Page 8 of The Spy and the Nightingale
“A dream.”
Lieutenant Blackmore.She was in Paris, in rooms he’d brought her to after confronting her on the street. The lamp burned dimly in the outer room.
“A nightmare,” she rasped. She put a hand to her raw throat. Had she screamed aloud? There had never been anyone to tell her if it happened in the waking world too.
In Blackmore’s hand was a dish with a short candle; he set it on the small night table before returning with a glass half filled with watered wine. “This will ease your throat.” His voice was rough but not unkind.
She choked down several mouthfuls of wine before slowly finishing the remainder. “What time is it?” she asked, wiping her mouth.
“Just before first light. Rest more if you can.” He turned away, and a moment later, the oil lamp in the outer room flared brighter.
It was a small kindness and perhaps a slight measure of trust, leaving her the lit candle. And he had bid her rest more rather than resuming his questions while she was off balance from the nightmare. Of course, she had likely disturbed his own rest.
She did not precisely fear Blackmore. Or Beaumont, whichever was his true name. If either. She still found the situation overwhelming.
She had come the night before to believe that in and of herself she held no personal interest for him, that it was her possible connection to Compton that had attracted his attention. He had not menaced her personally, other than those first few moments before she lost consciousness, and even then, he had not injured her. It was her body’s limitations that caused the faint. He had not treated her dishonorably despite occasion to do so.
Surreptitiously she pressed her arm alongside the pocket tied beneath her petticoat. She could only be grateful that he had not made close enough inspection of her to find it when he confiscated the items from her coat. Perhaps it was out of respect for hermodesty, but it was just as likely that he’d not had opportunity what with needing to maneuver her to the fiacre. Still, he might have forced the issue, and she could have done little or nothing to stop him. He had not.
She wouldn’t say that she trusted Blackmore or even that she believed herself safe, but at the moment he was less frightening than other evils.
Poor as it had been, she’d had all the sleep she would this night; more was an impossibility. She nevertheless lay down again. The pillows and blankets smelled of what must be Blackmore’s soap; it was an oddly intimate detail to note.
The bed was comfortable, not what she would predict in such a sparse garret. Perhaps the austerity of the rooms had more to do with his personal tastes than a lack of finances. Passage from Dover and certainly a diligence from Calais were extravagant if not outright unobtainable expenses for those without some degree of wealth.
No noises within the building hinted at what existed on the floors below. She couldn’t remember the number of turns of the stairs on their way up earlier; she’d been in no condition to notice. There were early-morning sounds from outside which told her they were not far distant from a grand boulevard, although she hadn’t any idea in what part of the city she was or how far they’d travelled from rue Montmartre.
Now that she had food in her system and a small amount of rest, her thoughts came more clearly. She felt equal to considering what she knew of Blackmore. Precious little more than in Dover.
She rolled to her side, facing the casing, and tracked Blackmore’s quiet movements in the outer room. Apart from a few pieces of furniture, the garret was open, framed by angled rafters that were just tall enough that he needn’t duck his head.
He unbuttoned his coat although he did not remove it. After adjusting the lamp flame a hair brighter, he crossed briefly out ofsight and returned with a leather-bound volume in hand. He seated himself on a chair, propping his booted feet on the table. The boots were of a style favored by military men, black calfskin ending just below the knee. His bore no tassels or other ornamentation. Utilitarian, not fashionable.
Blackmore held the book open on his lap but his eyes were not on it; he appeared deep in thought. Despite his apparent abstraction, he was undoubtedly keenly attuned to any sound or movement on her part.
She had observed him in Dover, covertly; she made a more careful study now from behind half-closed eyes.
His nose was slightly imperfect on the bridge. Broken in the past, perhaps. Dark hair, just brushing his collar and ink dark in the dimness, was swept back from his forehead; a few strands fell over his temples and, along with short side whiskers, softened what otherwise verged on a harsh profile. It had been a few days since his last shave.
He was a little above average height, perhaps an inch or two less than six feet, but there was no mistaking the strength in his frame, although he was not in any way burly. He could easily overpower her if he so chose and had in fact already done so once outside the Église Saint-Eustache. She had felt for herself the unyielding power in his upper body.
Undoubtedly a man one crossed at one’s own peril. Even so, she was coming to believe he meant her no harm so long as she complied with his questioning. She was still frightened, yes, but not nearly so much as she had been.
She pulled Da’s greatcoat more closely around her. She could still smell faintly in the fabric the tobacco he’d favored. Sudden tears stung; she blinked them back.
Thin dawn light painted the outer room in shades of grey. Blackmore’s gaze shifted to the volume on his lap as though he read in earnest. When he glanced her way after several minutes,she made no attempt to disguise that she was watching him. His heavy, dark brows lifted in silent question.
“I will not sleep further.” She pushed herself upright. “You may as well resume your questioning.”
“As you like.”
She eyed the unpadded settle of the previous night and opted instead for the unoccupied wooden chair at the table. He brought his chair opposite and reseated himself, regarding her silently. She raised an eyebrow, waiting. This interview was of his choosing, after all, not hers. It was in its own way surprising that he was not immediately ready with something.
“I looked through your valise,” he finally stated.
She had presumed as much. “I should have been surprised had you not.”
“Why have you brought the pistol with you to France?”
