and donned a blue velvet hat, the plume brushed the blackened ceiling timbers.
“Kit, I shall call for you later.”
Kit Youngblood sent him a jaunty salute. Though somewhat older than Oliver, more blunt featured and quiet, he was nearly as handsome. Taken as a pair, the two were quite overwhelming. “Do. I missed our carousing while you were away. On a pilgrimage, was it?”
The look they shared was steeped in mirth and fellowship. Then, without warning, Oliver took Lark by the hand and drew her out into the alleyway.
As soon as she recovered her surprise, she pulled away. “Kindly keep your hands to yourself, my lord.”
“Is it your mission in life to wound me?” he asked, looking remarkably sober for all that he had quaffed three tankards of ale while she had watched.
“Of course not.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “My lord, I came to see you to—”
“You held out your hand to me when I lay gasping on the ground at a pauper’s grave. Why flinch when I do the same to you?”
“Because I don’t need help. Not of that sort.”
“What sort?” He tilted his head to one side. The plume in his hat curved downward, caressing a face so favored by Adonis that Lark could only stare.
“The touching sort,” she snapped, irritated that her head could be turned by mere looks.
“Ah.” All male insolence, he reached out and dragged his finger slowly and lightly down the curve of her cheek. It was worse than she had suspected—his touch was as compelling as his lavish handsomeness. She had the most shameful urge to lean her cheek into the cradling warmth of his hand. To gaze into his eyes and tell him all the secret things she had never dared admit to anyone. To close her eyes and—
“I must remember that,” he said, dropping his hand and grinning down at her. “The lady does not like to be touched.”
“Nor do I like walking in a strange alley with a man I hardly know. However, it is necessary. You see, there is a matter—”
“Hail the lord and his lady!” A group of men in sailor’s caps and tunics tumbled past, swearing and spitting and jostling one another as they shoved themselves into the tavern.
“Good fishing to ye,” one of them called out to Oliver. “I hope the perch are biting fair.” The door slammed behind the man, muffling his guffaws.
Lark frowned. “What did he mean?”
She was surprised to see the color rise in Oliver’s cheeks. Why would so shameless a man blush at a sailor’s remark?
“He must have mistaken me for the sporting type.” Oliver started off down the alley.
“Where are we going?” Picking up her skirts, Lark hurried after him.
“You said you wished to talk.”
“I do. Why not here? I have been trying to explain myself.”
A creaking sound came from somewhere above, where the timbered buildings leaned out over the roadway. Oliver turned, grabbed Lark in his arms and pushed her up against a plastered wall.
“Unhand me!” she squeaked. “You rogue! You measureless knave! How dare you take liberties with my virtue!”
“It’s a tempting thought,” he said with laughter in his voice. “But that was not my purpose. Now be still.”
Even before he finished speaking, a cascade of filthy wash water crashed down from a high window. The deluge filled the road where Lark had stood only seconds ago.
“There.” Oliver eased away from the wall and continued down the street. “Both your gown and your virtue are safe.”
Miffed, she thanked him tersely. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” The sound of his tall, slashed knee boots echoed down the tunnellike lane.
“I don’t want a surprise,” she said. “I simply want to talk to you.”
“And so you shall. In good time.”
“I wish to talk now. Forsooth, sir, you frustrate me!”
He stopped and turned so abruptly that she nearly collided with him. “Ah, Mistress Lark,” he said, his bluer-than-blue eyes crinkling at the corners, “not half so much as you frustrate me.” She feared he would touch her again, but he merely smiled and continued walking.
She followed him along a pathway, passing kennels where dogs for the bull baitings were housed, trying not to gawk at a flock of masked prostitutes gathering to watch the sport.
The north end of the path opened out to the Thames. The broad brown river teemed with wherries, shallops, timber barges and small barks. Far to the east rose the webbed masts of great warships and merchantmen, and to the west loomed London Bridge. From this distance Lark could not see the grisly severed heads of traitors that adorned the Southwark Gate of the bridge, but the whirling scavenger kites made her think of them and shiver.
Oliver lifted his hand, and in mere seconds a barge with three oarsmen at the bow and a helmsman at the stern bumped the bottom of the water steps.
Bowing low and gesturing toward the canopied seat of the barge, he said, “After you, mistress.”
She hesitated. It had been a mistake to leave Randall behind. For all she knew, Lord Oliver was dragging her along the path to perdition.
Still, the open, elegant barge looked far more inviting than the dank alley, so she descended the stone steps to the waterline. The helmsman held out a hand to steady her as she boarded.
“The lady mislikes being touched, Bodkin,” Oliver called out helpfully.
With a shrug, Bodkin withdrew his hand just as Lark had one foot in the barge and the other on the slimy stone landing. The barge lurched. She tumbled onto the leather cushioned seat with a thud.
Mustering courage from her bruised dignity, she glared up at Oliver. His buoyant grin flashed as he grasped the pole of the canopy and swung himself onto the seat beside her.
Lark stared straight ahead. “I assume we are going someplace where we can speak privately.”
Oliver nudged the oarsman in front of him. “Hear that, Leonardo? She wants to tryst with me.”
“I do not.”
“Hush. I was teasing. Of course I will take you to a place of privacy. Eventually.”
“Eventually? Why not immediately?”
“Because of the surprise,” he said with an excess of good-humored patience. “The tide’s low, Bodkin. I think it’s safe to shoot the bridge.”
The helmsman tugged at his beard. “Upstream? We’ll get soaked.”
Oliver laughed. “That’s half the fun. Out oars, gentlemen, to yonder bridge.”
Lark hoped for a mutiny, but the crew obeyed him. In perfect synchrony, three sets of long oars dipped into the water. The barge glided out into the Thames.
In spite of her annoyance with Lord Oliver de Lacey, Lark felt a thrill of excitement. Turbulence churned the waters beneath the narrow arches of London Bridge. She knew people had drowned trying to pass beneath it. Yet the smooth, swift motion of the sleek craft gliding through the water gave her the most glorious feeling of freedom. She told herself it had nothing to do with the benevolent, lusty and wholly pagan presence beside her.
Moments later, white-tipped wavelets lifted the bow of the boat. As the barge neared London Bridge, it bucked like a wild horse over the roaring waters around the pilings.
Lark lifted her face to the spray. She had come to London for a business transaction, and here she was in the throes of a forbidden adventure. She swirled like a leaf upon