Tarnished Knight

CHAPTER SEVEN





Night was falling.

Esme looked up from the stove as her ears caught the faintest hint of noise. Swallowing hard, she put her wooden spoon down on the bench and hurried to the door to peer out. The yard was empty. No sign of Rip. Blade had returned hours ago with Meggie’s mother, Annie, and a murderous look on his face. He’d snapped an order at Will to get out and help Rip search for the Slashers, then he’d bellowed for Honoria to get her medicine kit together and vanished into his rooms with the two women.

After spending most of the afternoon in Esme’s lap, Meggie had recently gone up with Lena to sit with her mother as she recovered. There was no point in Esme being there as well. Her skills lay in another area and she sought her own comfort in baking tonight as the shadows lengthened and Rip still hadn’t returned.

Latching the door, she sighed under her breath and returned to the stove. The fresh scent of cinnamon buns steamed in the air and Esme stared past them. She’d always worried about Rip when he was out on patrol, but it had been worse ever since the vampire attacked him. Before that he’d seemed so large, so full of life that it seemed as though nothing should best him.

When Blade brought him home, covered in blood and slowly drowning on all the fluid in his lungs, she’d nearly been undone. She’d buried one husband – she didn’t wish to bury another man that she cared for. Once was enough.

It didn’t matter if things were strained between them. Didn’t matter if he saw her as nothing more than a friend.

A sharp rap at the door made her gasp. Looking up, Esme saw Will peering through the glass, and behind him the thick leather jerkin that she knew belonged to Rip.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, opening the door to the pair of them. Her gaze darted past Will, raking over Rip’s large body. He was covered in blood, one sleeve of his shirt torn.

“Blood ain’t his,” Will assured her, stepping past.

“Did you find them?” Esme asked, unable to take his reassurance at face value. But indeed, the blood looked more like spatters, not as though it dripped from him anywhere.

“Nothin’.” Rip wore a scowl fierce enough to make a grown man quake. As he stepped past her, he paused, looking down. Their eyes met and Esme’s breath caught on all the things she suddenly wanted to blurt. She couldn’t stop herself from reaching out, touching him, just to make sure he was truly there. The backs of her fingers brushed his chest and Rip sucked in a sharp breath, a hint of red burnishing his cheekbones. He looked up and she followed his gaze to where Will arched a brow.

Then she smelt him. The scent was ripe enough to make her nose wrinkle.

The spell was broken.

“Aye,” he muttered. “I stink. Goin’ up to wash. Sorry ‘bout the blood. I’ll throw the shirt out so you don’t got to wash it.”

And with that he shouldered past, leaving her alone with Will.

Esme’s mouth worked but nothing came out. Drat the man. She’d spent the past three hours wearing a rut in the floor with worry and he could barely speak to her. A bite of guilt edged down her spine. Her own fault. She was the one who’d decreed they couldn’t be friends, at least until she’d recovered from the pain of unrequited feelings.

But what kind of friend did that make her?

Will shrugged. “He were upset we couldn’t track the man. Let him be. He’s in a dark mood tonight.”

Esme nodded, staring at the staircase Rip had ascended. She’d never had it in her to be cold for long and even now guilt stirred her to run after him.

The hurt gleaming in his eyes… The sense of failure she’d seen there. He’d take this loss to the enemy upon himself, for that was the type of man he was.

Perhaps she could put aside her hurt feelings and simply try to be a friend?

Esme took a deep breath. Her first instinct was to stay here, but that was cowardice more than anything. “There’s stew in the oven if you’re hungry,” she said, patting Will’s arm. “I have something to do.”

The look in his eyes told her he wasn’t fooled. Esme untied her apron and tossed it on the table, then hurried after Rip.

Esme knew where she’d find him. Blade had his own private wash-chambers, but the rest of them made do with a communal bathhouse. The water was piped in from the boiler-pack behind the kitchens, sinfully hot, and the tub was large enough for two.

