Blackhearts (Blackhearts, #1)(3)

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A woman came from behind and called to the fishmonger.

He turned to help her, leaving the shabby sailor and Anne to

their conversation.

When he had first approached, she’d thought him much

older, for he was taller than most men. On closer inspection, she realized he couldn’t have been more than nineteen. His expression warmed as he considered her. He was interested, clearly, but Anne wasn’t sure if it was her proposal or her appearance.

“There is more than one stall that sells shrimp,” he said.

She was not to be deterred. She’d already lost one battle this

morning and could not afford to lose another. The last cook

who hadn’t provided the master’s favorite meal for a special

occasion had been fired and kicked out onto the streets.

As much as Anne disliked living in the Drummond household, it was preferable to the gutter. And if she went to another household, there was no guarantee she could secure enough funds to begin a new life. “Yes, but this man has the most hon—

est scales and the freshest fish. Since I am unable to buy from

him, I have no choice but to ask you. Surely you would not miss

two pounds,” she pressed.

The corners of his mouth lifted, and his green eyes twinkled.

“Ah, but I would. Have you considered oysters as a substitute?”

Anne pursed her lips. Master Drummond hated oysters.

“No, it must be shrimp. Please, I have a very important meal—”

It was his turn to interrupt. “I, too, have an important meal,

for which I need the entire barrel.”

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No doubt trying to impress some girl and her family.

“I have enough coin. How much would it take?” she asked

briskly.

He paused for a moment, still considering her. She shifted

uncomfortably beneath his gaze but refused to back down. The

crowd surrounding them thinned, evidence that time was wast—

ing. Her eyes begged him to comply.

“Perhaps I’ve been too hasty. We could discuss the price,” he

said, reaching boldly for her arm.

An image of the butcher flashed before her eyes, but this

time there was no table to separate her from her attacker. Jerk—

ing free of his hold, Anne brought the pail forward, hitting the sailor soundly between the legs. He dropped to his knees, the breath escaping his lungs with a pained “Ooof,” his eyes no longer twinkling.

“Keep your hands to yourself, you filthy sea rat! Even if you

were to offer me the full barrel, I wouldn’t go anywhere with

the likes of you!”

For the second time that morning, Anne rushed away from

an unwelcome advance, cursing softly beneath her breath. She

felt the sailor’s eyes following her, burning a hole into the back of her head, but she didn’t turn around. He was in no condition to give chase, at least not now.

Hurrying from the docks, she reached once again for her

mother’s pocket watch. A shiver ran down her spine and she

sent up a silent prayer, asking that Master Drummond’s heart

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would be softened and that she wouldn’t find herself on the receiving end of his fury.

Anne also prayed that her path would not cross again with

that of the sailor’s, for if it did, she knew with certainty that she would not leave the encounter unscathed.


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C H A P T E R 2

Anne

When Anne arrived home two hours later, anxiety tightened

her chest as it always did when the large gray manor came into

view. It was cold and unfeeling, much like its owner, as if each wall were carefully designed to suppress joy.

Sheltered in the grassy downs several miles from the center

of town, the property lay behind an ornate wall and gatehouse.

It was rumored that Master Drummond had chosen this resi—

dence because his wife had fallen in love with the nearby woods.

Anne knew the nine bedchambers and seven chimneys of the

stone structure by heart, for on more than one occasion she’d

been forced to clean them all.

As she entered, the estate buzzed with activity. Everyone

appeared to be elbow deep in chores and preparations. Margery, the housekeeper, bickered with the elderly gardener about the roses for the table settings. Margery had gray hair and a pronounced

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limp (for one leg was shorter than the other), and as head of the kitchen, she took her duties seriously. If Mrs. Drummond had still been alive, Margery would have been second in command to her.

The two housemaids bustled about with dusting cloths,

trying to shine the brass and polish the silver. Even the three—

legged cat had something to do as it scurried away to devour the unlucky mouse clenched between its teeth.

“Well, it’s about time you showed yourself. What were you

doing for so long?” Margery pounced as Anne hung her shawl

on a peg near the back door. “Did you go out into the woods

and kill the deer yourself?”

Steeling herself against the housekeeper’s anger, Anne

turned to face her, the lie ready on her lips. “There was no good venison to be had today. Master Drum—”