“Hold—hold, Bridget.” His words barked into the room. “You knew Aldair was there and you didn’t tell me?”
“Yes. I recognized him from your description—and I lied—yes, I lied again, Hunter.” She reached out and grabbed his arm. “But we don’t have time for that. There are no guards with Aldair at the moment so you need to come and get him before more of Bournestein’s men arrive.”
“Blast it, Bridget.”
She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing. “Exactly. So are you coming back with me or not?”
~~~
Lifting the lantern, Bridget rose to her toes to muffle the sound of her boots on the third level corridor.
She looked over her shoulder to Hunter and jumped. He was close. Too close. She hadn’t heard him move in behind her, his body a wide, hard shadow protecting her. She remembered that feeling. Remembered his chest along her back side. The safety of it.
Not the time for memories.
She flicked her head forward, her voice dipping to a low whisper. “He’s at the end. This level is Bournestein’s territory. Except for my staff, his people—mostly men—are the only ones allowed here.”
She didn’t wait for a reply, hurrying along the hallway with as much stealth as she could. At the end of the hall, she stopped at the door and handed the lantern to Hunter. Her hand dove behind her apron, finding the metal keys hanging from a belt about her waist. Her fingers quick and steady as they always were under pressure—a trait her father had always commended her for—she unlocked the door.
They stepped into the tiny room and closed the door, the lantern casting shadows about the crumbling plaster walls.
A figure on the bed rustled but did not sit up.
“Is it him?”
“Yes. Can he walk?” Hunter’s whisper was in her ear, his breath warm.
“Possibly. With help. The knife went into his stomach so he is in pain.” She took the lantern back from Hunter. “Don’t carry him. Make him walk. It will draw less attention downstairs.”
Without attempting to first rouse Aldair, Hunter grabbed his shoulders and pulled his cousin upright.
Scared awake, Aldair started to yell, his body twisting to fight, and Hunter clamped a hand over his mouth. Bridget lifted the lantern to Hunter’s face, so Aldair could see him.
The man instantly stilled.
Hunter dropped his hand from Aldair’s mouth and flicked his head toward the door. Aldair nodded, shifting on the bed, seemingly unconcerned that he was shirtless and had wide bandages stained with a large swath of blood wrapped around his torso.
Hunter grabbed Aldair’s wrist and slipped it over his shoulder, then slid his arm around the back of Aldair and heaved him to his feet.
Bridget spun, opening the door and checking the hall for Bournestein’s men. She motioned with her hand to Hunter, and they started down the corridor, her in the lead with the lantern.
Her breath held, she eyed the end of the hallway. She hadn’t thought it would take this long to retrieve Hunter and come back to the hospital. That Bournestein’s men hadn’t already returned to their position at the end of the hall was a gift. They would be back soon.
She ticked through the men and the two women that were currently recovering in the rooms on either side of her as she passed doors. Two with head wounds. One woman burned by an errant chunk of coal. One with a hand mangled under a coach that she’d had to saw off. Two with broken limbs that Marjorie had reset. The other woman coughing blood. In all, it was half empty—an unusual change for this level of the hospital. It was the first time in weeks that they didn’t have to double up patients in the tiny rooms.
The door to her left opened, almost hitting her in the nose. Her feet slid to a stop and she grabbed the edge of the door with her free hand before it smashed into her face.
Stepping out into the hallway, Randolph hopped a step backward at seeing her. “Bridget?” His look flew up over her head and his eyes widened.
“Bridget, is that the—”
She stepped forward, motioning Randolph back a few steps so she could close the door to the open room. Randolph had always been thin—too thin. It made for slower surgeries, more time in agony under the saw for patients. But Randolph was also tenacious—he had been since she had met him at that hospital in Spain—and he had proved himself an asset time and again to the hospital.
For as much as she relied on Randolph and his skill at the hospital as a surgeon, she didn’t want him to get entangled in what she was doing. She kept Randolph out of all the dealings with Bournestein to protect him, and for his sake, she needed to keep it that way.
Her hand left the doorknob and she took another step forward, almost touching Randolph as she drew his attention back to her. “That is none of your concern.”
“None of my—”
“None, Randolph.”
He shook his head, his enormous sunken eyes level with hers. “If this is what I think it is, it is my concern because Freddie Joe is on his way back up here. I sent him down for water.”
“Hell.” The blasphemy slipped out under her tongue.
Boots clunking on stairs echoed up the stairwell.
“I will hold him on the stairs.” She grabbed Randolph’s arm, shoving the lantern into his hand. “Bring them upstairs and then out to the roof. Take them down the back stairs.”
“But those stairs? That’s a ladder, Bridget, not stairs.” Randolph pointed over her shoulder. “Will he make it?”
Bridget glanced back at Aldair. The man was slumped into the side of Hunter, his eyes closed. For all intents, Hunter was holding up Aldair’s full weight. Her eyes met Hunter’s. “We don’t have a choice.”
“He’ll make it.” Hunter said the words with simple determination.
She didn’t question him. Didn’t have time to question him.
She whipped back to Randolph. “Do this.”
