Page 39 of The Hunter
The sky licked the cobblestones with copper as Argent turned to slink back into the shadows. He muttered something that was carried away by the early evening breeze. Dorian thought it was something like, “Just for one night,” but he couldn’t be certain.
Argent might not be one to lie to others to spare their feelings, but if he believed he could let that actress go after only one night, Dorian truly wondered if the assassin lied to himself.
In any case,he thought as he pointed his boots in the direction of his wife. Did Millicent LeCour know just what she was involved with and if she had the wherewithal to deal with a man like Christopher Argent?
If not, God help her, because no man alive, himself included, had ever been able to.
CHAPTERTEN
If she had to identify the most surreal moments of her life, Millie was certainthiswould be near the top of the list. It had taken her some time to charm the stoic Hassan into saying more than two words. But she’d done it, by Jove, and now he was expertly applying charcoal color to outline her eyes at her behest. Millie had done her own stage makeup for years, but the precision with which the Arab accented his chocolate eyes sent her into fits of envy.
It was certainly to her benefit that she had her own dressing room, as Hassan had garnered so much attention backstage at Covent Garden, she was certain they’d never make the curtain call.
Though his features were sharp enough to etch glass, his wide-set gentle eyes reminded her of the good-natured carriage horses of the West End. When he leaned this close to her, she inhaled the scents of sand and musk and a spice that reminded her of flowing white tents, veiled women, and strong, dark vagabond tribes.
She’d found him fascinating and instantly determined they must be friends.
The dark blue of his head wrap and multitude of robes blurred with each swipe of the brush he used to apply the kohl as the gentle pressure pushed her lid against her eye.
Another face, with large, breathtakingly blue eyes and hair the color of dark sand, leaned on her knee and watched the process with fascination. Jakub, her son. Her small, sweet, beautiful boy. The boy for which she’d give her life, because he gave her life meaning. The boy for whom she’d made a deal with the very devil, himself.
She couldn’t think about that now. Abouthim. Christopher Argent. A mercenary, assassin, and her soon-to-be lover. He’d return for her. Soon she would be in his bed.
Or wherever he decided to have her.
Suddenly her skin budded with chills so exquisite they ached, and she let out a trembling exhale.
“Remain still,” Hassan commanded gently.
“Mister Hassan, why do you line your eyes with black?” Jakub queried, his wire-rimmed spectacles magnifying his eyes from innocent to owlish.
“Because, littlerassam walad,in my homeland the sun is so close and so unrelenting that the kohl protects the eyes from its fire and allows a man to see far across the desert.”
Jakub nodded, plucking at the collar of his crisp shirt. “Mister Hassan, why do you call merassam walad?”
The Arab never faltered in his task as he used a small piece of linen to expertly smudge the liner around her lid and draw it out to accentuate the almond shape of Millie’s eye. “In my language it means painter boy.” Hassam gestured his bearded chin toward Jakub’s pile of art supplies arranged compulsively in a little corner. “In my homeland, painting is a sacred profession, a gift bestowed by Allah.”
“Oh.” Dimples appeared on each side of the boy’s chin as his round cheeks pinkened with a bit of embarrassment and shy pleasure. Then his brows drew together as a thought struck him. “But Mister Hassan, the sun is not so close in London. It barely visits at all.”
“This is so,rassam walad, but when far from home, it does one good to maintain the traditions of one’s people, so that the heart can remain close to those he loves but must live without.”
Sadness swam up from the depths of the Arab’s liquid dark eyes as he paused to gaze down at Jakub with nostalgic affection. Millie caught herself wondering if Hassan had a littlerassam waladof his own. Not for the first time, she wondered what the Arab was doing so far from his beloved homeland and who he’d left behind. Was he a refugee? A criminal? Could he be a hired killer like Argent? It didn’t seem likely, though she’d caught the gleam of the hilt of a long jeweled dagger hidden in his voluminous robes.
“Mister Hassan, do you—”
“Jakub,kochanie.” Millie cupped his little chin in her gentle hand. “Why don’t you give poor Mister Hassan a rest and set up your easel?”
Her son’s little mouth puckered and he looked down and to the side. “Yes, Mama,” he mumbled.
Jakub scrambled to his makeshift art corner and flung open his box of paints, gingerly selecting a few umbers, golds, reds, and blues for careful inspection. Next, he would mix them with the precision of an alchemist and the focus of a savant, all the world disappearing for him until he created the perfect pigment.
Millie offered an apologetic smile to their interim guardian, but his expression conveyed that it was not necessary. It was true that Jakub was an exceptionally intelligent child, and that came with a profusion of inquisitiveness, but in general his extreme shyness kept him from speaking more than a few words to strangers. She supposed the boy’s fascination with all things odd and new overcame his timidity with the imposing Arab.
Indeed, Millie had to bite back a barrage of her own questions. Such as, how did the foreigner come to know Christopher Argent? What did he know about the assassin’s proclivities, sexual and otherwise? What had he gleaned about who was after her and why?
“I have finished, madam.” Hassan stepped back and squinted at his handiwork before dipping his chin in a satisfied nod.
Millie turned to the mirror and caught her breath. He’d done a splendid job. She’d never felt more like Desdemona. An innocent, virtuous woman, slandered by the whims of wicked men and killed for a sin she’d never committed.
