Page 76 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
The lattice creaked. A booted tread came from behind her, scarcely louder than a cat’s. Isabel stiffened, every sense surging to high alert.
She slid a palm over her knife. Her mind cycled rapidly through pressure points and soft targets – throat, liver, kidneys—
“Trouble. You’re slipping.”
Callahan. Of bloodycourse.
“Am I?” she asked dryly.
He sat beside her. Not for the first time, she was struck by his beauty. Dark hair mussed from sleep, feet bare in unlaced boots, his linen shirt gaping to reveal the strong column of his throat.
Yes, Ronan Callahan was devastating.
She took a swig from the jug before holding it out. Callahan accepted the offering, his knuckles brushing hers. The fleeting contact sent a shiver through her.
“For the most notorious thief on the Continent,” Callahan said, pausing to swallow a mouthful of ale, “your situational awareness leaves something to be desired. Letting yourself be snuck up on? It’s begging for a knife between the ribs.”
“The only one who swoops in to menace me at inopportune moments is you.”
He slanted her a look. “If I’d wanted to menace you, you’d have my blade at your throat. Instead, we’re having an almost civilised conversation.”
“Is that your way of saying you’ve no intention of finishing me off?”
“I’m becoming accustomed to you warming my bed. It’d be a shame to see such a pretty head parted from your shoulders.” He knocked his knee against hers. “Makes for a messy coverlet.”
“Such concern for your linens.” She clucked her tongue. “And here I thought you cared.”
“Oh, I care.” The sudden heat in his gaze sent a flutter low in her belly. “I care very much about keeping you in one piece so I can take you apart myself.”
She watched him take another long pull from the jug.
“So,” he said, setting the ale aside, “want to tell me why you’re restless tonight?”
“Maybe I just fancied a nightcap under the stars. I’m not angling to die of exposure, if that’s your concern.”
“Good. Death by freezing lacks a certain flair. An opium haze, a poisoned kiss . . . there’s an elegance there.”
“This from the gentleman with a human skull on his mantelpiece.”
“Everyone needs a hobby.”
Isabel felt her mouth curve despite herself.
They lapsed into a companionable quiet, passing the jug between them. The distant clatter of carriage wheels and the hollow clop of hooves against cobblestones drifted up from the streets below.
“I never watched the stars in Paris,” Isabel said quietly, apropos of nothing. She kept her gaze fixed on the distant glimmer of the Thames. “I was always busy. Always working or distracted. But in Boston . . . in Boston, I’d climb out onto the roof of Portia’s townhouse and just look. For hours, sometimes.”
She could feel the weight of his stare, heavy as a touch.
“It was like I could breathe again, out there above the city. Like I could finally think. I’d trace the constellations with the tip of my finger . . .” She mimed the motion, her hand outstretched. “And pretend I could touch them. That if I reached out far enough, I could scoop up a handful of stars and tuck them away inside my ribcage. A little piece of light, just for me.”
Callahan’s exhale was soft. “Did it help? Soothe you, I mean?”
“Sometimes. Mostly, it just made me realise how small I was. How inconsequential. When your choices are steal or starve, lie or die, you learn to live with so little. Existing in a cage becomes your entire world. When you know what it is to want – truly want, with an intensity that consumes you – it’s terrifying to imagine being satisfied.”
His fingertips grazed her cheek. “Why are you really out here, sweetheart?”
“I met Favreau seven years ago today.”
