Page 45 of A Treacherous Trade

“What’s that?” I whispered.

“A man will kill with his hands, with weapons, or with a command.” He gripped the door latch and turned it. “But poison… poison is a woman’s work.”

ChapterTen

Woman’s work.

I contemplated the words as he opened the door to reveal the handful of women lurking on the landing. They each tensed in surprise, poorly pretending they hadn’t been listening to the humiliating commotion he’d made.

Were I not battling my own wretched vulnerability in the aftermath of our conversation, I’d have shared his cryptic smirk. Or perhaps succumbed to laughter at the comical display they made as he shouldered past them without sparing any of them a glance, let alone a pleasantry.

Once he’d disappeared, they tumbled through the door like a litter of unruly puppies, each spouting rapid-fire questions with simultaneous fervor.

What did he do to your dress?

Did he cut it with one of his famous blades?

What position did he put you in?

Was his sex as hairless as the rest of him?

Was it an extraordinary size in comparison, one way or the other?

Did he speak another language? Mark you anywhere?

To say I was overwhelmed by the barrage would be a gross understatement. My shock was almost matched by my temper. It was all I could do to not pick up the lamp and hurl it at their expectant faces.

Not only did I find what they’d done deplorable, but I was offended on behalf of Mr. Night Horse himself.

To them, he was a peculiarity. A curiosity. And not just because of his profession, but because of his origins. His skin. Because of the myths and superstitions perpetuated about his people. They’d used him as a punishment against me because of their prejudices against him.

Not only was Night Horse impossibly skilled in all ways physical, he was incredibly clever, wise, and not just literate, but learned.

I’d heard Americans called his kindsavages… and I supposed he had an untamed element about him. But, by his own admission, he cultivated the effect to disarm others. In truth, Croft had shown more so-called “savage” behavior in my presence than Night Horse, who in comparison was a paragon of self-containment.

If one didn’t count the murder part.

Which I didn’t, as such, because I’d seen the remnants of his trade. Of all the kills I’d cleaned up after, his were the most precise. The least savage, as it were.

Lord, was I truly feeling protective of a murderer? Had one kiss muddled my morals so essentially, I could no longer find them?

Finally, it was Izzy who put her hand on the shoulder completely bared by my ripped costume, and asked, “Viola, are you all right? Did he hurt you too much?”

Her question snapped me out of my shocked, angry stupor. Because her question had not been “Did he hurt you?”

Because in this profession—to these women—pain was an expectation. A given. Men hurt women, especially during sex. And most especially the women they considered disposable.

“I’ll survive.” Summoning serenity, I pulled it around me like a shroud and decided that if I were ever to take advantage of a moment, this had to be it.

Even Morag’s eyes glittered with a bit of guilt, and I planned to exploit it to the fullest.

“I’ve had worse,” I lied, feigning a stiffness in my limbs as I went to where my mask had been discarded, retrieving it from the ground.

“Don’t be cross with them. They didn’t mean nothing by it,” Izzy said, following me like a lost child. “We’ve all had to prove our mettle in one way or another, di’n’t we, girls?”

I noticed the way she’d left herself out of the perpetrators.They’dlocked me in… but she’d done nothing to stop them.

All right. I’d play along. This was some sort of initiation, and because of Night Horse’s disconcerting—yet effective—performance, I’d passed muster.