She could hear the taps running as she paused by the door, her breath catching with last minute nervousness. No point running now though. He’d have heard her.

Esme rapped sharply, before she could convince herself otherwise, and waited.

“Aye?” Rip called, water stirring as he sat up.

“Are you decent?” she asked.

There was a long moment of silence. “I’m in the bath.”

Decent enough. They didn’t sit on formalities here in the Warren. Esme took a deep breath and pushed inside.

Rip sank down with a splash and a yelp, the water sloshing over his waist and stomach. “Christ, Esme. What the ‘ell are you doin?” A look of something raw and almost violent crossed his face, and he slammed his hands over his groin.

“You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before,” she reminded him, closing the door behind her. “I am a widow, John.”

“Aye, well ain’t a man entitled to his privacy?” he snarled.

The first hint of anger she’d ever heard directed at her. Esme examined him. Not anger. No. She’d never seen him so discomposed before. Rip was nothing if not confident.

But then she’d never seen him stripped to the skin before. She knew he didn’t like to display the gaunt steel of his mech arm. Here in the East End a mechanical limb meant you were either a Slasher, or one of the mechs that ought to be bound in the enclaves to work off their mech-debt. Either way it was a sign that you weren’t quite human, or not human enough for some.

Esme didn’t linger long on his mech arm though. The rest of him caught her eye. Oh, she might have imagined what he’d look like beneath those heavy, oilskin coats he wore, but the reality… the reality was breath-taking.

All sleek, heavy-set muscle, slightly flushed from the heat of the bath. Golden skin that gleamed beneath the lantern-light. He’d razored his hair and beard again, so that the hair was barely stubble. Thick and black, it gave him a villainous look, but he was her villain.

“I thought you might need a friend,” she replied, crossing slowly to the bath.

Rip watched her warily, water streaming from the faucet over his curled up knee. He shifted, as if to cover himself better. “Now you want to be friends? Christ, Esme. I don’t understand what’s goin’ on wit’ you.” His voice dropped. “And you could ‘ave better timin’. This ain’t… it ain’t decent.”

The flush of heat along his cheekbones made her smile, despite her hurt. “I never suspected you’d be so prim.”

Those wicked green eyes met hers. “’Ow ‘bout you strip off and I’ll get dressed and we’ll see composed you are?”

“There’s enough soap in the bath to keep you decent.”

Rip looked down, bubbles licking at his mid-riff. Still, he didn’t draw his hands away. “Still ain’t right.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d read Lady Hammersley’s Rules of Etiquette.” Despite herself, she couldn’t help teasing him. “Besides, you’ve had your mouth on my throat, John. That’s rather more intimate than this, wouldn’t you agree?”

He looked away. Not to be drawn by her teasing. A part of her deflated. “Why are you ‘ere?” he asked.

Esme paused by the stand that held the bath oils and soaps. Picking up a vial of rosewood oil, she sniffed it, then stoppered it again. Blade was always one for signs of decadence. The wash-chamber could have been found in one of the Echelon’s homes.

“I thought you might want to talk,” she said quietly. “You looked upset when you came in through the door.”

Water splashed as he reached for the faucet and turned it off. Esme watched him hungrily, smelling the next oil. Too lemony.

“Ain’t upset. Just… frustrated.” He leaned back in the tub, legs drawn up to fit his length. Bubbles clung to the thick dark hairs on his muscular thighs. “Were workin’ on this a few days. Didn’t tell Blade ‘til tonight.”

“You knew the Slashers were in the ‘Chapel?” She looked up from another vial sharply, surprised that Blade wasn’t angrier.

“Wanted to ‘andle it meself,” Rip repeated with a growl.

“Did Blade say anything?”

“Aye.” A gruff warning for her to drop the subject.

Esme idly sniffed another vial. Sandalwood. She’d always liked the smell. Grabbing a bar of soap and a wash cloth, she took the oil and crossed to the bath.

Rip didn’t quite stiffen but she could sense the tension in his body. Another jolt to the heart. His disapproval of this was clear.