“But Bridget—”
“Do this, Randolph.” Before he could argue, Bridget scooted past him and turned into the stairwell, her steps speeding as she descended. She needed the speed for what she was about to do.
At the bottom of the second flight of stairs, she rounded the corner at full speed and barreled into Freddie Joe.
They both went flying, tumbling, the water pail flipping and splattering onto the walls, stairs, them. She landed on top of Freddie Joe for one short second, but their momentum sent them rolling, tumbling down the stairs in a jumbled mess.
They clunked to a stop as they hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs with Freddie Joe on top of her.
The beefy mass of Freddie Joe smothered her against the floor and the bucket wedged under her head, twisting her neck in a way it should never be twisted.
He growled, moving, trying to untangle himself.
Bridget was stuck in blackness, not able to breath, locked into position until he moved off of her.
“Shit, woman. Shit.”
His swearing repeated over and over, raging harsher with every breath. The meanest of Bournestein’s men. Her luck could have been kinder in delivering a different man to blast into.
Freddie Joe managed to untangle himself enough to roll off of her, and in the sudden absence of his hot weight she felt a stinging slice across the side of her ribs.
His weight flopped heavy onto the floor beside her. The lit sconce at the bottom of the staircase cast a deep shadow over his mound of belly.
“Shit, wom—hell, Mrs. Morton.” The brutal scorn of his voice lessened. “I didn’t see it be ye, Mrs. Morton. Are ye hurt?”
The instant reversal of the ire in his voice almost made her chuckle. Almost. Chuckling was hard without proper air in one’s lungs. For as mean as Freddie Joe was, he was still terrified of Bournestein. Everyone was. And Bournestein liked her safe.
She gasped a breath, heaving for air that would make it no further than her throat.
Freddie Joe bolted upright, swinging his heavy form around in the tight space to get to his knees. He
hovered over her, his eyes wide in panic. “Shit, Mrs. Morton. Ye be hurt.”
She waved her hand at him, attempting to calm him, but every breath she tried to suck in and could only wheeze just aggravated him more.
His look flew upward. “Randolph. Let me get the sir.”
Her hand whipped up, grabbing his threadbare jacket as she gulped air and squeaked out words. “No. Fine.” A wheezing breath. “Just wind.” Another scratchy breath. “Lungs. Just lungs. Fine.”
He looked down at her, then glanced up, unsure what to do.
She tugged on his jacket. “Up. Help.”
He nodded and set his hands under her arms and lifted her, flicking the bucket out from behind her, and then setting her against the wall next to the stairs.
“I will get Randolph.”
Hiding the wince determined to stretch across her eyes, she shook her head. “No. I am fine. Water.” She had to pause to draw another half breath. “Get the water.”
“Ye be positive, ma’am?”
She nodded, her hand flattening onto her lower ribcage where the air could not reach. “I will be. Just a moment.”
He drew back slowly, eyeing her as if he had just broken Bournestein’s most prized possession. His eyes unsure, he grabbed the handle of the bucket and scooted backward on his knees until he had room to gain his feet. He stared at her for a long moment.
For a torturous long moment Bridget had to hold a reassuring smile across her lips.
With a nod, he turned and moved out into the main level of the hospital.
She waited until the sound of his boots disappeared out of the stairwell, and then she shuffled herself along the wall to look through the doorway into the main room of the hospital. All was quiet.
Reaching up with her left hand, she grabbed the corner of the wall and pulled herself to standing. The stretch of her arm angered the stinging pain along the side of her torso, and her body twisted, her upper arm clamping down along the side of her ribcage.
The pain sent her legs to trembling and she had to lean against the wall, sliding her body as smoothly as she could out into the main room for incoming patients.
She looked about. It was as peaceful as it usually was at this time of night. A few stragglers from the day lay sleeping on several long wooden benches. But it was not yet deep enough into the night that the place had crawled alive with the drunks and fighting idiots.
Freddie Joe would have gone out the front door to the well across the street, so she veered toward the back door, each step sending a shock of pain running up her spine and threatening to send her to her knees.
She looked down.
Blood on her apron. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that this was the clean apron she had put on as she had entered the hospital with Hunter. This was fresh blood.
Her feet slowed as her right hand reached to her ribcage, fingers searching. Warmth oozed around her knuckles. Blood. Ripped fabric.
Freddie Joe’s blade. Hell.
He always had that blasted steel hanging open and threatening the world from the snatch of a leather scabbard at his waist.
Pulling her hand free from her side, she swallowed hard and quickly wiped her stained fingers on her apron. Ignoring the pain, she set her head down and weaved around the benches. She had to make sure Hunter had made it from the building before she did anything else.
Reaching the back door, she opened it, moving into the darkness of the alley.
The stench of the open air hit her. Stench that she usually could stomach. But not at the moment. Not when pain was punishing her body with every step.
Her head swiveling, she searched into the darkness in both directions, a lone flame from a lantern hanging by the back door offering the only light shining into the shadows. Empty.
She looked to her left, her eyes frantic in the darkness to find the outline of the ladder that was bolted to the back of the next building. No movement. No inert body on the ground.
