Belladonna

without you, though. You're a fine musician. The best I've ever seen."
    "And you've seen the last of me for the next few hours."
    "You've earned your rest and more. If the Missus and I aren't around when you wake, just help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen, and she'll fix you up with a proper meal later."
    Michael just nodded and headed for the stairs at the back of the tavern that led up to the rooms Shaney rented. He felt drained, hollowed out. But it was a good feeling that left him looking forward to the pleasure of stretching out on a bed with clean sheets and sleeping through the day.
    He didn't see Doreen until he was at the top of the stairs. By then it was too late to fix the tactical error of coming up to his room alone.
    "Took you long enough," Doreen said, giving him a smile that was meant to be enticing.
    "It's a proven fact that the number of stairs increases in direct proportion to the amount of drink that is consumed or the amount of sleep that was lost," Michael said lightly.
    Doreen shrugged, clearly not interested in anything but what she'd planned. "I figured, after playing all that fine music, you'd be wanting a bit of company about now. Private company."
    You figured wrong. There was a meanness in Doreen. She hid it well, most of the time, but he heard sharp notes every time he was near her. He didn't like her, and yet despite those sharp notes, she had fit into the music that was Foggy Downs. Right now, however, even if he had wanted her, he wouldn't have done either of them any good. At least he could be honest about that much.
    "I thank you for the offer, Doreen, but I'm too tired to be good company — or any kind of company if it comes to that."
    Her smile faded. "You think you're better than me, don't you? I know you've pleasured other women, but because I wait tables in a tavern, that puts me beneath men of good reputation."
    Michael shivered. He wasn't sure if it was due to fatigue or the other meaning beneath Doreen's words. And maybe he was just too muzzy-headed and tired to hear it clearly, but her tune didn't seem to fit the village anymore. It was too sharp, too ... dark.
    Wrong.
    "But you're not a man of good reputation, are you, Michael? You're nothing but a drifter, a wanderer, a —"
    The word she spoke struck him like a blow to the heart.
    "What's that you called him?"
    Michael jumped, startled by the voice on the stairs behind him. He stepped aside to let Maeve, the village postmistress and owner of Foggy Downs's lending library, pass by.
    "Musician?" Maeve said, touching fingers delicately to one ear. "Well, there's no need to be sounding all dramatic about it. Of course he's a musician, girl! Are your ears so stopped up with wax that you couldn't hear him playing all night?"

    Doreen's eyes flashed with anger, but she didn't reply.
    Smart girl, Michael thought. Maeve might have a thinning head of white hair and a wrinkled face, but there was nothing wrong with her mind or her hearing. And since she was responsible for obtaining the magazines published in the big city that informed young ladies about the latest fashions and young wives about household tips, even the sassiest woman understood the value of being respectful to Maeve.
    The postmistress shook her head and let out an exasperated sigh. "Leave the boy in peace, Doreen, and let him get some sleep. Any woman worth her salt knows a man that tired hasn't the wit for romance."
    He wasn't sure he appreciated Maeve's way of helping him escape, but he wasn't going to ignore the opportunity.
    "Good night, ladies," he said, slipping past both women to reach his room. Once inside, he slid the bolt home as quietly as possible. No point insulting Doreen into doing something foolish by letting her hear him lock the door. But he wouldn't rest easy without the lock, especially since she seemed determined to have him.
    He couldn't imagine why. Doreen enjoyed men for what she could get from them, and he didn't have much to offer m terms of providing a woman with material things. Wary of her interest, he'd always found an excuse not to be one of her men — and now it was going to cost him. Even if Shaney and Maeve stood by him, it was still going to cost him sooner or later.
    He walked toward the washstand, intending to rinse a bit of the fatigue and grittiness from his face. But he ended up staring in the mirror above the dresser.
    He was twenty-eight years old. The last twelve years hadn't been easy. He missed his sister