The Edinburgh Dead - Brian Ruckley [41]
Cath was the younger of the two women, her features not yet dulled or slackened by the years of hard living that had taken their toll on Emma. But she followed the same path, towards the same end: the disordered mounding of the bedclothes did little to mask the presence of another in her bed.
“Sounded like you had a wee bit trouble on the stair,” Emma said placidly.
“Nothing to worry about,” Quire said.
It was a struggle to shake off the unsettling effect that the discovery of Cath here had had upon him. And to dispel the confusing, confused tremble of past and present desire it engendered.
“Will you take the morning dram with us, Sergeant?” Emma asked, extending the teacup, a healthy measure of amber liquid within it. The cup was finely painted with flowers and briars. It was chipped and cracked, but once no doubt graced the table of a grander house than this, before being liberated by some light-fingered visitor.
“No, thank you,” Quire said. “I’ll take a look at whatever that is Cath’s got hiding under her bedclothes, though.”
“Ach,” said Catherine with a pained expression, “you’ve not forgotten what it is I’ve got down there, surely?”
“Hush. I’ve no time for games, Cath. I’d not thought to find you here this morning—it’s Emma I was after a word with—and though I’m not minding you listening in, your shy friend there’s not welcome.”
“No games?” Catherine gave a disappointed pout. She was allowing the blankets to slip a little lower, revealing more pale skin. “Well, you’re not the man you used to be. Anyway, my friend’s only a wee bairn. He’d be of no interest to you.”
“Show yourself, man,” Quire snapped.
A crestfallen face shrugged its way out from beneath the bedding. Smooth and fair skin, tousled hair youthfully thick. Eyes bright with trepidation.
Quire arched his eyebrows.
“Let me guess. One of our university’s finest?”
The young man bit his lip dumbly, but Quire did not need to have his question answered to know the truth of it. He growled in irritation. The student sat up straight beside Catherine, averting his eyes, distractedly toying with a little amber bead strung on a thong about his neck.
“I see Cath’s gulled you into buying one of the Widow’s charms,” said Quire. “Comforting, to know the nation’s future rests in the hands of those who find their pleasures in the Holy Land, and think some magic trinket’ll keep them safe from the consequences.”
He took some unworthy satisfaction from the embarrassment—perhaps even shame—that put a rosy tint in the man’s cheeks. The feeling did not linger, though. He was hardly entitled to much in the way of self-righteousness on the subject of Catherine Heron’s company.
“Speaking of the Widow, does she ken you’re here?” Emma asked pleasantly. “She does like to know what’s happening before it happens.”
“You can have the pleasure of telling her yourself, Emma, after I’m done with you. It’s only a few questions I’ve got in mind.”
“Can’t help you, Mr. Quire,” the older woman said as she lifted the cup to her cracked lips.
“You might at least let me ask before brushing me away,” Quire said, and returned his attention to the bewildered youth in Catherine’s bed. “Are you a student of the sciences, or of medicine perhaps?”
He received a hesitant, faintly alarmed nod of the head in response.
“You should know better than to think that bead’s got the magic to keep you free of the pox, then.”
“He’s safe enough with me,” Cath Heron muttered, affronted.
“Oh, I know that, Cath,” Quire said quickly. “I didn’t mean…”
He took Cath’s dark frown as a warning, and abandoned the topic.
“You get yourself off, back to your books or however it is you’re supposed to be spending your time,” he snapped at the student.
Quire, Cath and Emma watched in silence as the young man hurriedly, clumsily dressed himself. Humiliation enough, perhaps, to keep him away from the Holy Land