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.“A trading justice is a very important person.”“People don’t realize how important.Do you know how many of the aristocracy complain the trading justices are unfair to the peasants?” He opened a drawer in the end table and rustled through the contents, tossing aside complexion creams, powder boxes, papers.The handle of the knife he found was decorated with ornate carving, but the blade glinted with utilitarian strength.It attracted her eye like a magnet attracted iron.Only last night, Adam had held a knife, brought it close against her skin, and she’d reveled in it.She’d never once considered he could hurt her, for her faith in him transcended the bounds of good sense.The contrast of her plain, strong man and this stylish, murderous fop brought a heated sweat to her palms.Oh God, where was Adam? She wanted him so badly she fanticized about the taste of him, the scent of him, the touch of him.“Are you sick?” Judson demanded.She lifted her dry, burning eyes.“What?”“You look sick.” He flicked his thumb against the true edge of the blade.“Lovesick.”His considering gaze brought a fantasy to mind.How easily the knife would sink between her shoulder blades under the guidance of Carroll Judson.How happy he would be to so direct it.Yet she didn’t want to give him ideas; she turned her back to him without obvious inhibition and said, “I can’t imagine anyone complaining about the justices.Who else could keep the London underworld in order? And so cheaply, too.”“Quite right, quite right.” He grabbed the rope that bound her hands and jerked her hands up.Her shoulder blades strained together.The sinews of her back complained.She grunted, found the moment too brief to prepare for her death.Then her hands were free.Moving slowly and painfully, she brought them to rest in her lap.As the blood flooded back, they pricked with a thousand needles just below the skin.She inched off her gloves and tucked them into the chair beside her hip.For some reason she wanted to look at her hands, bare and unornamented.They were nice hands, long and narrow with a few tiny freckles that floated atop the golden skin.She wiggled her fingers.She rotated her wrists in gentle circles, then massaged the reddened skin where the ropes had burned her.Funny, to be so absorbed in the sight of her own hands, almost as if she were looking at them for the first time—or the last.Yet Judson seemed oblivious of her, still bragging about his wicked father and how well he did his wretched job.“All the fines he assessed for criminal activities went into his pocket.All the monies collected when a criminal was committed to prison, all the bail-out monies also.That’s how my father met Rawson, and out of the kindness of his heart he allowed the man to move his family onto a hut at the edge of our property.Little did he know the perfidy that ungrateful wretch embodied.”“I see.” She did, more than he could imagine, and she wondered at his audacity.Did he hope she would tamely submit to his tyranny? He was not a large man; did he hope she would not fight him? She turned to face him and found the blade held close to her cheek, right against the bone.Cautiously she turned to face forward, keeping the point within her peripheral vision.“So when your father was exiled to the Continent, he dragged you along?”“I went along gladly.” He shrugged.“Better that than a seaman’s fate.”“Better murder than work?” She gazed at him.He held the knife in a fighter’s grip, blade tilted up, point extended.It seemed only to emphasize the contrast between Adam and the beast before her.“You have an odd sense of morals.”“Morals are for wealthy men, my dear, not for those who are left to fend for themselves at the age of fourteen.”Forever secure in the bosom of her family, she was shocked.“Your father died when you were fourteen?”“He married a woman with money, and she found me repulsive.” He touched his penciled brow with his little finger.“I had to grow up then, you see.I lived on the streets of Rome.I learned Italian, especially the word for ‘freak.’ I worked in a kitchen.I worked in the fields.I worked like a slave.I survived, survived by my wits.Through the years, I’ve brought myself up in the world, and I swore I would never have to work with my hands again.”“Work with your hands?” She spread her fingers, looked at them incredulously.“You’ve been killing people.”He looked down at the knife as if he’d forgotten he grasped it in his hand [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.“A trading justice is a very important person.”“People don’t realize how important.Do you know how many of the aristocracy complain the trading justices are unfair to the peasants?” He opened a drawer in the end table and rustled through the contents, tossing aside complexion creams, powder boxes, papers.The handle of the knife he found was decorated with ornate carving, but the blade glinted with utilitarian strength.It attracted her eye like a magnet attracted iron.Only last night, Adam had held a knife, brought it close against her skin, and she’d reveled in it.She’d never once considered he could hurt her, for her faith in him transcended the bounds of good sense.The contrast of her plain, strong man and this stylish, murderous fop brought a heated sweat to her palms.Oh God, where was Adam? She wanted him so badly she fanticized about the taste of him, the scent of him, the touch of him.“Are you sick?” Judson demanded.She lifted her dry, burning eyes.“What?”“You look sick.” He flicked his thumb against the true edge of the blade.“Lovesick.”His considering gaze brought a fantasy to mind.How easily the knife would sink between her shoulder blades under the guidance of Carroll Judson.How happy he would be to so direct it.Yet she didn’t want to give him ideas; she turned her back to him without obvious inhibition and said, “I can’t imagine anyone complaining about the justices.Who else could keep the London underworld in order? And so cheaply, too.”“Quite right, quite right.” He grabbed the rope that bound her hands and jerked her hands up.Her shoulder blades strained together.The sinews of her back complained.She grunted, found the moment too brief to prepare for her death.Then her hands were free.Moving slowly and painfully, she brought them to rest in her lap.As the blood flooded back, they pricked with a thousand needles just below the skin.She inched off her gloves and tucked them into the chair beside her hip.For some reason she wanted to look at her hands, bare and unornamented.They were nice hands, long and narrow with a few tiny freckles that floated atop the golden skin.She wiggled her fingers.She rotated her wrists in gentle circles, then massaged the reddened skin where the ropes had burned her.Funny, to be so absorbed in the sight of her own hands, almost as if she were looking at them for the first time—or the last.Yet Judson seemed oblivious of her, still bragging about his wicked father and how well he did his wretched job.“All the fines he assessed for criminal activities went into his pocket.All the monies collected when a criminal was committed to prison, all the bail-out monies also.That’s how my father met Rawson, and out of the kindness of his heart he allowed the man to move his family onto a hut at the edge of our property.Little did he know the perfidy that ungrateful wretch embodied.”“I see.” She did, more than he could imagine, and she wondered at his audacity.Did he hope she would tamely submit to his tyranny? He was not a large man; did he hope she would not fight him? She turned to face him and found the blade held close to her cheek, right against the bone.Cautiously she turned to face forward, keeping the point within her peripheral vision.“So when your father was exiled to the Continent, he dragged you along?”“I went along gladly.” He shrugged.“Better that than a seaman’s fate.”“Better murder than work?” She gazed at him.He held the knife in a fighter’s grip, blade tilted up, point extended.It seemed only to emphasize the contrast between Adam and the beast before her.“You have an odd sense of morals.”“Morals are for wealthy men, my dear, not for those who are left to fend for themselves at the age of fourteen.”Forever secure in the bosom of her family, she was shocked.“Your father died when you were fourteen?”“He married a woman with money, and she found me repulsive.” He touched his penciled brow with his little finger.“I had to grow up then, you see.I lived on the streets of Rome.I learned Italian, especially the word for ‘freak.’ I worked in a kitchen.I worked in the fields.I worked like a slave.I survived, survived by my wits.Through the years, I’ve brought myself up in the world, and I swore I would never have to work with my hands again.”“Work with your hands?” She spread her fingers, looked at them incredulously.“You’ve been killing people.”He looked down at the knife as if he’d forgotten he grasped it in his hand [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]