Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(69)

Winter swallowed. “I’d been sent to pick up a child who we were told had been orphaned by his father’s death. When I arrived at the wretched rooms where he and his father had lived, he was being auctioned off by a whoremonger.”

He heard the sharp intake of her breath. “Dear God.”

Dear God indeed. He remembered the cramped room, the dozen or so adults crowded into it, and the terrified little boy. He’d been a redhead, his hair shining like a beacon in the midst of the wretchedness.

“What happened?” she asked, her low, throaty voice luring him back from awful memories.

“I attempted to stop the auction,” he said carefully, concentrating on the feel of her silky hair in his fingers. Ham-handed fists. The searing pain of broken ribs. The boy’s tear-stained face as he’d been led away. “I was unable to rescue the child.”

“Oh, Winter,” she whispered. Suddenly she was kissing him, her soft hands cradling his face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Each word was a kiss against his face, neck, and lips.

He reached up and held her head still so he could kiss her properly: deep and frankly. The old pain mixed and merged with the present sweetness until at last it faded. A little.

He drew back reluctantly, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Thank you.”

She looked angry. “You never should’ve had to face such a thing when you were so young.”

“What of the little boy?” he asked gently.

She looked even angrier. “He shouldn’t have faced it either.”

His smile was sad. Did she not know that such things happened every day in St. Giles? “In any case, Sir Stanley learned of the matter when next he came to call upon my father. He took me aside and asked if I would like to learn of a way to honorably defend myself. I said yes.”

Sir Stanley had been about sixty at the time, and Winter remembered that his broad, red face, usually merry and smiling, had been quite grave.

He withdrew the last pin from her hair and ran his fingers through the thick locks, combing and spreading them. “Sir Stanley invited me to his house and for the next year taught me how to use the swords as well as various acrobatic maneuvers. He’d learned it all in the theater and he was a rigorous master.”

“But didn’t your father object?”

“He didn’t know what I did there.” Winter shrugged. “Father was busy with his brewery and the home. I think he was glad that Sir Stanley had taken an interest in me. Sir Stanley may’ve also slightly altered the truth about what I did at his home.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Altered the truth? Winter Makepeace, did you lie to your saintly father?”

He felt his face heat. “It was wicked of me, I know.”

She grinned and quickly kissed his nose. “I think I like you more when you’re wicked.”

“Do you?” He searched her eyes. “And yet I strive to control the wicked part of myself every day.”

“Why?”

“Would you have me run the streets as a mad beast?”

“No.” Her forehead wrinkled as she cocked her head, studying him. “But I think there is no danger of that happening. Doesn’t everyone have a small bit of wickedness in them?”

He frowned. “Perhaps. But my wickedness is dark.”

Her hair was gloriously free about her shoulders. “The dark pit you spoke of before?”

“Yes.” He grimaced. “Maybe. You once asked why my sisters were not as affected as I by St. Giles. I think there is something within me that absorbs the evil in St. Giles. There are times when I see someone being hurt or when a child has been abused that I have the urge to… kill.”

“But you don’t.”

He shook his head. “I don’t. I battle that urge and I fight it down and I’m very careful to hurt only those who deserve it.”

“Have you…” Her brows knit as she reached out and stroked a finger down his breastbone. “Have you ever had to kill anyone?”

“No.” He inhaled beneath her touch. “I’ve come close, but I’ve always been able to refrain.”

She wrapped her arm across his chest. “And I think you always will. You may fear the darkness in you, but I don’t. You’re a good man, Winter Makepeace. I think you absorb the evil in St. Giles, as you put it, because you feel so deeply.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “There are many who have accused me of not feeling at all.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Because you’ve made sure to hide your feelings—your emotions. Not all of it is dark, you know. Some of it might be quite… nice.”

Was she right? He stared at the ceiling of her library, thinking. She might be. Isabel was a very perceptive woman, he’d found. But if she was wrong, if he let go only to lose control altogether… no, the risk was too great.

“You don’t have to decide now,” she said. “Tell me about the harlequin’s costume. Whatever made you don it?”

“It was Sir Stanley’s invention,” he replied, relieved by the change of subject. “He was the original Ghost of St. Giles, you see, in his youth.”

“What?” She sat up again. “You mean there’s been more than one?”