“Relax,” she murmured, feeling it sharply in her chest. Hurt brewed up, but she pushed it aside. Tonight wasn’t about her.

Sitting on the lip of the bath, she dunked the washcloth into the water. Rip almost leapt out of the bath. “What are you doin’?”

Esme soaped up the cloth. “Washing your back,” she replied, wishing he didn’t sound as if she’d suggested he roll in a dead cat. “You can’t reach.”

Steeling herself, she put a hand to his shoulder and pushed him forward. Rip complied, wrapping his arms around his knees stiffly.

If she’d thought his arm muscly, then she had never quite glimpsed his back. The bulk of his neck was as thick as one of his thighs. Esme rubbed the washcloth gently across his shoulder, leaving a trail of lather behind.

“Thought I could ‘andle it,” he said suddenly. “Just wanted… I dunno. To prove I were under control, that I could do this. Been so f*ckin’ useless the last few months. I ‘ate it.”

Tension curled through his body.

Esme slowly soaped Rip’s back, sliding the cloth up over his shoulder and down his chest. She had to rest her hand on his other shoulder to reach, her fingertips touching cool metal. The edges of his skin were ragged and puckered where the steel met it. Rip quivered as if his skin were highly sensitive there.

“Blade said you killed some of the Slashers,” she murmured, caressing the heavy slab of his pectorals.

“Not enough.”

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Every one of them that you kill means one less to harm the innocent.”

“Slasher gangs spring up like mushrooms,” he muttered. “Can’t get rid of ‘em. Always those ‘ard enough to see no other way to live. Coin’s a good lure.”

“You brought Meggie’s mother home,” she reminded him.

Rip sighed. “It were Blade. I couldn’t go near ‘er. Not with all the blood.”

“Aye, well, Meggie thinks you’re a hero. You were the one who promised her you’d try and find her mother.”

“Ain’t no ‘ero.”

“You are to me,” she whispered. “You saved a frightened little girl and her mother.”

Their eyes met and Rip said nothing. Still, she thought he looked pleased with her words. Or accepting, at least.

Slowly he relaxed back against the bath, tipping his head back against the lip. The muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed, his dark lashes fluttering closed against his cheeks.

Esme continued her slow, hypnotic movements, unable to take her eye from his face. Sinking the cloth below the water, she dragged it up, dripping water across his soapy chest. Rip shifted, his eyes fluttering open as she delved beneath the water again, but he soon settled once he realized the movement was innocuous.

“This is nice,” he admitted.

“I used to do this for Tom,” she mused. “Or sometimes I would climb in with him.”

Stillness. “You miss your ‘usband.”

“Of course I do.” She clenched the cloth in her hands, wringing it out. “It was a long time ago though. Another world.” And she preferred the rough edges of the Warren, with its warmth and cheer compared to living with Tom and his mother, no matter how much she’d loved him. A guilty thought, but true.

Rip seemed to think on that. “Surprised you never married again.” He looked up at her as she dropped the cloth on the stand and picked up the vial of sandalwood oil.

“Perhaps nobody has asked me,” she replied, with careful neutrality.

“That butcher on Abbott’s Lane took a liking to you.” His words seemed just as careful.

“Lots of men have ‘taken a liking’ to me in the last few years. And not one of them plucked up the courage to do anything more, with Blade’s sign of protection tattooed on my wrist.” She let the oil drip into her cupped palm and then set it aside, rubbing her hands together. “Lean forward.”

Rip eyed her hands. “What are you doin’ now?”

“Have you ever seen me knead dough?” she asked as he sat up again. Sliding closer, she settled directly behind him.

“Aye.”

Esme reached out and slid her hand over his shoulders and neck, the slick-shine of the oil gleaming on his skin. She was generous with it, rubbing her palms over his shoulders and down his chest, then dragging them back up his arm. Rip shifted, but the stiffness had leeched out of him again.

