“Enough.”
One word, but it stopped his attackers cold. It came from Ethan’s bed, as had the demand for his blade. He didn’t have to see Sephira Pryce to recognize her voice, but he would have preferred to look her in the eye.
The hands holding him up released him, and Ethan’s legs gave way. He fully expected to fall to the floor, but someone had placed a chair behind him. He flopped into it.
He heard the door rattle behind him.
“Someone let him in,” the voice said, sounding both bored and amused. “Gordon’s going to be disappointed that he missed all the fun, Ethan. You shouldn’t have locked the door.”
Ethan forced his eyes open, and then concentrated on the face swimming before him.
As it came into focus, he was reminded once again of how dangerous it could be having any dealings with Sephira Pryce. Everything about the woman lent itself to seduction. Her voice was low for a woman’s, and slightly gravelly, so that with every word she sounded like she was purring. Reclining on his bed, her shining black curls cascading over her shoulders, she looked like some lithe, preternaturally intelligent creature from the wilds of North America. Her oval face tapered to a sharp chin, but her other features were soft, womanly. Her cheekbones were high, but her cheeks retained enough roundness to give her a pleasant look-some might even have called it friendly. Her eyes were large and bright blue, the kind of eyes that should have belonged to a child. They could convey innocence, even kindness. God knew they could be alluring, at times brazenly so. But more often than not, they were hard, shrewd, and watchful, as they were now. They were always moving, scanning faces, appraising her surroundings, preparing for a fight even as she purred and charmed her way through another negotiation.
Her nose was lovely, finely upturned and as perfect as it was the day she was born. No one who spent his or her life working Boston’s rougher lanes could avoid scars, and Sephira had plenty: small ones on her cheeks, her brow, her temples, and one long one along her otherwise smooth jaw.
But those whose work found them in the streets of Boston usually had broken their noses at least once. Not Sephira. Actually, this was something she and Ethan shared. At least for the moment. Who knew what this encounter would bring?
She always smelled subtly of lilac and she wore more jewelry than the king’s consort: glittering gemmed earrings, rings of gold and silver on her hands, and bracelets to match. The only concession she made to her profession was in her dress. She wore breeches, a blouse, and a waistcoat, like anyone who worked in the lanes, although her blouse was cut lower than a man’s, and her waistcoat was just a shade tighter. The effect could be distracting for even the most disciplined man. Already this day Ethan had been beaten and kicked, and he couldn’t be certain that Sephira didn’t intend to have him killed in the next moment or two. Yet he couldn’t keep his glance from straying to the gentle swell of her bodice as she reclined before him on the bed.
Noting this, she smiled and sat up. “You’ve missed me,” she said, as if they were old friends.
“No,” Ethan told her. “I can’t say I have.”
She replied with a small pout, stood, and began to pace the room. There was a taut grace to her movements-again Ethan saw something animal in the way she stalked across his floor.
She stood as tall as Ethan, and while she looked at first glance to be as slender as she was fair, the appearance was deceiving. He had seen her fight; once, he had felt the bite of her blade. She was as strong and quick and cunning as any man Ethan had ever battled. But her sex remained her greatest weapon. Her hair, her body, her eyes-she was bewitching. Ethan couldn’t help but watch her as she walked, and, he noticed, neither could the men who worked for her.
And yet, for all her sensual beauty, she seethed with pent-up violence. Sometimes it simmered below the surface. Sometimes it manifested itself in those who traveled with her, like the toughs who had beaten Ethan and still loomed over him, threatening to renew their assault at any moment. On occasion Sephira herself lashed out. Ethan had seen her beat a man senseless in a tavern brawl simply because the poor fool had failed to recognize her and had ordered an ale without waiting for Sephira to be served.
Despite her talents with a blade and a firearm, despite her reputation for ruthless cruelty and the lethal storm that always raged around her-or perhaps because of all these things-Sephira was renowned and respected throughout the city. Rather than hiding in shadows, with other thieves and ruffians, she walked the streets as if she were royalty. She spoke with the confidence of someone who knew beyond doubt that she was the mistress of her own fate and the fates of everyone she met. She was several years younger than Ethan, but she dispensed wisdom-or what she took for wisdom-like a sage. Ethan thought of Sephira as little more than a glorified brigand, lovely to be sure, but wicked in every way. But he took great care in concealing his true feelings. Because everyone else in Boston, including Sephira herself, considered her nearly the equal of no less a man than Thomas Hutchinson, or even the governor of Massachusetts, Francis Bernard.
It wasn’t just that she was the most important thieftaker in Boston, in all of the American colonies. She was also responsible for much of the thieving and violence that made thieftaking necessary. At least half the gems and jewelry and other riches she returned for reward were first stolen by men in her employ. She took with one hand, gave back with the other, and was paid handsomely for doing so.
Those like Ethan, who lived their lives in the streets, saw the woman for what she really was: a charming, clever villain. But to the unsuspecting, particularly the wealthy, she was the person who kept Boston’s streets safe. And by dint of having forged this reputation, she had built an empire for herself. For if she profited from her efforts to keep order in the city and see to it that stolen property was restored to its rightful owner… well, who could begrudge the woman a bit of coin?
She watched Ethan now as she circled him, a half smile on her exquisite face, an appraising look in her cold, pale eyes, as if she was weighing whether or not to have her men beat Ethan a bit more.
“You’ve been hired by Berson,” she said at length.
Ethan would gain nothing by denying it. Little happened in Boston without Sephira knowing of it; chances were she had known Berson was going to hire Ethan before the merchant’s man ever reached the Dowsing Rod. But Ethan saw no reason to confirm her suspicions. He stared back at her as the pain in his gut and his cheek gradually faded.
After several moments, Sephira flicked her gaze up to one of the men standing behind Ethan. One quick glance, that was all it took. Immediately the man behind him-Yellow-hair-grabbed Ethan by the hair, pulled his head back, and laid the edge of a blade against Ethan’s throat, much as Ethan had done to Daniel the night before.
“I believe Miss Pryce asked ye a question,” Yellow-hair said, giving Ethan’s hair an extra yank.
“Actually, she didn’t,” Ethan said, his voice strained. “She made a statement.”
The man looming over him frowned, then looked to Pryce, apparently unsure of what to make of this.
“Let him go,” she said.
The man released Ethan’s hair, but then smacked him across the top of the head. Ethan winced.
“This is why I choose to let you live, Ethan,” Sephira said, her laugh deep and throaty. Even mocking him, she sounded enticing. “You amuse me. And I’ll admit that you have some courage, as well, though the line between bravery and folly can be a fine one.”