He dragged her out into the kitchen and wrestled her into the chair. She started to rise again until he stood over her. Sucking in deep breaths, she stared up at him with a sullen expression. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her hands were clenched into tight fists. For a moment, he thought she might try to attack him. The image in his head made him smile. The girl glared with a hard set to her mouth. At least she had stopped screaming.

Caim turned away and filled a kettle with tepid water from a jug. He had thought the girl was pretty before, but unconscious she had been only a distant presence, like the moon on a frigid winter night. Now, awake and animate, she was even more breathtaking. He squeezed his right hand into a fist until the fingernails cut into his palm. He had to keep his head on straight. He was a hunted man. He had to play this smart.

With one eye on the girl, he lit the stove and put the kettle on to boil. He had a feeling he was in for a long night. Maybe Kit was right. Maybe he should have dumped this problem in an alley and left for greener pastures. He shook his head. No, he was too stubborn, or too stupid, to give up that easily. One thing he knew for sure. He wasn't letting this girl out of his sight until he found out what was going on. He owed Mathias that much.

His hands tightened around the lid of the tea tin.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

osey concentrated on her hands, clutched together in her lap. She had always liked her hands. They were small-boned, with long, tapering fingers. Her nails needed painting; the pink lacquer was flaking off at the tips, but besides that, they were very nice hands.

The killer's hands, however, the hands that had murdered her father, were wrapped in hard sinew. Tiny scars dotted his knuckles. One long cicatrix started on the back of his left hand and ran up into the cuff of his shirtsleeve. She stared at it as he held out a cup to her.

"Take it," he said.

She grasped the round porcelain cup with both hands. It was deliciously warm. A pleasant green tea smell rose from the rim, but her stomach quailed at the idea of ingesting anything given to her by this beast. She let the cup rest in her lap.

He glanced at her temple. "Does that hurt?"

She shook her head to prove it didn't. His voice sounded different than she expected, more normal. He's not normal. He's a cold-blooded murderer.

Her teeth clenched together so hard her jaws ached, but she knew if she didn't keep them clenched she would start screaming again. Everything about him repulsed her. His shoulders were too broad for his frame; his wrists were thick and ropy with muscle. His face wasn't uncomely, but it had a stoniness that made her think of the statues that decorated the walls of the new cathedral. Although she considered herself a good, pious woman, the sight of the immense edifice disturbed her, especially the stern faces of the statuary, which didn't resemble the kindly saints of her imagination. The killer had the same hard look about him. His chin was too sharp to be handsome. It made him look sinister, like a fox out to pilfer unattended chicks. And his eyes. They were chips of granite, cold and impervious. She looked away and tried not to think of his gaze upon her.

The apartment was modest, barely larger than her bathing chamber. A shoddy table and the single chair in which she sat comprised the only furniture. The boards were bare wood, but clean-swept. A thick mat sat in the far corner. Leather bags hung on long cords from hooks set into the ceiling. Were they some sort of crude torture device? Metal bars of various lengths leaned against the wall. The kitchen area was likewise spare, with its antique coldbox and simple oven, some cupboards. Something unexpected rested on the countertop, a book. She couldn't make out the subject, but its illuminated pages were held open by the blade of a dagger.

A thought struck her from out of the blue. He lives alone. Strangely, she wondered if he was lonely. Then, he turned to fetch a cup for himself and she saw the huge knives strapped to his back. One of them had stolen her father's life. In her imagination, she ripped the knives from their harness and plunged them into his neck.

"What's your name, girl?" he asked, startling her with his brusqueness.

"Who were you talking to before you grabbed me?" Josey congratulated herself on how steady her voice sounded. She started to lift the cup to her lips, but then set it back in her lap.

"I was talking to no one."

"I heard you through the door. You were talking, but I didn't hear anyone else."

"You and I are the only ones here."

She nodded to herself. So he's either lying to me, or he's a madman who talks to himself and kills defenseless old men. Her fear was receding. In its place rose a gush of burning anger from the pit of her belly.

"What do you want with me? If you're after a ransom, you ruined your chances when you killed my father."

He watched her with his stony eyes. "The only people I killed were the men intent on doing away with you."

"I saw you standing over him!" She couldn't stop shaking. The cup trembled in her hands. "I saw the blood and… his chest. I saw everything!"

"Yes." He was remarkably calm in the face of her rage. "There was blood and the old man was dead, but I didn't kill him. He was already dead-"

"Liar!"

She threw the cup at him. He dodged faster than she had ever seen anyone move. The cup shattered against a cabinet door, spattering hot tea and pottery shards across the wall. She steeled herself for his rebuke, but he stood there and sipped his tea.

"I had the contract on his life," he said. "And I would have killed him. It was under false pretenses, but I suppose that matters little to you. Still, I'm telling you the truth. Someone else had been there before me."

"Am I supposed to believe you?" The scorn in her voice made her feel invincible. He could hurt her, even kill her, but he couldn't stop her from speaking her mind. "Was there a whole legion of assassins waiting to kill my father? He was a harmless old man, well loved and respected by everyone."

"Not by the person who killed him, nor the client who hired me. That's two fairly serious enemies. A bit much for a man loved by everyone."

The dryness in his voice made her want to claw his eyes out. She crossed her arms across her breasts. She didn't have to listen to this. Her father was a good man. A great man! He had connections to the palace and all the best families. Now he was gone. Moistness crept into her eyes when she thought of how she wouldn't be able to attend his funeral. Who will attend mine?

"You killed Markus, too," she blurted.

"Your servant? I never touched him. He's still alive for all I know."

"Second Prefect Markus, one of the Sacred Brothers you murdered when you were abducting me. He was the betrothed of my dearest friend."

"Those tinmen were after you, not me. I saved your life by stopping them."

"Markus would never hurt me. He was my friend, and you killed him like he was nothing."

He regarded her for a long moment. Her stomach quavered. Was this it? Was he going to kill her now?

Instead, he asked, "What's your name?"

"What does that matter?"

"I'd like to know."

She straightened her posture. "I am Josephine Frenig, daughter of Artur Frenig, seventeenth earl of Highavon. Now, what of you? What are you called?"

"It makes no difference."

"What's fair for one is fair for both. Since you surely mean to murder me, it should be of no consequence to you."

"Caim."

"Caim." She had to choose her words carefully. "If you have any shred of decency, you will release me immediately, or at least allow me to write a letter to my father's friends."