Magic in His Kiss by Shari Anton Page A

run. Stay close.”
    “Lord have mercy,” she muttered. “I knew we should have waited until nightfall.”
    Rhodri saw no sense in arguing. He took advantage of a narrow opening in the throng to break into a long stride, pulling Nicole behind him. They passed under the gatehouse to a shower of shouts to halt. The guards’ cries grew more insistent when Rhodri’s boots hit the plank bridge.
    “Left!” Nicole ordered.
    Deciding she must know where she was going, and in no position to question her now, Rhodri turned left at the end of the drawbridge, running as fast as he could without overly straining Nicole’s shorter stride.
    He recognized the broad street that ran east and west through town as one he’d been on yester noon. Naturally, they drew a few stares from the townspeople, but Rhodri chose to ignore discretion in favor of speed.
    They’d gone no farther than a few blocks when Nicole again ordered him to turn left, onto another broad street. He almost hesitated, knowing that if they turned right, they’d come to the southern gate through which they’d entered Oxford. But again he obeyed, trusting she had a plan in mind.
    Not until a bit farther on, when she tugged him onto a narrow lane, did he begin to question her intent. Before he could ask where she was headed, she slowed, nearly jerking him off balance.
    Nicole pulled her hand from his.
    “There, the cobbler’s shop,” she said, moments before she ducked through the shop’s door.
    What the devil was Nicole about? They didn’t have time to have a sole mended or heel repaired! He entered the shop after her to hear her address the young man seated on a stool, a boot with the heel up between his knees, an upraised hammer in his hand.
    “Are you descended of John the cobbler?” she asked.
    From a mere step inside the doorway, Rhodri glanced back down the lane, looking for signs of a patrol.
    “I am,” the man answered, setting aside the boot and hammer. “John was my grandsire, may he rest in peace.”
    “Was your grandsire a forgiving man?” Nicole asked, much to Rhodri’s confusion.
    The cobbler’s brow furrowed. “He was a God-fearing man. Why do you wish to know?”
    Precisely Rhodri’s question, too!
    Nicole shot Rhodri a disturbingly anxious look before she blurted out, “Had your grandsire lived, would he have been able to find the mercy in his heart to forgive Thomas Thatcher his unfortunate misjudgment and allow Thomas’s soul to rest in peace? Can you?”
    The cobbler’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Forgive the friend turned murderer? I hope he suffers the fires of hell!”
    “Thomas meant to express his deep sorrow over what happened, but he died before given the chance. I assure you he is eternally sorry for the unintentional wrong done your grandsire and your family. Pray, sir, is there no mercy in your heart?”
    “Hrumph. You would receive a better hearing from my mother. She forgave her father’s murderer—”
    “She did? Why, that was most kind of her! Pray thank her for her understanding.”
    The poor cobbler looked as dumbfounded as Rhodri felt.
    Nicole had acted strangely in the tower, and now… he shouldn’t have held her throat so tightly, tilted her chin so high. Surely he’d deprived her of enough air that it had affected her wits. God forgive him, what had he done to her?
    The cobbler’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you, milady? Why your concern over my family and matters best left in the past?”
    Rhodri understood none of this, but he’d heard enough. He lunged for Nicole’s hand and hauled her out of the shop.
    She was smiling. “In which direction do you wish to leave Oxford?”
    Rhodri took a deep breath, guilt over the instability of Nicole’s mind weighing heavy on his soul, unsure if he could trust her mind at all.
    “The nearest gate will do.”
    She pointed northward. “That church spire is St. Michael’s-at-North Gate.”
    Rhodri squeezed Nicole’s hand. “You are sure?”
    “Certes.