in her throat but she swallowed it back. If she allowed herself to be sick, she expected she’d spew murky green water. She tried to pull out of his embrace and rise to her feet.

“No, you don’t.” Quinn scooped her up and laid her flat on the bed. “Rest now.”

She let herself sink into the feather tick and kept her eyes closed. She couldn’t meet his gaze yet. Like Adam, who knew with just a look that Eve had eaten fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, Quinn would see the damnable knowing in her.

What she’d experienced would shoot out her eyes without her conscious volition. He’d see that she
knew
.

“What happened, sahib?”

“I’m not sure. I wasn’t in the room.”

Quinn’s voice sounded worried, but otherwise the same. How could he not sound different? Surely there should be a telltale marker in his tone, the predatory rumble of one who stops at nothing to achieve his ends.

“She must have fainted and knocked over the tray with my effects as she fell,” he said. “Look, there’s my ring under the lowboy.”

“Or she was maybe trying to steal it,” Sanjay said sullenly.

Viola peered in Sanjay’s direction from beneath her lashes. The Hindu was fiercely loyal to Quinn. Did he know Quinn’s dark secret?

“If I was to steal from Quinn, it wouldn’t be those trinkets.” She forced her voice to remain calm even despite her jittery belly and splitting head. She must give the appearance of normalcy. She mustn’t betray herself. “Not when he has a stocking full of jewels in his drawer.”

Quinn snorted. “She has a point.”

“This sickness of Lady Viola’s, it is not of the body. Her aura is different,” Sanjay said. “It is a darkness of the heart.”

He was right. Her heart had never felt so bleak.

Thoughts darted through her mind like a school of fish, zipping this way and that before she could get a net around one.

Quinn. He wanted to be known as Quinn or called by his military rank, not his title. Not Lord Ashford. Now she knew the real reason why.

Guilt.

Someone pressed a cool, wet cloth to her forehead and a callused hand smoothed over her cheek. She smelled Quinn’s scent. How could he be so tender and caring now and so cold then?

Oh, God!
The torrent of sensations from last night’s lovemaking washed over her. Her chest constricted. Why did she have to have this lump of feeling for him?

And such loathing for herself. What was wrong with her? She discovered she’d made love with a monster and it didn’t seem to matter one particle to her wanton insides.

She’d hoped the ring would show her something of the man she’d given herself to. It had, but not as she’d expected. Instead, she was given a glimpse into the previous Lord Ashford. The ring had yanked her into the last moments of life of Quinn’s older brother, Reginald.

And showed young Quinn helping him drown.

Quinn paced the room while Sanjay cleared away their breakfast. Viola hadn’t stirred. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but her cheeks were pale as foolscap.

She’d been fine, flushed and rosy and looking entirely swiveable when he’d left her at their breakfast table. Viola was not the sort given to vapors. She was vibrant. Strong.

But for no apparent reason, she was laid low.

He hitched a hip on the edge of the bed and covered her hand with his. Her fingers were icy. “Is there anything I should do for you?”

“No.” Her voice held a repressed sob.

“Are you in pain?”

“Yes.” Her lips were nearly white.

“Maybe spirits would help. There’s sherry in the decanter.”

She swallowed hard. “No.”

“Laudanum?” He was loath to suggest it. He’d seen too many friends lose themselves to opiates in India, but for this much pain, perhaps it was warranted. “I could nip down to the apothecary and—”

“No, no.” She pulled her hand away from his and lifted the edge of the wet handkerchief to peer at him for a moment before letting the cloth drop back into place. Her mouth turned down into a frown. “Please. I just need to be quiet for a bit. This will pass.”

“It’s happened before?”

She sighed.

“Often?”

“No.”

“What brought it on?”

“Please, Quinn.” She rolled away from him. “Leave me alone.”

Some people preferred to be sick in solitude. Lord knew, he did. When he was recovering from a saber cut in Peshawar, he wouldn’t let anyone see him weak and feverish, refusing all visitors and barely allowing the
daai
in to change his sweaty sheets and wound dressing.

He respected Viola’s need for privacy. He’d never realized how frustrating that might be to someone who was trying to help the patient.

