by Laura Landon
“What did you say?”
The expression on his face was deadly. The tone of his voice was harsher than any tone she’d heard him use. She thought she should be afraid, but of course she wasn’t.
“How do you know they were hired to kill me?”
“Because they said so. They said they were paid to kill you and they wanted to get out of there before anyone recognized them. They didn’t want your friends coming after them.”
“My friends? Did they say who my friends were?”
Betsy shook her head. “But it sounded like they were afraid of your friends.” She paused. “As if they were dangerous.”
The man squeezed his eyes shut tight. “Maybe you would have been wiser to leave me on Old Nichol, Betsy. It’s possible I’m not a very nice man.”
Betsy was at a loss for words. Even more at a loss when he released her wrist and dropped his hand to his side. When she looked at him, he was watching her.
“Are you afraid of me, Betsy?”
She considered his words. Was she? Finally, she knew what her answer was. “No, I’m not afraid of you. I have no reason to be.”
“But—”
She held out her hand to stop his words. “You’re a good man, Harry.” She smiled. “Although Harry’s not your name. I know it’s not. I don’t know what kind of man you were before I found you, but the man I’ve come to know is kind, and brave, and intelligent, and…gentle. You’ve been nothing but a perfect gentleman.”
He smiled. “That’s because I’m not strong enough to do anything but lie here and allow you to wait on me.”
“Yes,” she said on a chuckle. “There is that.” She patted the top of his hand, and he turned his hand over so his palm met hers. He didn’t release her but linked his fingers with hers. Fiery flames of desire raged through her and she lowered her gaze to where their flesh met. She didn’t understand this. She didn’t understand anything that was happening to her. “We need to move you to the chair so you can eat lunch before it gets cold,” she said when she could speak.
He didn’t move, but looked her in the eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for everything. But especially for helping me when you had no reason to think I was good enough to save, and every reason to think I wasn’t.”
Betsy tried to lower her gaze, but couldn’t. She found it impossible to shift away from him. For that instant in time, she felt connected to him in a way she’d never been connected to anyone else in her life. Not even Phoebe.
For this one second in time, it was as if she understood someone more completely than she thought it was possible to understand anyone. And that they had discovered a part of her she didn’t even know was there. And that they liked what they found. That they liked her.
He kept hold of her hand and gently squeezed her fingers. She didn’t try to pull out of his grasp.
She didn’t want anything except to be connected to him.
. . .
Another week went by, and Harry continued to grow stronger. He was able to stand on his feet, and even take a few steps by himself. And Betsy continued to care for him, although Nick warned her that for propriety’s sake, it would be wise not to become overly friendly with him. They didn’t know anything about him, after all.
But Betsy knew all she needed to know. The man they still referred to as Harry was a perfect gentleman.
“I brought you a surprise,” she said, entering his room.
He sat on the edge of the bed as if he was waiting for her to help him walk to the chair. Or, as if he was getting ready to attempt the feat by himself.
She set the tray on the table by his chair near the window, and went back to him to help him to his feet.
He got up slowly, although with seemingly less pain than yesterday. His first step seemed steadier.
“Mrs. Beasley made a blueberry cobbler this morning and I’ve brought us each a piece. It’s still warm.”
“Wonderful,” he said with a brilliant smile on his face. “I love blueberry cobbler. Cora made it quite often because it’s my favorite. She made peach pie for Quinn, and—”
He stopped talking and clasped his hands to either side of his head.
“How do you know blueberries are your favorite?” she said, stepping in front of him. “Who is Cora? And who is Quinn?”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“What else do you remember, Harry?”
“Hugh’s favorite was Cora’s strawberry-filled pastries. And Roarke—” His eyes opened wide and his gaze locked with hers. “Who are these people, Betsy? I know what their favorite desserts are. Why the hell can’t I remember who they are?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, wrapping her arms around him.
He met her gesture by wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight. Suddenly, he clasped his fingers around her upper arms and held her away from him. “I remember going to Old Nichol Street, Betsy. I was looking for someone.”
“Do you remember who?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “But he wasn’t there. I remember—” He dropped one hand and slapped it against the pocket of the pants he wore. “Where’s my gun? Did I have a gun when you found me?”
Betsy shook her head. Talk of a gun scared her.
“Hold me, Betsy. Please, hold me.”
He pulled her against him and she wrapped her arms around him. She didn’t know what it must be like to remember things that didn’t make sense to you. To remember things that frightened you.
She held him close, and let him hold her tighter. Then, he inched back from her and looked at her. She lifted her head and their gazes met.
“Betsy?”
“Yes,” she whispered in answer to his question. And he brought his mouth down over hers and kissed her.
His kiss was more desperation than the tender meeting of two lovers. His demands were exacting, his wants ultimatums. There wasn’t as much passion in his kiss as agony. Not as much giving as relief from suffering. Not as much hunger as the preparation for battle. Except Betsy wasn’t sure who he was battling—except himself.