The feel of his skin was like rough silk beneath her palms. His chest was hairless, his nipples tightening as she flickered her fingers over them. A tease that made his breath catch. Not quite immune to her then.

Just not interested.

She buried the pain and concentrated on stroking the smooth muscles of his neck. To please him. And, if she were honest with herself, to please herself. She enjoyed touching him, however innocently. She’d like to touch him not so innocently too. To dip her hand beneath the water and wrap her strong fingers around his cock.

Rip relaxed into her touch as Esme’s thumb slid over a hard knot above his shoulder blade. She dug her fingers in, earning a grunt, and gently worked it. Running her knuckles up his neck and down again.

“You’ve got strong hands,” he murmured. Another gentle groan as he leaned back against her. “God, that feels good.”

“Mmm.” Too good. Stolen moments. Stolen touches. Still, he seemed to enjoy having her hands on him almost as much as she did. Esme eased her pressure, rubbing her thumbs up under the indentation of his hairline.

Rip groaned as her fingers dug into his scalp, feeling the soft prickle of his hair. His head fell back against her thigh, eyes closed in utter bliss as she kneaded with her fingers.

He didn’t seem to realize that the oil was dissolving the bubbles on the top of the water. They vanished with alacrity until oil gleamed on the surface, hinting at what lurked beneath. Esme was no virgin. She looked and the sight thrilled her.

He was not unaffected. Not at all.

Leaning down, Esme pressed her lips to his forehead, her fingers stilling and her heart thundering in her chest.

Rip blinked sleepily. “Thank you,” he murmured. “You didn’t ‘ave to do that.”

“I like looking after you,” she replied, staring down into those beautiful eyes. So close. All she had to do was lean forward and press her lips to his…

“You do too much sometimes,” he muttered. “You ought to let us take care of you occasionally.”

“I’m the housekeeper,” she reminded him.

“This ain’t part of your job.”

Esme paused, idly circling his temples with her fingers. “Perhaps I like looking after you.”

He looked up, green eyes serious. “You ought to marry again, Esme. You were made to ‘ave a husband. Some man to… to give you babies. Make you ‘appy.”

The words took her by surprise. Hurt flared again and she sat up straight, thoughts of kissing him fleeing from her mind. How easily he spoke of her marrying someone else. As if the thought wouldn’t bother him at all. If he had mentioned another woman she’d have been sick with jealousy.

It only served to prove precisely how he saw her. A friend. Not a lover. Not a… a potential wife. Or consort. No doubt the stirring of his body was simply a man’s reaction to having a woman touch him. Not because he desired her in particular.

Coldness trailed over her skin. A dull, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. Reality was flooding over her. She had hoped that he might feel something more for her. But he didn’t. Friends. Always friends.

“You’re right,” she found herself murmuring. “I should marry again.”

Instead she’d waited for him. Lost the last few years hoping and waiting. Her time was running out. Rip was right. She did want children. Desperately. And now she was almost five-and-thirty and her years of child-bearing swiftly narrowing ahead of her.

But the thought of taking another man to bed made her feel ill. Whenever she’d dreamed of babies, they’d had green eyes and black hair. His eyes.

Esme slowly stood, her shoulders sinking. The brutal realization that he didn’t want her – that he’d never want her - washed over her like ice water and she couldn’t help a shiver. “I’ll leave you to get dressed,” she murmured.

Then she turned and hurriedly left the room.


Rip slipped outside, the cold air stinging his cheeks as he cupped his hands and lit a cheroot. If he cocked his head, he could hear the quiet murmur of Esme’s voice as she showed Meggie, Lark and Charlie how to string popped corn and holly berries on thread for the tree. Though her voice was soft enough to lull the children to sleep, it set him on edge tonight.

He didn’t understand her. Barely able to speak to him all day, then coming in – whilst he was naked – and easing him with soft words and gentle hands. Touching him as if she cared, then blithely announcing that he was right – perhaps she should marry again.

