Free A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) by Alissa Johnson

there couldn’t be a woman in England who’d let him kiss her more than once.
    A crease formed between his brows as he studied her. “I didn’t mean to wound your feelings. I am surprised, that’s all. You are a beautiful woman in possession of a unique, even flexible sense of morality. I assumed you had indulged yourself at some time.”
    Flexible. She knew what that meant.
    “I am not my mother. I don’t go about dallying with men who are not my husband.” She may have been an accomplished flirt in Norfolk, but she’d not been a trollop. She’d never done anything that could jeopardize her family’s respectability in the village. She had smiled and giggled and batted her lashes, enjoying the innocent appreciation of many gentlemen. All of whom she had promptly sent on their way the second they gave any indication of real attachment.
    Not once had she let a man take liberties.
    “A string of dalliances was not the sort of indulgence to which I was referring,” Samuel replied. “I was thinking of a kiss. Nothing wrong with a kiss or two. Renderwell gave me the impression that your sister had a brief romance with the village butcher.”
    “And now she has Renderwell. Perhaps you’d prefer her more tutored favors.”
    A line of annoyance appeared across his brow. “I don’t want your sister. And I told you, it was not my intention to wound your feelings. I made an observation, that’s all.”
    He hadn’t wounded her feelings. He had stepped on her pride, or possibly her vanity. Either way, the insult demanded retaliation.
    “Well, if we are making observations about our partner’s inadequacies, I should like to note that your beard is scratchy. And you smell like wet pavement.”
    He reached up to rub the offending beard. “I see. If the experience was so unpleasant for you, why did you participate?”
    She gave him a tight smile. “I didn’t want to wound your feelings.”
    He lowered his hand slowly. “This was a mistake.”
    “Oh, clearly .”
    * * *
    Well done, Samuel. Brilliant job.
    This was the downside of being stingy with one’s words. The less one said, the more out of practice one became at speaking at all, and the more out of practice one became, the less likely it was that one would manage to say the right thing. Which led a man right back to keeping his mouth shut.
    As he was doing now.
    Samuel sat back in his seat while Esther turned to stare at the curtains. Not for the first time, he wished he had Gabriel’s gift with words. Gabriel was the talker, the charmer. He was the man Renderwell sent to extract information from witnesses and informants.
    Renderwell sent Samuel to speak with victims or the families of victims. They didn’t need someone to talk to them; they needed someone to listen. He was adept at listening.
    Fat lot of good it did him now. Esther wasn’t talking. And he didn’t know what to say to make things right again.
    He really hadn’t meant to insult her. The evident lack of experience had been a surprise, that was all. And a pleasant surprise at that. It was probably small of him, but he could admit he took jealous pleasure in knowing he was the only man she had kissed.
    And what was wrong with remarking on something he liked?
    Where was the offense in commenting on a lady’s lack of experience with men?
    God help him, he didn’t know. He didn’t see it.
    I can tell you’ve been generous with your favors.
    That seemed like the sort of thing a lady might find offensive.
    But either his statement had not been the entirely harmless observation he imagined it to be or Esther was a prickly, contrary woman who was far too quick to find fault and toss insults.
    After some deliberation he concluded that the truth probably fell somewhere in between.
    Then she shot him a hard, narrow-eyed glance designed to draw blood, and he decided that “in between” fell just a hair more on the prickly side.
    He doubted she’d accept an apology from him at that moment even if he