He deepened his kiss, searching, seeking, conquering. His mouth angled over hers, positioning himself to claim more of her. His tongue skimmed her lips, then sought entry.
She couldn’t deny him. She didn’t want to deny him. She was as hungry for his kisses as he was eager to offer them. She was as desperate to find a release from the emotions she’d kept under lock and key her whole life. She was as determined to experience what he had to offer.
The thoughts racing through her mind were as rash and impulsive as they were reckless. She knew in a few minutes she would regret her rash behavior, but right now she didn’t regret anything. Especially anything that involved the man holding her in his arms.
He kissed her again and she met his demands with demands of her own. Her hands skimmed up his chest, shoving the material of his shirt to the side so she could feel his warm flesh beneath her palms.
The movement of his hands mirrored hers, traveling over her ribcage, then up until his hand found her breast. He cupped her, then circled his thumb across the peak of her breast.
Betsy moaned as she arched her back. She’d never experienced such turmoil before. Never battled such desire, such desperate yearning. She’d never wanted to give herself to anyone like she wanted to give herself to this man she couldn’t even call by his real name.
A man she knew nothing about.
A man who could be a killer as easily as he could be a saint.
Betsy slowly softened her kisses, then turned her head to break their connection.
Their breathing was ragged and they each gasped for one breath after another. Betsy felt as if her lungs were on fire, and her heart raced as if she’d run from one end of London to the other.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I had no right.”
Betsy shook her head. “You have no more to apologize for than I do.”
He release
d her and turned to make his way to the chair beneath the window. Betsy grabbed his arm to help him. When he was seated, she poured a fresh glass of water and handed it to him.
“How did you and your brother decide when to go in search of your sister? Were the nights random? Did you choose the areas you searched by chance?”
Betsy picked up one plate of cobbler and handed it to him. “No, we only went in search of Phoebe when we got word that someone matching her description had been spotted.”
“Who did you get your information from?”
“A lad named Willie. We met him when we first began our search and he keeps his eyes open for anyone who resembles our sister.”
“I’d like to speak with this Willie,” the man said. “Would that be possible?”
Betsy nodded, then sat down and silently ate her blueberry cobbler. “Have you remembered anything else?” she finally asked.
“Nothing, except for one thing more.”
“What’s that?”
“My name’s not Harry.”
. . .
Betsy let Willie into the house, then led him to Nick’s study. Harry was waiting for him there, and Nick had stayed home from the tobacco shop to hear anything Willie might have to say. When they reached the door, Betsy rapped twice to let Harry and Nick know they were here, then opened the door and Willie walked in.
“Blarmy,” Willie whispered in awe. His eyes were wide as saucers and his jaw nearly touched his chest as he turned a slow circle in the center of the room. The expression on his face read as if he’d stepped into the pages of a fairytale book. “I ain’t never seen nothing so grand.”
Betsy couldn’t help but smile. She took his arm and led him to a chair near where Harry and Nick sat.
There was a plate with a half dozen different kinds of pastries on it. When Willie saw it, he licked his lips in appreciation.
Betsy picked up a plate and put one of each of Mrs. Beasley’s delicacies on it, then handed him the plate.
“Willie, you already know my brother, Mr. Thomas. I’d like to introduce you to a friend of ours. His name is Harry—”
Betsy glanced at Harry. She was at a loss. They hadn’t made up a last name for him.
“Smith,” Harry provided. “Harry Smith.”
“Glad ta meet ya, Harry,” Willie said with a mouthful of cake.
“My brother and I told Mr. Smith how knowledgeable you are about what transpires in London’s East End.”
“She means what goes on,” Nick explained when Willie’s face wrinkled in a confused look.
“Oh, yah,” Willie said. “I know everythun ’bout what goes on in there.”
“That’s why I’d like to talk to you, Willie,” Harry said. “I need some information.”
“What sorta information?”
“Several weeks ago, perhaps four or so, a man was beaten and left for dead on Old Nichol Street. Do you know anything about that?”
Willie slowly leaned forward and filled his plate with more pastries. He hesitated before he finally answered. “I may,” he said in a drawn out answer.
Nick reached in his pocket and handed Willie a coin. “Might this help you remember?”
A smile changed Willie’s features. “Don’t know what the bloke’s name was,” Willie said, “but if he ain’t already dead, he will be afore long.”
A rock seemed to drop to the pit of Betsy’s stomach. She felt as if all the blood had drained from her face. But when she looked at Harry, his features hadn’t changed at all.
He sat back in his chair. “Why do you say that, Willie?”
“’Cause half of London is scouring The Old Nichol for him.”
“Who’s half of London, Willie?”
“Some of the blokes I don’t know,” he answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “They’re not from these parts.”
“But you can find out?” Nick asked, handing him another coin.
“I’ll check around,” he said, stuffing the coin in his pocket.
“What about the men you know?” Harry asked. “Who are they?”
“They’re blokes you wanna stay away from, Harry. They’re Cutter’s men.”
“Who’s Cutter?” Harry asked.
Willie grinned. It wasn’t a smile, it was a grin. “You ain’t from this part of London, are you Mister?”