He couldn’t deal with this. The hunger itched under his skin, Esme confusing him. A man’d almost think her presence in the washroom a proposition.

Don’t be an idiot.

She’d made it quite clear it wasn’t.

Rip crushed the cheroot under his heel and tugged his coat tight, burying his hand in its warm folds as he leaned against the shadowed arch of the doorway. The cold was almost biting, but it helped to clear his head. Somehow he had to put this right. Make sure he understood what was going on in her mind. Blade had only muddied the waters, suggesting that perhaps there was more to it than Rip suspected. Making him hope there was more.

Rip needed to talk to her, but with everyone underfoot, managing to get her alone was a lesson in frustration.

The door to the kitchen opened, heat and laughter spilling out. Rip froze, sinking deeper into the shadows as the very object of his confusion stepped out into the yard, her boots crunching on the snow and her hands tucked up under her armpits. Her thick black hair was knotted at her nape, the dark wings of her brows drawn into an intense frown. Those translucent green eyes were distant however. Blind to the world around her.

Witchy eyes. The first time they’d met his she’d put a spell on him, like a punch to the chest.

Now was his chance. Rip rocked onto the balls of his feet then froze as another pair of boots crunched into the slush. Blade shut the kitchen door behind him, the rectangle of light Esme stood in vanishing. With his enhanced vision however, Rip could see them perfectly.

And hear them.

Blade had to know he was there. Rip barely dared breathe.

“What’s wrong?” Blade asked.

“Nothing,” Esme replied.

Rip eased back into the shadows of the overhang as silence settled over the yard. After a moment Blade sighed. “Course it ain’t. Don’t think I’m a fool, Esme. Or blind. Any ‘alf-wit could see you’re upset and people is startin’ to ask why.”

The angry swish of her skirts. “What have you told them?”

“Same as you’ve told me. Nothin’.”

More silence. Rip pressed his back into the bricks, straining to watch and hear.

“’ave you told ‘im?” Blade muttered. “Bout ‘ow you bin feelin’? Because I could--”

“Don’t you dare say a word to him,” Esme gasped. “You promised you wouldn’t. Let me deal with this.”

Rip frowned.

“Runnin’ away ain’t dealin’ with it, Es.”

“I’m not running away.” Esme’s shoulders slumped, a look of pain flickering over her face. “John doesn’t want me.”

Rip froze. Him. They were talking about him.

A slash of light from the kitchen window cut across Blade’s face and his tawny eyebrows arched. “’E don’t want you? ‘E told you that?” Even from this distance the words were incredulous.

“He said he couldn’t… Not with me.” The words were a choked whisper. “The other day I kissed him and he shoved me away as though… as though--” Her face screwed up. “And tonight…He virtually told me I should have married someone else.”

“Aw, ‘ell.” Blade stepped forward and dragged her into his arms as she started crying. “Don’t cry, luv.” He looked up suddenly, light gleaming off his eyes as they cut directly into the shadows where Rip was watching. “Sure there’s got to be a reason for it. Man’d be a fool not to see what’s right beneath ‘is nose.”

Rip’s blood seemed to slow through his veins. The sight of her crying was like a knife to the chest… but he couldn’t have moved toward her if he tried.

Esme wanted him? Not as a friend or a master, but as a lover? The world seemed to skew on its axis, words and conversations between them taking on new meaning. Why the hell hadn’t she told him?

“He doesn’t want my blood,” she sobbed. “He told me he never had any intention of taking me as a thrall.”

“Thought you wanted more’n to be his thrall?” Blade asked.

“I do… I did…” she faltered. “I’m not a young girl anymore, Blade. I’ve buried a husband and forced myself back to my feet after his mother threw me into the streets.” Head lowering, she whispered, “I forgot what it was to hope, to dream. I should have known better. Dreams don’t exist. Not here.”

