Jo Goodman by My Steadfast Heart

perfected as small children.
    But for the fact that Britton tripped on the long tails of his nightshirt, they might both have escaped. As it happened, the young boy's stumble sent him directly into his lordship's hands. Britton took a fist so solidly in his gut that it drove the air from his lungs. He went down on his knees and curled fetally, the protective posture part instinctual and part practiced. The boot that kicked out at him only glanced off his shoulder.
    Mercedes put herself between Brendan and the earl as that boy tried to save his brother. Her interference gave Lord Leyden an excuse to touch her. He seized the neckline of her gown, tearing it as he removed her from the fight. She stumbled back but still managed to catch and hold Brendan. Mercedes knew better than to let him join the fray. It would be the same beating for both of them. Now she only had to concern herself with nursing one.
    Chloe and Sylvia heard the muffled screams and came rushing from their rooms to Britton's. They stood on the threshold and watched the last blows of Britton's beating. When it was over, when their fear subsided, they looked to Mercedes for direction. They stepped aside until their father strode out of the room, then ran in to care for their fallen brother.
    Mercedes forced the scene from her mind as she lifted the kettle. Water splashed the hot hearth bricks and sizzled. Embers hissed. She poured the warm water into the bath, replaced the kettle, then knelt beside the tub. She washed quickly, never removing her undergarments. Bits of dirt and humus that she had so carefully placed on her person were now wiped away. She scrubbed her face and arms and let water sluice her throat and run between her breasts. The edge of her bodice became wet.
    Looking down at herself, Mercedes could see the hilt of the dagger riding above the edge of her corset. She got up and walked to the window where she was reflected in the dark glass. This view assured her that the dagger was hidden by her camisole. She dipped three fingers below the laced edge of the camisole and between her breasts. The hilt was easy to grasp. She raised the dagger a few inches, accustoming herself to the movement, then slid it back in place.
    Behind her she caught sight of the headboard. Mercedes turned and saw clearly that Colin had removed his knife. Was he carrying it on him? She glanced around the room and spied it on the dresser. Her first thought was to hide it from him. Her second thought was to think better of her first. If he saw it was gone then he would naturally assume she took it. Mercedes didn't doubt he would search her and that would reveal her own dagger. Her ill-conceived plan would be aborted then and there.
    She let his weapon lie.
    Her gaze turned from the dresser to the nightstand. The bottle of whisky was still there and beside it, the glass tumbler. It didn't look as if it had been touched. Perhaps Colin Thorne didn't drink, or at least not to excess. The novelty of it intrigued Mercedes. Her knowledge of her uncle's habits and her acquaintance with those he considered friends prepared her to believe that sobriety was the exception, not the rule. It was another way in which Captain Thorne stood well outside her experience.
    The valise at the foot of the bed became another point of interest. Mercedes wondered if she dared. Then she wondered how she dared not.
    Setting the case on the bed, Mercedes opened it. Her first observation was that he was meticulous about his packing. Nothing was simply thrown in. She sifted carefully through the shirts and stockings. Pressing down a pair of trousers was a book. She lifted it and read, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. His tastes in literature raised more questions than answers. She wouldn't have anticipated he would be drawn to something widely acknowledged to be so romantic. Perhaps he was only using it to press his trousers after all.
    Mercedes set the book aside and delved deeper. At the bottom of the valise she