Harry shook his head.
“Didn’t think so. If you was, you wouldn’t have to ask that question.”
“Cutter’s that bad?” Harry asked.
Willie lifted the corners of his mouth again, only this time his expression couldn’t even be called a grin.
“All I can say is if that bloke Cutter’s men nearly killed awhile back ain’t already dead, he will be soon.”
CHAPTER 5
Harry lifted the curtain and looked out onto the empty street, then dropped the curtain and paced the room. His patience was at an end. He’d been waiting for over an hour now and Willie hadn’t shown up yet.
He paced back to the window, but turned when the door opened.
“A watched pot never boils,” Betsy said, carrying a tray into the room and setting it down on the table in front of the sofa.
“Willie said he’d be here this afternoon.”
Betsy laughed. “Except to Willie, afternoon means any time from when he gets up in the morning until when the sun goes down at night.”
Harry walked to the sofa where Betsy sat and took a place beside her. “How did you ever find him?”
“We didn’t. Willie found us.” She poured two cups of tea, then handed him one. “After Father died, Nick and I decided to continue searching for Phoebe. There was no routine to our searching. We started with the area surrounding Finsbury Square and worked our way east. One day, Willie knocked on our door and volunteered to help us.”
“How did he know who you were searching for?”
Betsy smiled. “Willie knows everything. He talked to everyone we’d talked to and found out what questions we’d asked. When he came here, he volunteered to keep an eye out for anyone matching Phoebe’s description and tell us when he spotted anyone who resembled her.”
“Weren’t you afraid he’d just take your money and never show up again?”
“Nick was, but Willie’s smarter than most lads who live on the streets. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t have survived this long. He might take our money once, but he knew he’d only get more if he came back. He also knew we wouldn’t pay if he sent us on a wild goose chase.”
Harry took a drink of the tea Betsy had poured for him, but he couldn’t eat any of the pastries. He felt as if a rock had settled in the pit of his stomach.
“Have you remembered anything more since yesterday?”
Harry shook his head. “Just a couple of names, and that Quinn likes peach pie, and Hugh strawberry pastries.”
“Don’t forget Cora,” Betsy reminded him.
“Yes, Cora.”
“Do you think she might be your wife?”
Harry’s breath caught. He hadn’t thought of that. He couldn’t imagine that he had a wife. He looked down at his finger.
“Not every man who is married wears a ring,” she said, reading his thoughts as if he’d said them out loud.
“I’m sure I’d know if I were married. I’m sure I’d remember having a wife.”
“And you’re sure you don’t?”
Harry raked his fingers through his hair. “How should I know? I can’t even remember my own name.”
Harry was ready to bolt from the sofa when Betsy placed her hand over his and squeezed his fingers. “I think if you had a wife, her name would be the first thing you remembered. I think her face would be a face you would never forget. I think if you had a wife you would love her so deeply it would be impossible to erase any thought of her from your mind.”
Harry reached out to Betsy and pulled her into his arms. “I know if you were my wife I would never forget your name, or your voice. Or your face. I remember the first time I saw you. It wa
s when I opened my eyes after you brought me here. I thought you were an angel. And you are. You are my angel.”
Harry lowered his head and touched his lips to hers. She was his angel. She’d rescued him from near death and nursed him to health. She stayed with him even though she didn’t know what kind of man he was. Even though she didn’t know if he was dangerous, or honest, or kind. If he was a saint, or a sinner.
He deepened his kiss to tell her how much he cared for her. To tell her without words that he loved her. How could he not love her? She’d saved him.
He wrapped his arms around her and nestled her against him. He let his hands rub lazy circles over her back, then spread his fingers along the nape of her neck. This woman he thought was an angel when he’d first opened his eyes was more than an angel. She was the woman he loved.
His tongue skimmed her lips, begging for entrance. Her lips parted and he delved inside her honeyed cavern, seeking his mate. When his tongue touched hers, a thousand fireworks exploded inside his head. He was overwhelmed with need. His desire for her raged inside him. His passion stormed as violently as a powerful tempest. He’d never felt this way about another woman. He knew he hadn’t. He’d remember if he had. Emotions this intense would be impossible to forget.
He kissed her again and again, then pulled away from her when the sound of voices in the hallway interrupted them.
She gasped as harshly as he did. She struggled to find the air to breathe as desperately as he did.
When Mrs. Beasley rapped on the door to announce that Willie had arrived, he forced himself to take the necessary steps to the window to give the impression of propriety.
“The young lad is here,” Mrs. Beasley announced. “Do you require more pastries?”
“Yes, Mrs. Beasley,” Betsy answered. “Please.”
Mrs. Beasley showed Willie in, then left. When she was gone, Harry wondered if Betsy’s voice sounded as husky to Mrs. Beasley’s ears as it did to his, but decided not to dwell on that question.
“Willie,” he said. “Come in. Sit down.”
Willie entered the room. The expression on his face contained as much awe of his surroundings as it had the first time he’d encountered it.