Blade sighed and kissed her hair with rough affection as she drew her face away from his shoulder and rubbed the wetness from her cheeks. “Don’t lose that, Esme. Of all o’ us, I ought be the one who knows what it’s like to lose ‘ope, but I found it again.” He gave her one last squeeze. “You’ll sort matters with Rip. But you tell ‘im from me that he ought to treat you right. Do the right thing by you.” His voice lowered in warning. “Or else.”

And that was for him.

Esme scraped the last of the tears from her face. “There’s nothing to sort out,” she said sadly. “I can’t do it anymore, Blade. I can’t.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “There’s no point in dreaming of something I can’t have.”

Blade stilled, staring down at her. “Give it some time, luv. Things might change now ‘e’s got an inklin’ o’ your mind.”

Esme drew back and wiped her eyes, exhaustion bruising her fine features. “I shouldn’t see why. He made his intentions clear.”

“Funny thing… intentions. Maybe ‘e didn’t understand yours?” Blade drew back. “You comin’ inside?”

She shook her head, dark hair gleaming. “Not yet. I don’t want anybody to see I’ve been crying.”

Blade stared at her for a long moment. Finally he nodded. “I’ll see you in the mornin’ then. Just… Don’t ‘ate me, luv.”

“Hate you for what?” Esme frowned.

Blade took several steps back, toward the door. “Interferin’.”

“How did you--” She froze then and Rip knew that she’d realized they weren’t alone. Shoulders stiffening, she turned with a horrified look on her face, eyes darting through the shadows of the yard as she searched for him.

Blade took the chance to disappear into the house. Coward. Rip’s fists flexed as Esme looked for him, the metal one creaking as the joints tightened.

Esme’s head tilted toward him as if she heard it, her breath catching.

“John?” she whispered.

No chance to fade away as he dealt with the sudden confusion that left him almost breathless. Rip stepped out of the shadows, sliding his hands into his pockets. Instantly her eyes lit on him and they stared at each other across the yard, the silence thick and heavy. He couldn’t breathe, all of a sudden. She looked so beautiful, even with the track of tears down her face. And frightened and confused.

He didn’t know what to say.

Esme’s gaze darted toward the door as if in betrayal. Slowly she looked back at him, her shoulders stiffening with hurt pride. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Before you come out,” he replied quietly.

Her chin quivered. “You heard it all?”

He nodded.

“Mercy,” she whispered, taking an unconscious step toward the kitchen.

Rip leaped forward and grabbed her arm. “Don’t,” he said roughly, the pad of his thumb stroking the soft wool of her sleeve. “You and I need to talk.”

Esme’s gaze dropped to his hand but she was too exhausted to fight him. Without looking at him, she nodded. “Where?” A whisper.

Rip looked across the yard at the old stables Blade used as a storehouse. “This way,” he murmured, his hand sliding into hers as he dragged her toward it.


Blade swung through the kitchen door with a platter of mince pies and a fist clenched around the neck of a bottle of blud-wein. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. Honoria took the platter from him and passed it to Lena with a swift instruction to offer them around.

“What are you up to?” she murmured, as her husband rested his hip on the edge of an armchair and tugged the cork free of the thick green glass with a wet plonk.

Blade winked at her, his smile warming her all the way through. She never grew tired of that smile. “Meddlin’,” he said, sliding an arm around her waist and tugging her against his body as he set the wine aside.

Honoria looped her arms around his neck. “Where’s Esme?” She realized who else was notably missing. “And Rip? What have you done? You told her you wouldn’t say anything to him.”

“Didn’t.” Blade’s grin widened further. “That don’t mean I ain’t allowed to let ‘er say as much as she wants when I know ‘e’s listenin’.”

“You didn’t!”

Blade dragged her closer. “Consider it me little present to Esme. She’ll thank me once it’s done.”

“She won’t be thanking you now.”

“True.” Blade grinned and kissed her lips. “Now, why don’t you take me upstairs and give me my present.”

Honoria gave in. The man was a devil and he knew it. “I didn’t buy you a single thing,” she declared.

“That’s all right,” he purred. “We’ll think o’ somethin’.”