Face Down among the Winchester Geese by Kathy Lynn Emerson Read Free Book Online Page A

victim was not pleasant to contemplate.
    There was no protection if someone was stalking her. She knew that, just as she knew that the authorities never much troubled themselves to investigate the deaths of Southwark prostitutes. She could deal with her fear by staying indoors, but her house was not that secure. By the very nature of her business, she nightly invited strangers onto the premises.
    And what if the murderer was not a stranger? What if he were someone she knew, perhaps knew very well? Her hand crept to her throat, fingering the hard, cold amethysts in her necklace as if they were beads in a rosary. She willed a measure of calm to return. A murder had taken place. A stranger lay dead. ‘Twas no business of hers. That two murdered women had resembled the bawd at the Sign of the Smock, why that was surely naught but gruesome coincidence.
    Petronella gasped at the sound of a light knock at her bedchamber door. The man on the other side did not wait for her to bid him come in, but entered assured of his welcome, a bold smile on his dark face and a sensual gleam in his eye. When he took her in his arms, his kiss seared her, making her heart pound and her breath come faster, and for a little while she forgot everything but him.
    It was always so with this man. He affected her as no other ever had. They dispensed with their clothing quickly and fell into her big four-post bed. With the ease of old lovers, they passed the next hour in most pleasurable sport. But when he lay well satisfied beside her, he seemed to sense her preoccupation. He propped himself up on one elbow to gaze into her eyes.
    "Something troubles you.” It was not a question. She sighed. He knew her too well. “A woman was murdered near here during the night. Her neck broken."
    "A pity. And yet such things happen."
    "There was another woman murdered that same way about a year ago. And these two women were both small. Both dark. Either could have been mistaken for me. I think, perhaps, this woman today may have died in my place."
    "Madre de Dios."
    "Aye.” She caressed his forearm. So strong, her handsome, one-eyed Spaniard. Strong enough to kill.
    She hastily repressed the thought. Why would Diego want to kill her? Why would he want to kill anyone? But it was obvious that her revelation had disturbed him. He was scowling quite fiercely.
    "Tell me all you know about these women. Why you think you are in danger.” He spoke with only the slightest trace of an accent, for he had lived in England for many years.
    "One was a whore. The other a stranger, but mayhap of good birth. By her dress, ‘twas a gentlewoman who claimed her body."
    "Identities?"
    "For this morning's victim, I know not. The other was Ambrosia La Petite.” She tried to smile at the fact that Mistress La Petite had chosen her professional name on the basis of her build.
    She thought Diego would laugh, that he would find a way to talk her out of her fear. “Today is St. Mark's Day,” he said instead.
    "Aye.” The twenty-fifth day of April. “What of it?"
    "'Tis a date seared in my memory. Think, little one, was it exactly a year ago that the other woman died?"
    "It could have been. I do not remember."
    He stood and began to dress, his manner distracted and his movements erratic. When he was clothed save for his boots, he went to stand at the window and stare morosely down at the street. Petronella could feel his uncertainty from across the room as she began to struggle into her own clothing.
    "You must tell me what troubles you. Diego.” She came up beside him and turned so that he could tie the laces that held her sleeves to her bodice.
    When he had attended to her, Diego seated himself in the room's single chair, a sturdy box-seated, joined piece of furniture padded with a squab cushion. As he pulled on his high leather boots, he spoke without looking at her.
    "I knew a woman once. Years ago, when King Philip shared this country's throne with Queen Mary. I was her first lover.