“Fine, if that’s what you wish.” He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets because he didn’t know what else to do with them. “I’ll see about that burgundy ball gown, then.”

She made a small noise he chose to consider appreciative.

“If you need anything, ring for Sanjay.”

“No!” she said with surprising force. She sat bolt upright, then seemed to think better of the sudden movement and flopped back down. “I mean, you should take him with you.”

“I hardly think it takes two men to pick up a gown.”

“But think how it will appear.” She grabbed his pillow and covered her head with it. To shut out the light more completely, he guessed. Her voice was muffled, but he could tell her jaws were clenched from the way she clipped her words. “A gentleman shouldn’t be seen carrying his own parcel. That’s why you have a servant.”

“You’re right,” he said, a weight lifting from his chest. If she was able to scold him, she was on the mend. “We won’t be long then.”

She mumbled a good-bye and he left, feeling very much dismissed. Sanjay refused to ride in the coach with him, insisting on hanging on the back rail as English footmen did. After rattling along alone for a few miles, Quinn had to talk to someone. He rapped on the ceiling of the coach, signaling a stop several blocks before the modiste’s shop so he could get out and walk. Sanjay fell into step with him on his right side, but was careful to maintain a position back a pace in keeping with their supposed relationship as master and servant.

“Sanjay, we’ve never talked about your domestic relationships, but you’re a married man, aren’t you?” Quinn asked over his shoulder, trying to sound nonchalant though his gut was jumping.

“Oh, yes, sahib. I have six wives and eight concubines.”

Perhaps Sanjay wasn’t the right one to give him the counsel he sought, but no one else was available at present. “How did you know it was time to marry?”

“My father told me. Even a prince’s marriages are arranged in my country.”

“But did you . . . do you love your wife . . . wives?”

“Oh, yes, I love all my wives,” Sanjay said with a smile in his tone. “I just love some of them more often than others.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Quinn frowned. “I guess I’m wondering if there’s a way to know if a particular woman is the one a man should wed.”

“Are you, my friend, considering such foolishness with Lady Viola?”

Was he as transparent as that? He made a mental note to steer clear of the gaming tables until this business was finished.

“Why do you say it’s foolishness?”

“In order to wed, a man must first be confident the woman is worthy of his trust. A man gives his wife the protection of his good name, something which is easily lost and not as easily restored.”

A good name. Could that be why Viola had turned ill? Last night, she was upset over word getting back home about their posing as husband and wife. Sanjay claimed her illness was a darkness of the heart. Disorder of the spirit could lead to disorder of the body.

Would it be so bad to make their ruse reality? Marrying in truth would solve a number of problems and might very well cure what ailed her. Besides, there was every possibility she might already be increasing with his child. Could the sickness be related to that? Surely it was too soon, but what did he know about the mysteries of women?

“You could not trust a thief to value your name, sahib,” Sanjay was saying.

Quinn realized his friend had been talking for the length of a block without him being aware of it. Viola’s sudden illness had jolted his heart. She seemed so self-assured, so independent. Now it was obvious she needed his protection.

How better to shelter her than with the protection of his name?

“Please do not tell me you contemplate such a thing, my friend.”

“Very well,” Quinn said as he allowed Sanjay to come around him to open the modiste’s door for him. “I won’t tell you.”

But he was contemplating the hell out of it.

As soon as Quinn left their suite, Viola dragged herself from the bed. She splashed cold water on her face and fought through the pain to dress herself in one of her old ensembles. She packed one of her valises, leaving behind all the new finery and even her beloved hats. The way her head was pounding, she didn’t think she could manage more than one bag.

She rifled through Quinn’s drawer, but could find no stocking filled with jewels. He must have taken them with him or deposited them in the hotel’s safe. No matter.

She’d have to pawn the cameo brooch and the pendant watch to purchase a ticket on the coach for Calais.

Please God, may there be a vacant seat on the next run!

She’d wait to see if she had enough money left for passage on the paddle steamer to Dover or if it was necessary to part with the serpent ring as well.

“Never tell a man no when he offers to buy you jewelry,” she muttered to herself as she pulled the door to their suite closed behind her. A fine necklace, a bracelet even, would have made her escape far easier.