Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(13)

She smiled widely. “Caliban? Would you like to eat? Eat?” She mimed lifting a spoon to her mouth and then chewing. “Eat. With. Us.” She pointed back along the path. “At the theater. We have good food!”

Her exaggerated miming was ridiculous—and if he wasn’t mentally defective, it was insulting. She watched him closely to see if he’d break—change expression, show in any way that he did harbor normal intelligence.

But he simply stared back blankly.

It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d misread a man. Sighing—and telling herself firmly that she most certainly wasn’t disappointed—Lily began to turn away.

Indio started forward and took the big man’s hand as naturally as he’d taken his mother’s. “Come on! Maude’s making roast chicken and there’ll be gravy and dumplings.”

Caliban looked at the boy and then her.

She raised an eyebrow. She’d already pled her piece—she wouldn’t do so again. Not for a lackwit.

Was there something behind the muddy-brown eyes? A glimmer, a glint of challenge? She couldn’t tell, and in any case she was no longer certain of her own perception.

But it didn’t matter. Caliban nodded slowly.

Lily turned and started back up the path, Daffodil scampering ahead. Her heart, that silly, mercurial thing, was beating in double time.

This was going to be interesting.

THIS WAS A very bad idea.

Apollo followed Lily Stump, watching her skirts sway from side to side as she walked. Her back was rigidly straight, but the nape of her neck was soft and unguarded, trails of dark hair curling down from the knot at the crown of her head. He had an animal urge to set his teeth against her nape, test the tender flesh, taste the salt on her skin.

He swallowed, glad the cool evening air kept him from embarrassment. There was no reason for him to have accepted her offer of supper. He had another cold pork pie safely stowed in the ruins of the musician’s gallery where he’d set up camp while he worked in the garden. He was tired and sore and still damp from washing off the sweat and mud of the day. His recently rinsed shirt clung, wet and uncomfortable, to his shoulders.

Everything—everything—he’d worked for would be forfeit if anyone discovered who he really was.

And yet he was holding the hand of a little boy and trailing the boy’s exasperating mother. Perhaps he was lonely. Or perhaps it was the look in her eyes when he’d emerged from the pond and found her watching him that urged his footsteps on. It had been a long time—a very, very long time—since a woman had last looked at him like that. As if she saw something she liked.

As if she might want more.

He’d spent four years in Bedlam, most of them chained in a stinking cell. He’d escaped last July, but in the months since, he’d been in hiding—not a situation conducive to finding a willing wench. And of course there’d been that last beating—the one that had stolen his voice. The prison guard had reached for his falls. Had—

But he wouldn’t think of that now.

Apollo inhaled, shoving aside a black mass of shame and anger.

Indio looked up at him. “Caliban?”

Apollo realized he’d squeezed the boy’s hand. Deliberately he made himself relax his hold and shook down his shoulders. Stupid for a man as big as he to feel such wretched fear. He was out of Bedlam. He’d made sure—damned sure—that guard was no longer a threat to anyone.

He was free.

Free.

Free.

He tilted back his head, watching the sun cast her flame-colored skirts upon the sky as she set over his ruined garden. Beyond the theater, between the tops of blackened and burnt trees, one could just make out a glitter that was the mighty Thames.

This had once been a lovely pleasure garden. When he was done with it, it would be a wondrous pleasure garden, even better than before.

But right now they were nearing the theater.

Apollo assumed the blank expression that he wore around the other gardeners—and only just in time. The door flew open and a tiny, gray-haired woman stood in the opening, arms set akimbo on hips.

“What,” she barked, “is that?”

“We have a guest for supper tonight,” Miss Stump replied, and as she glanced back at him he thought he saw a mischievous glint in her eye. “Indio’s monster, in fact—though Indio now calls him Caliban.”

“Caliban?” Maude narrowed her eyes, cocking her head as she examined him critically. “Aye, I can see that, but is he safe in the theater with us is what I’m wanting to know?”

Apollo felt a tug on his hand. He looked down at Indio, who whispered, “She’s nice. Truly.”

“Don’t fuss, Maude,” Miss Stump murmured.

“He’s my friend,” Indio explained earnestly. “And he fed Daff all his dinner.”

At the mention of her name, the little dog ran over and, growling in what she no doubt considered a ferocious manner, began to worry the ragged hem of Apollo’s breeches.

“Humph,” Maude said, her tone as dry as dust. “If that’s the case, better come inside, all of you.”

Indio bent and rescued Apollo’s breeches by picking up Daffodil, who immediately began bathing his face with her tongue. He laughed and trotted past Maude. His mother gave Apollo an indecipherable look and motioned him in ahead of her. Apollo ducked his head and entered the charred theater, trying to quell his unease. There was no reason to think she’d seen through his subterfuge.