Unraveled (Turner #3)(60)

There had been a comma-like pause between Miranda and Darling—the closest he ever came to an endearment. She wasn’t sure why a hint of bittersweet invaded his voice at that, why his breath grew just a little ragged. She only knew that he pulled her close, that she felt the whisper of warm air against her forehead.

He held her for a few moments longer, his arms tight bands around her. And then he disengaged, turning from her.

She didn’t know what men typically did with their mistresses, but she wanted to hold him longer. To feel the warmth of him next to her throughout the night. She didn’t want him going home alone to a cold bed.

But he never stayed.

“Smite,” she said softly. She reached for his hand. The grip of her fingers about his was all the entreaty she dared to make.

His other hand found hers. He squeezed her fingers—not hard, but just enough to communicate. When he let go and moved away, it was all the answer she needed.

No.

Miranda wasn’t foolish. She had more of him than any woman had in the past. Quite possibly more than any woman ever would. He gave a part of himself over to her that he didn’t show to anyone else, and she treasured it. Nonetheless, it hurt to have so little. A few hours every day; not even a night’s worth. It was foolish to want more when he’d told her that was all he could give.

He’d also told her he would have her for a month. The days were slipping past too quickly. What would happen when he came to the end of her? Perhaps that month he’d allotted had not been some initial period to determine if they’d suit. Maybe he’d simply given himself a Miranda quota. When he came to the end of those days, would he cut her off as ruthlessly as he cut off all other sentiment?

No use getting exercised over something that hadn’t yet happened. She stared at his silhouette.

No, she vowed. He wouldn’t set her aside so easily. She wouldn’t let him.

Chapter Fifteen

THERE WAS NO ROOM for doubt in Smite’s duties. But his arrangement with Miranda had infected him with uncertainty. Last night’s questions had followed him into today’s hearing room. He sat, arrayed in black under an itchy wig, and stared in front of him in dismay.

The defendant, a hard-eyed woman with stringy blond hair, was charged with public obscenity. Specifically, Mrs. Grimson had been accused of shouting, “I hope your stones shrivel up and rot off, you bloody bastard,” in a public square.

There was no question as to her guilt. Everyone had heard her, and she’d admitted to uttering the words in question. It should have been a five-second discussion.

And yet, when he thought of Dalrymple, what had once been simple became all too complex.

“Why?” he asked. “Why did you do it?”

There was no element of why in the inquiry.

Mrs. Grimson scowled at him. “Are you simple?” she demanded. “I said it ’cause I hoped his stones would—”

“No need to repeat it,” the mayor interjected hastily. “Really. Does it matter?”

Not to the law, it didn’t. But now that Smite had found doubt, he could not dispel it. Every crime, even one as simple as this, seemed suddenly shaded about by circumstance. What if she’d been provoked? What if the man had groped her? It wouldn’t excuse the conduct—the law was clear on that point. No matter how angry she’d been, she couldn’t utter obscenities so blithely in a public place.

He found himself persisting. “Why did you hope it?”

“Because he ran into me,” Mrs. Grimson said sullenly. “And because he had an ugly face.”

Smite let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Guilty,” he said.

But even that didn’t stop his mind running. When the day’s work was over, he followed his fellow magistrates into the back room.

“You’re getting even more particular,” the mayor said. “Asking questions. Wanting to know details that can’t possibly matter. What’s got into you, then?”

Smite handed his robes off to Palter. “It’s a passing fancy.”

“Lady Justice must be giving you quite the ride.” A raised, leering eyebrow shaded the otherwise innocent statement with something sordid.

Smite gritted his teeth and turned away.

“Something’s putting color in your cheeks,” the mayor continued. “And here I’d thought that if you ever took a mistress, it would make you more willing to skip over details, so that you could run back and ride her once more.”

Smite moved in front of the man so quickly, he wasn’t even sure what he was doing. He held his hand up, and the other man stopped and took a step back.

“Never talk about her that way again,” he heard himself growling.

“What? There is someone?” The mayor let out a loud guffaw. “Oh, that’s famous. It explains your extra attention today. You don’t want Lady Justice getting jealous, so you’re sending her extra trinkets. This other woman… When you’re done with her, let me know. She must be—” the man mimed bosoms, melon-large, with his hands “—if she’s distracting even you.”

Smite reached out, and tangled his hands in the other man’s lapels. “Don’t talk about her that way,” he repeated.

The mayor stopped, looked down at Smite’s grip on his shirt. He took a deep breath. “Ahh,” he said. “I see. A lady, then.”