Rose Marie had expected Blackwell's lords to be soft.
It was a foolish expectation given the reputation the Blackwells had on Gallows Reach, but unlike most of the scoundrels who found a berth in Saltmourn, Rose Marie had encountered a number of lords before.
Every lord she had ever met had been soft somewhere, whether it was in the hands that had never done honest work, the belly that had been stuffed to overflowing at every nobleman's feast, or the heart that had never been denied the slightest desire; noblemen were soft, and Rose Marie had made a habit of finding the soft place quickly.
The big lord didn't have any soft places that she could see. He filled the doorway of the back room like a mainmast, with hands scarred from rope and a face that seemed built for laughing, though he wasn't laughing now. He didn't look like a lord; he looked like a captain, and a captain of the best sort who hauled lines next to his crew…
