Her Dark Knight's Redemption. Nicole Locke

return. Should make you pay me more for coming back when I thought I didn’t have to.’

      What was wrong with him this evening? Why did he stop? He didn’t let boredom overcome his safety and allow strangers in his home, especially those he was soon to kill.

      ‘Cilla? Cilla, is that you?’ A woman’s thinned voice wafted from another room. Cultured and reedy with sickness. ‘Do you have her, Cilla? Did you bring her back to me?’

      The wretch, Cilla, glanced his way, her eyes narrowing. He shook his head once which was enough for her to understand she needed to stay quiet about his presence. It didn’t hurt that it suited her purposes as well.

      With a shrug, she swept into the other room. ‘I’m here with your bastard, my lady.’

      ‘Oh!’ Fresh tears, the sound of joy and gratefulness. ‘I thought you’d left. I thought you took her.’

      Reynold held back. He needed a bit more exchange between these two to satisfy his purposes.

      ‘I merely took her for a walk,’ Cilla said. ‘She needed a bit of air.’

      ‘What would I do without you, Cilla? You’re so...good for her and me. Staying with me when everyone else left. Keeping her well, keeping her away from the sickness. Of course, she needed air. But...she needs me more. Bring her here, please.’

      The tone of her voice, a cadence broken by hacking coughs, he did not recognise, and Reynold waited longer in the shadows. He liked waiting in the shadows.

      A snapping of blankets, grunts from Cilla and wheezes from her mistress. Reynold envisioned Cilla giving the child back to its mother.

      ‘But you were wrong to take her without letting me know,’ the woman’s thin voice now containing some superiority. ‘You made me worry. You know how I cannot have any worry in my condition. Once I recover, your deeds will have to have some consequences.’

      ‘Of course, mistress,’ Cilla said. No doubting she had heard this argument before. The words held no threat. The woman in the other room was dying.

      Dying, but cultured with a ring of privilege. Perhaps she was the noblewoman he had lain with those many months ago. There was only one way to discover that, by stepping into the other room.

      Silently, a few paltry steps and everything was revealed to him. The room held scant pieces of furniture, no tables or niceties. The wooden floors highly polished where a rug once had been. The colours of rose and yellow in the broken bench hinting at what the room once must have been. A grand parlour.

      Now it was a sick bed with a full chamber pot underneath, and various small linens flung around it like bloodied halos.

      A few more moments lost as the woman spoke to Cilla, but kept her eyes on the child like a lifeline. The sickness had made harsh lines fan from her eyes, but as she gazed at the child, they softened.

      Privileged. Entitled. But that gaze was of a mother to her child. Whether she was a fallen noble or whore, she loved the child who was trying to sit in her arms.

      ‘Did you bring any...?’ The woman’s voice drifted as her travelling gaze fell on Reynold and held there.

      He didn’t recognise the house or the room because he had never been here before. But he did recognise the woman lying on the bench with blankets draped over her thin frame. The sickness had ravaged that frame and sucked the glow from her cheeks.

      He didn’t remember her name, her station, or the night he found temporary relief within her body.

      He didn’t remember the thick gold of her hair because every woman he’d lain with had a similar colour. However, he did remember the colour of her eyes. He remembered that all too well, for when he first saw her he calculated that colour against his own dark grey and wondered whether the dark blue was too close to his own. That if there was a babe, it would be mistaken for his.

      No woman was worth any unnecessary risk. But he remembered her false haughtiness and her weakness. Traits that suited his purpose as well as the feminine parts of her body. So they shared a bed for an hour or two and he paid her well. He always paid them well.

      ‘You,’ the woman whispered.

      ‘Me,’ he answered.

      Weak and dying, but at his appearance, she attempted some dignity. While holding her lips together didn’t cease the coughs from racking her body, she daintily held a blood-crusted cloth to her mouth instead. When they eased, she shifted her eyes from Reynold back to Cilla. ‘You brought him.’

      ‘You’re sick, mistress,’ Cilla said with oily concern. ‘The babe needs her father.’

      A widening of blue eyes, a flash of fear that no tainted cloth could cover. ‘That’s not her father. I told you who her father was. I told you.’

      Despite the mother clutching the child close to lay down with her, it sat up fully and crammed its mouth with its fist. A girl, but only because the mother had called it such. Black hair, but in this dim light and his distance he could not tell the colour of her eyes.

      ‘We both know you didn’t mean it,’ Cilla said. ‘This child has hair like her father’s, not that dandy you pointed out with his balding pate.’

      The woman kept her eyes and her conversation solely with Cilla, as if ignoring him or pretending he wasn’t there would make him disappear.

      He wouldn’t leave now that he heard her terrified protestations. This dying woman was frightened by his presence.

      His family connection, and their ruthlessness, was enough for her to worry, but wasn’t enough for her horror, or the sense of helplessness in her gaze and the vulnerability straining her frail body.

      He saw it all though she refused to look at him. Her body convulsed again, worse than before. Great racking contortions as her knees drew up and she curled around herself and the babe.

      Reynold did not move, nor did the child. Whatever illness was taking its mother, it had been doing so for a long time. Long enough that it didn’t concern the child. To the babe, the stench, the decay, the coughing was what a mother smelled and sounded like.

      ‘I told you,’ the woman said, her voice gasping, the coughing, the illness too much for her. ‘I trusted you.’

      ‘You’re alive, you are, and so is your babe,’ Cilla said.

      The woman tried to draw breath. Too weak to protect her child from the servant who could easily pluck her away again. Too ill to protect the child from him. But he watched her push the child across her stomach until it rolled behind her so that it was wedged between her and the bench’s back. As if her prone wasted body could be any sort of a shield against him.

      It was possible this child was his. ‘Is it mine?’

      The woman never opened her eyes. Her pretending he didn’t exist was her last and only defence against him.

      ‘Is it mine?’ he repeated.

      ‘Of course it’s yours,’ Cilla retorted. ‘Little demon’s a year if it’s a day. A year of me waiting in this filth and waiting on this corpse for you to return.’

      ‘How could you...?’ the noblewoman said.

      ‘I did what you wanted,’ Cilla said. ‘What you begged so prettily for. What was it again? Not to let anyone know you were sick. Mustn’t let anyone know such common illness affected your noble blood.’

      The woman opened her eyes again, not to look at Reynold, but to the servant. ‘I beg you... Save her.’

      With hot certainty, Reynold knew it was no longer a possibility. The child was his... For this mother asked not to save the babe from poverty or sickness, but to save the child. From him.

      ‘Why would I do that?’ Cilla said. ‘He’s here to collect.’

      The child... All his life women claimed pregnancy. None