Louisa Rawlings Read Online Free

deeply tanned; Bordeaux was filled with travelers from the tropics. Still, the very thought of that wicked-looking man made her uneasy. And she was carrying his knife. She hadn’t wanted to leave it in the room with the little ones this morning. She took it from her pocket, loosened the neckline of her jacket, and dropped it down the front of her chemise. She’d laced her bodice tightly today; the knife rested on her bosom, just above her snug stays.
    She resolved to keep far from Sante-Croix today. Bordeaux was large; whoever the man was, he’d soon tire of looking for her. It was more important to put food on the table. She was alone. Despite his protests, Michel had been bundled off to apprentice himself to Guillaume the carpenter. Topaze frowned. Picking pockets was far too dangerous without a partner. She’d try a different game.
    She wandered down to the harbor. There were always carriages about, and heavy wagons loaded with goods destined for ships or warehouses. She and Michel had become quite adept at pretending to be hit by a lumbering horse, a turning wheel. What luck! A handsome coach was coming down the street, its matched pair of grays snorting steam into the cold air. As they dashed past, she spun about and shrieked loudly; the nobleman within leaned out, cursed, and tossed her a handful of coins, to be rid of her. She put them safely away, and moved on to another street. This time—when she dodged a heavy wagon filled with casks of rum, and collapsed to the cobblestones moaning—it took a quarter of an hour’s arguing to convince the driver that he owed her something for her pain. It was only when she threatened to take him to law, couching her threat in legal-sounding nonsense, that he grudgingly handed her a livre. She spent the rest of the morning seeking fresh prey, with no success.
    She sighed. It hadn’t been a very profitable day. She was cold and hungry. And covered with mud. In one of the streets, a water seller had dropped his copper pail onto the dirty cobbles as she passed; before the water had had time to freeze, a small carriage had come flying by, splashing her from head to foot with the filthy water. And the damned coachman hadn’t even stopped to see what he’d done, let alone give her a sou!
    I’ll go home , she thought. The afternoon was still young. And Guillaume might have let Michel go early on his first day. With her brother’s help, there was yet time to supplement her “earnings” with a stolen purse or two.
    She made her way down a crooked alley, between two rows of dingy shops. She looked with longing into the dirty windows. Goods were cheap in this part of the city, but still too dear for her meager purse. A shop door opened just ahead of her. She glanced up and gasped aloud, her heart thudding in her breast.
    The man with the scar stepped into the street.
    She turned to flee. Behind her a man had just emerged from another shop. His face was as darkly tanned, though his hair, beneath his tricorne, was blond and sun-bleached. Ignoring Topaze, he pointed down the road and spoke over her head. “The draper thinks she lives in that direction, Lucien.”
    Fearing the worst, Topaze turned again to the man called Lucien. He was smiling in triumph, his teeth white against the bronze of his skin. “She’s saved us further trouble, Martin,” he drawled. “For here’s the little chit herself.” He came toward her.
    “Hellfire,” she muttered. Eyes wide with fright, she looked over her shoulder to see Martin advancing. She was trapped—an animal caught in a cage—between two men who were determined to have her, who had clearly searched for her half the day.
    Lucien lunged. Topaze made a desperate move to elude his strong grasp, but it was useless; she felt herself held fast. His hands pinned her arms to her sides. She struggled for a moment, then kept still and glared at him with all the venom in her soul. “Damn you. Damn you,” she said. “Leave me be. I don’t