Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion

She had become aware of his injury when the carriage wheels hit a pothole. The carriage bounced hard on its springs, jolting Hawkwood out of his seat. He had let out an involuntary grunt of pain and pressed his hand to his stomach. Her reaction had been immediate.

“You’re hurt!”

“A scratch. It’s nothing.”

“Let me see.” Before he could stop her, she had pulled his jacket away. “My God! There is blood! You’re wounded!”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“But you need attention! A doctor!”

“The hell I do! I’ll not be prodded and poked by some damned apothecary. Bastards pass on more infections than they cure.”

It occurred to Hawkwood that he should probably have been more mindful of his language, given that he was in the company of a lady and not in some dockside tavern. The amusement playing across her lips, however, hinted that his vocabulary was not her main concern.

“Then you will let me take care of you. No, not another word, Captain,” she cautioned as Hawkwood opened his mouth to protest. “I insist upon it!”

The look in her eyes warned Hawkwood that it would be wiser not to resist.

She had shown him to a couch in the drawing room before removing her cloak and disappearing, returning with a bowl of hot water and bandages.

“Take off your shirt,” she commanded.

Hawkwood hesitated.

“Must I do it for you?” Her eyes flashed. “If you are concerned about my being compromised, there’s no need. My maid is discreet and gone to her room, and there’s no one else to disturb us.” She smiled. “Or is it that you are embarrassed? Surely not? Not my brave captain?”

Hawkwood sighed. “I’m not a captain. I’m not anything. Not any more.”

“But you’re still my hero,” she murmured softly. “Now, take off your shirt.”

She did not look away. Instead her gaze moved frankly over his body, taking in not only the blood-encrusted runnel below his ribs but the older scars that crisscrossed his torso. Her attention was drawn to a crescent of puckered skin etched into the flesh beneath his left arm. Caused by a heavy blade of some kind, she presumed. A circular, discoloured indentation high on his right shoulder suggested a bullet wound, while a thin weal an inch below his left nipple looked as if it might have been made by a knife. It was a body mauled by war and almost twenty years of soldiering.

As with most superficial wounds, the degree of blood was disproportionate to the damage sustained. Nevertheless, despite her gentle ministrations, he was forced to bite his lip more than once as she dabbed away the rind of congealed blood. Once the wound was cleansed, he knew the healing would be quick. As a result, the scarring was likely to be negligible, just another addition to the painful legacies of battle.

By the time she had finished, the water in the bowl had cooled to lukewarm and turned crimson. She reached for the bandages.

“Sit up,” she instructed.

A frisson of pleasure moved through him as he caught the faint scent of her perfume; jasmine, he guessed, with perhaps a hint of wild lemon. He felt her breath, light as a feather on his neck, as she leaned in and wound the bandage around him. For a moment, their eyes met. Her hands stopped moving, her breasts rose and fell invitingly before him.

“I think it’s time,” she whispered.

Hawkwood frowned. “For what?”

Her steady gaze transfixed him. “Your reward.”

She looked down on him through a tangle of lustrous black hair. Her skin was the colour of cinnamon. The dark tips of her breasts brushed his skin. Wordlessly, reaching down between them, her fingers searched for him. Hawkwood felt himself respond. She bent her left knee, straddled him, and gave a small moan of pleasure. All the time her eyes remained open, watching him. Encircling him with her hand, she began to massage him gently.

“I want you,” she breathed.

She released him, lowered her head and kissed his neck, her teeth nipping playfully at his skin. Her tongue flickered along the line of his jugular. Her lips were warm and moist. She moved down his body, nuzzling his chest, kissing his scars. Her hands traced his hips, caressed his thighs. Her head sank lower. Her lips enfolded him and Hawkwood surrendered to the moment.

When she sensed he could hold back no longer, she disengaged her mouth and tongue, raised herself on to her knees and lowered herself carefully. Head thrown back, eyes closed, she began to move urgently against him.

She cried out as she came, the shudders moving through her. Hawkwood held her tightly as she fell across him, trembling like a bird.

He had been unprepared for the aggressive way in which she had taken the initiative, undressing with tantalizing slowness until, clad only in silk stockings, she had opened her legs and spread herself before him. His skin still smarted where her nails had raked his shoulders as he had taken her.

A bright sheen of sweat covered their bodies. A light breeze rippled coolly through the open window, ruffling the drapes. Hawkwood pulled the sheet over them both.

Hawkwood stroked the smooth cleft of her buttocks. She sighed, pressed herself to him, rotated her hips, and kissed the underside of his jaw. “You realize,” she murmured, “I don’t even know what they call you.”

He frowned. “Who?”

“Why, your friends, of course. Or do you expect me to address you as Captain Hawkwood all the time?” She looked up at him and smiled. Her fingers traced small circles on his chest.

A moment passed.

It occurred to Hawkwood that the number of people he might have regarded as friends was depressingly small. Over the years there had been acquaintances, men he had fought alongside; some brave, some foolish, a few cowardly. But true friends? Individuals he would willingly have given his life for away from the fever of battle? Precious few, when it came down to it. Probably no more than could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and most of them already dead. There was Jago, of course. All things considered, he supposed the ex-sergeant was as close to him as anyone, or at least had been before their return to England. These days, he wasn’t so sure, given that Jago now ran with the hares while his own allegiance lay with the hounds. And in any case, in all the years they had been together, Jago would never have had cause nor, for that matter, the inclination to address him by his first name. In the army, even where friendship was concerned, rank would always prevail. As for the present, there was a well-worn saying among his fellow officers: a Bow Street Runner never made friends, only informers.

“Matthew,” Hawkwood said. “My name’s Matthew.”

“So, my Matthew,” she said softly. “Tell me about the scars on your throat.”

Not so much scars as an uneven necklace of faded bruising running from the hollow below his right jaw-line to the area of skin below his right ear. Hidden beneath his collar, the discoloration might have gone unnoticed, but in removing his shirt the marks had become visible.

Hawkwood reached up and covered her exploring hand. Sensing the change in him, she frowned. “You’re afraid to tell me?” Then she gave a small intuitive gasp. “Wait, I understand. C’est une …” her brow furrowed as she searched for the words “… a mark of birth, yes?”

Hawkwood stroked her flank, marvelling at the satin texture. It was not the first time he had been asked about the marks on his throat, nor was it the first time he had avoided an explanation of their origin. They were not a birthmark, nor were they a souvenir of his soldiering or his career as a Runner. They belonged to a more distant past; a dark time of his life he had no desire to revisit, and a reminder of how, in the blink of an eye, a man’s destiny could be changed for ever.

“Oh, my poor Matthew,” she said, sensing his disquiet. Resting her arms across his chest, fingers entwined, she looked up at him. “Tell me everything. I want to know it all.” She eyed him speculatively. “Is it usual for an officer of the law to fight a duel? Over a woman?” Her kittenish expression mocked him.

“It would probably depend on the woman,” Hawkwood said.

She feigned annoyance and gave his arm a playful slap then lowered her head and kissed the spot tenderly. She regarded him levelly and her expression grew serious. “So, tell me, my Captain, when you were a soldier, did you kill many men?”

“I never kept a tally.”

She elevated herself on to one elbow, ran a fingertip along the muscle in his forearm. “But you did fight and kill?”

“Yes.”

“Frenchmen? Bonaparte’s soldiers?”

“Mostly.” Hawkwood wondered where this was leading.

She sensed his hesitation. “You do not like to talk about it?”