Page 8 of Tales of a Society Nothing

When he didn’t stir after a few moments, she lifted his hands from the sheets at his waist, intent on tucking them at his side. But she paused, taking one hand into her own and turning it over. He’d shown her the burn on his forearm and the calluses on his hands, but now she felt them. She’d always remembered his hands as being soft and well-manicured. He did work in the fields at Holyoake Hall, but he wore gloves and had his ever-fussy valet rub lotions and creams on his hands to keep them soft and gentlemanly.

But there was no valet in sight now, and Holyoake’s hands were red and rough, cracked in places from hard labor. She ran a finger over one of the coarse calluses and found that her heart sped up. What would it feel like to have these hands on her body? Holyoake’s touch had always been soft and respectful, but these hands would scrape her skin and leave it burning.

Margaret closed her eyes and willed the sudden jolt of arousal to pass. What was wrong with her? She was here on a mission, and the agent she’d found was injured and weak. Her response should not be to lust after his rough hands. Not even if he were her husband.

She opened her eyes and tugged the sheet up, pausing to make sure the bandages she’d changed earlier were still intact. When she’d returned with the medicine and food, she’d had a quick look at his wound. The surgeon had sewn it neatly. It was not a large wound, less than an inch, but she thought it might be rather deep. It showed no sign of infection and Holyoake’s low fever seemed to have dissipated now with the ingestion of the medicine she had given him.

She pulled the sheets higher and sighed over his thin chest. He’d never been a heavy man, but he was always hale and hearty. Now it seemed he was all muscle and bone, his skin stretched tight over his ribs. She’d buy more food and make him eat. He’d be healthy again before she returned to the Farm.

Would it be another three years before she saw him again?

Margaret rose and walked to the scarred table, taking the lamp with her. She hadn’t ever expected to see him again when she’d left three years ago. She hadn’t ever wanted to see him again. But her anger had faded. Apparently, her desire for him had not. But she could manage her emotions and her desires. She’d done so for the past three years, and she was even more in control of herself now. She wouldn’t let her errant husband stir up old feelings.

She wrote a missive to Baron. She’d wanted to write something short, but she had to add some details to paint the whole picture. Then she painstakingly coded the entire message and wrote it again. By the time she finished, her back and her hand were aching. She prepared more medicine for Holyoake and was able to get him to take some without waking him. He swallowed the vile stuff, made a face, and went back to sleep.

Margaret found her cloak and went out to find a courier.

By the time she returned, it was just past dawn, and the streets were empty. Holyoake had mentioned an assassin. She would have been careful moving about Seven Dials regardless, but now she kept a watch out for potential assassins as well. If the hired man knew he hadn’t succeeded in killing Holyoake, he might want to finish the job. She certainly did not want to lead the hired man to Holyoake.

She took a circuitous route back to Holyoake’s flat and then slipped inside the door to the building. It smelled as bad as it had before, but she found she was becoming used to it. Surely, that could not be a good thing.

In the light of the open door, she caught the figure of the little girl. What was her name again? Vicky. She was sitting on the floor, pulling a piece of twine for her cat, who swatted at it half-heartedly.

“Good morning, Vicky,” Margaret said. “You’re up early.”

“Tabby wanted to play, and me ma don’t like when ‘e wakes ‘er.”

“That’s nice of you to bring him out here to play. Are you hungry?”

Even in the gloom, Vicky’s eyes lit. “I could eat.”

Margaret withdrew a warm meat pie wrapped in paper from her pocket. “Here you are. Share some with Tabby.”

The cat was already in Vicky’s lap, sniffing at the scents of bread and meat.

“Thank you,” Vicky called as Margaret started up the stairs.

“You’re welcome.”

Margaret told herself she was not going soft. She’d bought three pies, but that was because she’d intended to give Holyoake two. Yes, she knew he probably wouldn’t be up to eating even one. Still, one never knew. She hadn’t bought the extra pie for the child. But since she did have an extra pie, why not share?

She slipped in through the door and set her remaining pies on the table.

Then she froze. Something wasn’t right.

She spun to look at the bed and gasped when she noticed it was empty. How had she not seen that before?

“I’m here,” came a low male voice. Her gaze darted to a corner by the window. The flimsy drapes were pulled closed, but she could make out his form.

“What are you doing out of bed?” she asked, crossing the room to him.

“Doing what is necessary after you feed a man broth and medicine half the night. I paused to look out and saw you coming back.”

Margaret parted the drapes and looked down at the street below. Of course, he’d taken a room that had a view to the building’s entrance. “How long have you been standing there?” she asked.

“Not long.”

“You’d better get back to bed. You’ll catch your death.” She gave him a quick once-over, noting he wasn’t wearing stockings or his shirt. The fire in the hearth had burned down, and the room was chilly.

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