Angel (Bartered Hearts 1)

“I have to go,” she said softly, still looking at the box.

“I could walk you, if you like.”

That shocked her

far more than the gift. She aimed a frown at him. “You’d walk a whore to church?”

He pressed his lips together. He was a solemn man, not easily given to smiles, and his big size had made her nervous the first time he’d visited her. He looked gravely serious now. “I was only surprised you’d want to go. I gave up on church a long time ago. I figured you had, too. But I’ll keep you company if you’ll have me. Maybe you’d rather be alone.”

She honestly wasn’t sure if she’d rather be alone. When she was working, she craved solitude. An hour to herself with no one else’s body getting mixed up with hers. But when she was alone, that felt lonely, because not one soul in this world loved her.

That was why she still went to church when she could.

“You could walk me,” she said impulsively. “If you wanted. But you shouldn’t come in. I can’t be with a man. Not there.”

The tension in his jaw fell away. “All right. Thank you.”

She turned to lead the way toward the church, frowning that he’d thanked her as if it were an honor to escort a woman like her anywhere. But he made it feel like an honor. He kept pace with her, his hands clasped respectfully behind his back as if to signal that he wouldn’t touch her. She could feel the looks he stole from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t say a word.

They stepped into the sunlight of the street, but it didn’t do much to fight the cold. Melisande was sure her nose was reddening and she tried not to feel self-conscious about it. His pale Irish cheeks were still marked with pink from the brisk wind.

She’d always liked his coloring. Golden hair and white skin and dark brown eyes. His paleness seemed a complement to her brown skin. His hand spread over her hip made her skin glow with warmth. Strange that she saw that in him when other white men’s skin looked like sickness and death trying to claim her.

“Aren’t you spending Christmas with your brother?” she asked. He’d mentioned an older brother once.

“He’s run off to California. I expect he’ll disappear as sure as my other brothers have. One to Mexico. One back to Ireland. He was born here same as me, but after Ma died, he couldn’t wait to get back to the homeland.”

“So there’s no one to wish you a merry Christmas either?”

“No, but I don’t mind the quiet. It’s nice.”

It was nice, walking through the streets with him, the buildings getting smaller and simpler as they went. The bricks of the walkways more steady under their feet. Everything smelled clean today, woodsmoke and spices clearing out her worries every time she breathed in.

They were at the church before she wanted them to be, and suddenly they were surrounded by noise and traffic and too many people.

Melisande hesitated at the iron railing of the churchyard, not wanting their interlude to end quite yet. “You could come in,” she offered. “Separately. Sit up front with the other white folks.”

“I’ll wait here.”

“Why?” She hadn’t expected that.

“Because I’d like to. Unless you’d rather I leave.”

It would be best to send him away. She knew that. Any encouragement at all and some men would decide they weren’t just paying customers but men with rights to you. She’d seen it happen with other girls. She should send Bill away with a simple thank-you and leave it at that.

But if she sent him away, she’d be alone as soon as mass was done. She’d go back to her room and do her laundry and make her bed and be back to whoring by suppertime.

“Won’t you get cold?” she asked.

He shrugged and tugged his hat lower, so Melisande nodded farewell and climbed the steps to the church.

She crossed herself with holy water from the font, then said a quick prayer and genuflected before entering the very last row of pews. She always sat in the last row, now matter how empty or crowded the church was. Tugging the shawl down to cover her forehead again, she dropped her head and opened the hand she’d clasped around the little box.

It was a fairly quiet morning. Most of this church’s congregation had already attended midnight mass before joining their families for réveillon. But Melisande hadn’t been free to attend a Christmas Eve mass since she was a little girl. She was always too busy working.

She knew the prayers and all the hymns by heart, so she normally closed her eyes and lost herself in the incense and music, but today she looked at the box in her hand, turning it over and over as she gave her responses to the priest.

There were no marks on it, no decorations. It was light, cheap wood with a simple lid. Maybe Bill had made it himself. He was a ship builder. Good with his hands.