Page 18 of The Forsaken

He would have welcomed another campaign, a privateer, hell, even a pirate’s blade before another encounter with the exasperating chit.

Alas…

Gritting his teeth, he drew a blade from his boot and the pistol from his hip, and he stormed the Castle; kingdom of the depraved and degenerates centered at the heart of the Rookery.

Andromena’s glaring presence had the same mystifying effect on her wider audience. That much was clear given the fact that not a single vagrant reached for a weapon to confront the ones Kerr brandished. The lady stood out like a diamond amidst a bucket of coal and ash.

A thick cloud of smoke hung over the squalid hovel where the lowest members of society gathered. The beggars, thieves, and killers who’d been tossing back ales and watered-down whiskies on their way in gawked. Some with stained glasses and pewter tankards halfway to their mouths. Others who’d spilled their libations all over rough-cotton shirts and cheap wool vests just stared.

She had hushed the entire Rat’s Castle.

She marched like an ethereal queen through the gloam of cigarillo and pipe smoke, like she was sizing up her newly conquered kingdom and Kerr with no other choice but to follow along like her royal adviser. She was a flitty Smith. But a man with a sexual appetite as Kerr’s could appreciate a lush form—even hers. He didn’t care for it. Loathed it, to be exact. No man wanted to be a slave to his cock.

It was her brains and mouth he had the real problem with.

With every muffled tap of her insolent heels against the sticky floorboards, Andromena remained entirely oblivious to the mayhem about to unfold. She floated elegantly along floorboards coated with blood and drink the way she would glide upon Lady Jersey’s No. 38 Berkeley Square drawing room. Her brown curls peppered with blonde and burgundy streaks poked from her hood and bonnet and called leers from men who’d never get ten paces, let alone breathing distance of a genuine lady of the ton. There were wolves aplenty. Wrapped in innocence and a red cloak, the only thing the minx needed was a basket and a visit to Grandmother’s house.

The free-and-easy above stairs remained unaffected by the madness hanging over the taproom. The whine of a fiddle and drunken discordant revelers swelled.

“A fine young smith at a vice stood filing,

his hammer out and his forge aglow…

Honor dictated he rescue the lady. Though in removing her from the room, Kerr was actually doing the lawless present a favor.

Andromena abruptly stopped near the center of the tavern. She rested her hands upon her hips, drawing all eyes to their lush curve and the femininity masked by delicate, ruffled skirts. Drawing every single drunken stare. She might be a flitty Smith lady. But a man with the same eye for lusty desire as Kerr’s could appreciate a lush form—even hers.

He had the luxury of knowing what wonders those ladylike garments hid. He’d had his hands on her but carried the same question as every other man present: with those bustles and petticoats stripped away, what would it feel to glide scarred, callused paths along the swaths of silken soft flesh exposed?

With every step, Andromena’s wool-lined crimson redingote swirled, and a pair of white-satin ribbons atop her emerald-green half-boots peeked out as she walked, the lady flashing her station for a captivated audience. Hell, had she held a sign painted with an arrow pointing downward and the word ‘lady’ emblazoned upon it, it couldn’t be clearer.

Red spots danced across his vision. His fingers tightened on the knife hilt until the silver bit into his palm.

“When to him a young maid came smiling

and asked if to work in her forge he’d go…”

For a rare moment, it wasn’t the chit behind his fury but the jackals sizing Andromena up. They circled her like wolves at a fresh kill… but the low growl rattling in the air belonged to Kerr’s own throat.

“J’aurais dû te laisser te débrouiller seule, la gueuse,” Kerr muttered.

I should have left you to fend for yourself, you wench.

Andromena gave him his first look since he’d entered Rat’s Castle. “What was that?”

“Je ne m’attendais pas à ce que vous parliez français et, effectivement, vous ne le parlez pas.” I didn’t expect you would speak French. “Et voilà que vous ne le faites pas.” And lo and behold, you don’t.

“I…see.” The confusion in her utterance said otherwise.

Regardless, he took her confirmation as his carte blanche to carry on in impeccable French. He heaped his sizeable grievances at her satin half-heeled boots.

“Tu n’es qu’une source d’ennuis.” You are nothing but trouble. “Pas étonnant que tu ne sois pas marié.” No wonder you’re unmarried.

The raucous song filtering from above, swelled in volume.

“I will,” said the smith, and they went together

along to the lady’s forge did go.”