Free Fire by C.C. Humphreys Page B

said.
    She unwrapped it and gave a little cry – of delight. In her hand, was a tortoiseshell object the size of her palm. Delicate teeth curved down; while above, on the main body, a pattern of flowers, iris and bluebell, had been inlaid in some shining shell.
    ‘It is to hold the hair in place. The seller named it a barrette and told me that this,’ Daniel ran his finger across the blue-green shimmer, ‘is “abalone”, a sea creature from across the globe, from the land of Mexico.’ He took her hand, tilting the shell to the light. ‘Can you see those southern seas, its blues and greens, in its sheen?’
    ‘Oh, I can. I can.’ She tilted it herself, delighting in it, then stopped as she became aware of his touch. Withdrawing her hand, she continued, ‘I may get a chance to see them by candlelight and in their proper place when my father has gone to sleep. I – I thank you. But I should –’ She took a step back. His cry halted her.
    ‘By candlelight? Hidden in a room for only yourself to see? Nay, I beg you. Let me see it.’
    ‘Now? It is not possible. I must keep my head covered.’ She touched her shrouding headdress. ‘I cannot –’
    ‘One glimpse?’ His blue eyes beseeched. ‘A small enough return for my heart, surely?’
    She went to say ‘tut’ but could not. Instead, and after a long moment, she looked around, then passed him the barrette and reached up to her scarf. When she had taken it off, she hesitated again. But his eyes were wide as he stared up, and she reached again, releasing the tight ball of hair allowing the thick coils to burst upon her shoulders like waves on a midnight shore. She shook the tresses, smoothed them down and looked up. Wordless, he handed her back the barrette.
    She placed it in her hair, taming one small part of the wild. She swept it around, turning for him to see, one eye upon him. ‘Well, sir?’ she said. ‘Well – Daniel?’
    He did not reply – only raised his hand. When his fingers were a palm’s breadth away, she moved her head back slightly. ‘You should not do that,’ she whispered.
    ‘Then tell me to stop.’
    Their gazes held. She did not speak again. He moved the little distance and ran his fingertips beneath the barrette and up into her hair. She closed her eyes to his touch.

7

SUBTERFUGES
    The Merry Monarch was anything but. ‘No, Sir Joseph.’ The king slapped the table. ‘I tell you, no. I cannot make myself plainer. I will not cower. I never have and I never will. By God, ’tis not the Stuart way.’
    ‘I only suggest it for a time, Majesty.’ The Under-Secretary of State took off his spectacles to pinch the deep red grooves at the bridge of his nose. ‘Just until these flames,’ he gestured to the papers spread on the table before him, ‘are snuffed out.’
    ‘Flames? These are sparks alone, man, nothing more. If I was to take to my bed each time some bedlamite threatened me in misspelled prose or execrable verse, marry, I’d never leave its confines.’ He sniffed. ‘Now while that might please my Lady Castlemaine or my sweet Winifred, it would not me, especially when my inaction would be construed as cowardice.’ Charles turned, fixing the thief-taker with his unnerving stare, the one eye bright, the other dulled with a cast. ‘Do you not agree with me, Mr Pitman?’
    It did not seem the right time to remind His Majesty that he went by ‘Pitman’ alone, he thought. Nor was it in his own intereststo agree with the king and contradict the minister – who, he reminded himself again, was his current paymaster. Neutrality seemed appropriate. ‘I believe Sir Joseph refers not to the broadsides but to other information he has there.’
    ‘Oh yes, the letters from his informers – paid rogues who puff up their roguery to be better rewarded.’ Charles dug in his pocket and pulled out an ornate ivory box. ‘How much silver would they receive if they sent word: “No threats. All is peaceful in the realm.” Hmm? Snuff,’