They must have made it down.
If Hunter was smart, he would be a block away by now.
Everything within her screamed at her to leave it be. Leave it at this.
Leave it with him disappearing into the night.
Hunter needed help. She would help him. She always would.
But to follow him? To seek him out?
She needed to stop now. Stop before she fell fool to things that would only destroy her heart again.
He abandoned her.
She couldn’t forget that. Couldn’t chance believing him that he left a note—that he searched for her.
What she needed to do was turn around and go back into the hospital. She had a blasted knife wound across her side that was bleeding and demanding attention.
Except…except she needed to know. She needed to reassure herself that he was gone. Safe.
Bridget turned to her left, moving along the alley. Whether it was the darkness, or the refuse littered upon the ground, or her head that was quickly beginning to spin, her usual rock solid steps faltered, her toe dragging on the ground as she stumbled to the side.
Catching herself on the brick of the building to her left, she refused to stop, her hands following her footsteps along the wall, her fingertips grinding into the crevices to support her until she reached the end of the alley.
With five steps left in the alley before the opening to the street, a figure jumped in front of her from the shadows.
“I be takin’ yer purse, ma’am.” His voice squeaking, a boy two heads shorter than her advanced at her with a blade flashing.
Dammit. She didn’t have time for this.
She stopped, pushing herself off the wall. Her stance went wide as she straightened her spine, her hands going to her hips. “Who do you run with boy?”
He halted, his arm lifting, the blade pointing at her, his voice pitching higher. “Yer, purse.”
“Know who you’re about to steal from, boy.” Her voice took on a hard edge. “Now who do you run with?”
He took another step toward her. Within striking distance now, if he was quick about it.
“The Nowheres Boys. Now yer purse. Don’t make me cut ye.”
Bridget stifled a sigh. The Nowheres Boys had haunted the edges of this street for quite some time, though they had never moved directly into the territory. “What’s your name, boy?”
“No name. Just yer purse.” The boy lunged at her.
Bridget jumped to the side, spinning, just avoiding his blade sinking into her upper arm. He was already swinging around, the blade flashing by the time she found footing.
Her hand flew down to catch his arm. Just before she reached him, his body lifted and flew through the air. Flew away from her. Flew and hit the wall.
A scream ripped through her throat and she spun to her right to see who had just sent the boy through the air. But she spun too fast and the movement sent a flood of stars into her eyes, her head fading into blackness.
When she opened her eyes Hunter was looking down at her, his face shrouded in shadows. But even in the darkness she could see fury lining his face—remnants of the warrior that had saved her in that Spanish countryside village years ago.
Her head snapped backward, almost stung by the ferocity emanating from him. Then she realized she wasn’t holding her own weight up. Hunter had his arm around her lower back, holding her upright.
Her hands flew up, pushing at his chest, her voice hissing in a whisper. “That—that was not necessary.” She flung the top of her head in the direction of the boy now crumpled in the muck of the alley. “Now I’ll have to stitch him together tomorrow.”
“The boy?” Hunter’s words were an equally harsh whisper as he started moving, half dragging, half carrying Bridget out of the alleyway. “He’ll show up at the hospital?”
“He will. He’s one of Bournestein’s boys.”
“Keep your head down. We need to get out of here.” They stepped out into the main thoroughfare and Hunter yanked her tighter to his
side, blending in along the edge of the busy street as he walked them with a casual swiftness that belied how fast he truly wanted to be walking.
Her toes only touched the ground every third step, as Hunter’s iron grasp around her waist told her exactly how much he needed to get her out of Bournestein’s domain. His fingertips jabbed into her belly, ripping the knife wound from earlier open even further. The searing jolt of pain made her yelp, her hand wedging up to push free of his grasp.
His fingers dug tighter into her side, his voice a deadly whisper. “Bournestein’s outside by his carriage. Don’t look up. Don’t shove.”
Bridget sucked in a wheezing breath and ducked her head, her chin knocking onto her breastbone. Every step sent a slicing pain across her side. Her eyes squinted shut as she tried to stem the wide circles her head was determined to spin into.
A quarter of a mile, five cross streets away, Hunter’s feet finally slowed, his grip around her back easing.
His support suddenly gone, her knees buckled the moment her feet were solid on the ground catching her own weight. She fell away from Hunter, clunking into the glass pane of a milliner’s shop.
“Bloody hell, Bridget.” His hands went to her shoulders, yanking her upright to face him.
The light from the lantern by the shop’s door lit his face. All three of his faces. Her eyes flickered from face to face, attempting to figure out which one she should be looking at. In all his faces, his dark eyes seared into her, concern evident.
“Bridget?”
“I have…I have to sit down…” She had to swallow three gulps of air before she could get further words out. “My side. Your fingers. It is not that dire. But…sit…”
His face disappeared, dipped out of her view. Just as well, her eyes didn’t want to stay open.
He popped back up into view, looking directly into her face before she could close her eyes. “Is that blood on your side, Bridget?”
She nodded, her head bobbing out of control as words tumbled from her lips. “A blade hit my side. Your fingers tore it. It is not that dire.”
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