Thirty-Three
HAVEN
I’d spent too much time with these men. They were wearing down my defenses. And as odious as I’d first found them, now when I considered them, I saw flawed individuals, not monsters.
That was especially true of Pierce. His warm chest and arms protected me from the cold, and the memory of our kiss lit a flame deep inside me. A flame that flickered and died when I remembered the way he’d jumped away from me when he thought Grayson might see us together.
“We need to find you a warmer cloak.” He wasn’t wrong. My cloak was purchased with mild winters in mind.
I suppressed a shiver. “I like this one.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Ten years. It was a gift from Grandmother.” I’d opened the package, and my fingers had hesitated to touch the beautiful fawn-hued fabric. Our clothes were always secondhand, but the cloak was new. Perfect. I’d thanked her with tears in my eyes.
“Sentimental value?” His chin touched the back of my head as he nodded. “I understand, but it’ll only get colder.”
I couldn’t stop an answering shiver. The cold was already bone-chilling, at least to a woman who’d never left the heat of the plains.
“Have you ever walked the streets near the king’s palace?”
I frowned and twisted in his arms until I saw his face. His expression was remote. Nothing new there. “Why do you ask?”
His lips quirked into a smile, and my foolish heart stuttered. A smiling Pierce was breathtaking. “Answer the question.”
“Yes, I’ve been there.” I’d peered through the windows at the fine clothing, the jewels, the delicate pastries, the boots made from buttery leather, the bottles of rare wine, then I’d gone home and counted my blessings.
“There’s a clothier on High Street.” His arms tightened around me. “With a red door. Have you seen it?”
I didn’t remember the red door. “No.”
“It sits between a candymaker and a cobbler. Big mullioned windows. Snooty sales staff. The owner is a woman with a hooked nose and icy blue eyes.”
The owner was irrelevant. Even if I’d noticed the store, I would never have entered, never have made her acquaintance. But because Pierce had asked, I pictured High Street, searched for a red door, and didn’t find it. Odd, because I made a habit of memorizing my surroundings. “I don’t remember that one.”
“Sure you do. There’s a baker across the street who makes the best tarts in the kingdom.”
I still couldn’t picture the store, but I knew the bakery. “Peach.”
“That’s the one. Just opposite. Red door.”
“Okay.” I still didn’t remember the store. In fact, I was fairly certain there was a haberdasher across the street from thebakery. But if Pierce insisted there was a clothier, I was willing to take his word for it.
“When you enter the boutique, you’ll see two walls covered with bolts of fabric.”
When I entered? I loved pretty things, but I’d never shop in a store like the one he described. I was from Grimswood. Hardship clung to me. The woman with the hooked nose would smell poverty, sneer, and then send me packing.
“There are silks and satins and the finest linens. The ladies who shop there have their dresses custom-made.”
“Who doesn’t?”
He chuckled at my sarcasm, and the sound reverberated through my whole body. “If you venture past the bolts of fabric and proceed to the back wall, you’ll find a rack of clothes for sale.”
“I thought everything was custom.”
“Almost. They create items for their window displays. And sometimes a customer will reject the clothing made for them. The color is wrong, or they claim it’s not flattering. On the rack, third hanger from the end, is a dark-gray cloak with fur lining.”
“Why would they make a fur-lined cloak?” In the winter, the temperature might—might—turn cold enough for the city’s residents to see their breath. Nothing like the cold that bit my fingers and toes now.
