She made good progress for a minute or so. Miranda gritted out a strong oath when the light from behind her was cut off abruptly, rendering the noisome alley even more murky than it had been a moment before.
At first she thought a light had been extinguished from an upper window, a shutter closed. She slipped upon something which squelched most foully and emitted a breath-stopping stench. Only when she heard the click of a booted heel did she realise she was not alone.
There was something about the movement and posture of the man behind her that put her instantly on the alert. Menacing, furtive...
Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze in the dim light which filtered down the alley from the street ahead of her. Or perhaps it was the heavy soughing of his breath as he bore down upon her.
Whatever it was, Miranda gathered her cloak more tightly about her slender frame and tried to run. But it was already too late. Her legs tangled in her skirts and she slipped on the unspeakable ordure underfoot. Then he was upon her, and lifted her almost out of her shoes.
Too late Miranda wished she had paid more attention to her sister’s and friends’ lessons in self-defense. She knew her best chance was to grab the man’s jewels, yank hard and twist. Her assailant knew it too—he locked his hands around both wrists and was trying to trap them behind her back.
She struggled for a moment longer, but Miranda could sense at once it was no use. If anything it was only exciting the man all the more, for she could feel a foreign object pressing into her belly as he rubbed up and down her. The stench of his breath was enough to knock her on the flat of her back.
This wild thought gave her an idea. She pretended to sag in her captor’s arms.
At last he loosened his crushing grip. As soon as he did so Miranda seized her chance, bucking wildly and kneeing him in the thigh. She had of course been aiming for his groin, but she had wounded him sufficiently to incur his ire as well as his lust.
He smashed her up against the dank wall with such force she could feel the brick crumble. He snatched her unbound dark hair and began to throttle her. She could feel her whole world growing fuzzy around the edges, the darkness inexorably closing in....
The fiend was about to crack her head against the wall again to render her completely unconscious when she heard a shout. It sounded as though it were a long way away. She clawed for air, shredding his wrist with desperate nails and then hanging onto his arm to steady herself as he cursed at the pain and shook her like a rag doll.
The next words she heard were rapped out savagely. "Let her go, now!"
The man growled and snarled like a wild animal. "Oh, go on, now, guv’nor. Ye seen ‘er in The New Rose. Fairly gaggin’ for it, so she was. Ye hold her for me, I’ll hold ‘er for ye."
"Ye ain’t gonna be holdin’ nuttin if I break both yer bloody arms off. Leave go of ‘er now!"
Her attacker was tugging her hair so hard Miranda could feel her head swimming. Now the man grabbed her dress and rent it straight down the front almost to the top of her thighs.
"Bleedin’ shame to not taste a bit of these," the man said, releasing her arms as the overwhelming temptation of her breasts blinded him to the genuine threat of the other man.
A huge fist shot out in an instant, felling him like a tree. She found her bare hand clasped firmly, intimately, and then she was running behind the huge dark-haired man as the sound of pounding boots began to echo behind them.
"His friends are on the way. My place is just around the corner and up a bit. Run like the clappers, lass."
Miranda could scarcely breathe, and was conscious with every jouncing step she took of her bare bosom jiggling in front of anyone who might chance to come along.
"Bugger the maidenly modesty, love. If they catch us you’re gonna lose that luxury right quick."
Lungs bursting, stomach heaving, head spinning, she grabbed the remnants of the gown and chemise in her one free hand, and charged on after her saviour.
A pile of manure near the corner nearly provide her undoing. Her flat pair of evening pumps skidded three inches in the excrement. She could feel herself falling and let go of her gown as she twisted to try to break her fall.
Quick as lightning, the tall man spun and caught her under her arms to steady her, brushing the side of one bared breast as he did so. She didn’t know whether to thank or slap him. But she could see from his surprised expression and frown that it had not been intentional.
"Did you hurt your ankle?"
She shook her head.
He stared down at her, his dark eyes inscrutable, apparently trying to make his mind up about something. The sound of footsteps pounding behind them caused her to almost panic. Her companion reassured her, "It’s all right. Trust me."
Before she could say aye or nay, he unceremoniously flung her over his shoulder. She suppressed an indignant exclamation as his first step jolted the air from her. Now she was hanging upside down along the length of his huge back, the top of her head almost level with his waist, her hair dangling down to his knees as he charged on.
He ran with the ease and grace of a gazelle, never faltering. It was as if she were no heavier than a gnat as he plunged on through one alley after another. Miranda wanted to scream her outrage, demand he put her down, if only because if she had lost her bearings before, she truly had no idea where she was now as she dangled like a Christmas goose.
On the other hand, he had helped her, and if she was not mistaken, from the brief look they had shared when she had slipped in the dung, he was the same man she had taken to be the stage manager of the theatre. That did not guarantee respectability at all, but at least she had not been ravaged, yet.
For he suddenly plunged into a doorway, turned a key quickly, slammed the door and locked it. Moving all the way through three shadowy rooms to a pitch black chamber at the end of a hall, she felt him bend and she was laid flat down onto a soft surface she guessed to be a bed.
She struggled to sit up and clear the hair from her eyes. The man was over by the window making sure the shutters were locked. He listened for a moment, and at length seemed satisfied that all was well. At last he lit the tinderbox and a candlewick sprang to life.
Then he looked at Miranda openly, his dark eyes almost black in the dim room. A myriad of expressions, angry, curious and relieved by turns, so far as she could tell, crossed his handsome features.
One tiny downward flicker of his gaze had her dragging her knees up to her chest to cover herself. He let out a low growl and handed her a clean shirt and then proceeded to root around in a large pile of clothes.
"I haven’t had a chance to sort through all these new costumes, but I’m going to assume since these ones here came from a wealthy friend that she doesn’t have fleas or crabs. Put that shirt on for the moment, and then come take what you like."
He began to pull the men’s clothing out and inspected and folded them neatly. After a time she lost her nervousness around him, and with the shirt covering her, she came to stand by his side.
"Some of these are very fine," she said in surprise, running her finger along one plum colored velvet. She winced at the pain in her throat where the man had grabbed her.
He shrugged one shoulder and continued with his work. "It’s how most theatres survive. Begging or borrowing clothes from the wealthier sort. My friends are kind enough to do a collection of old clothes and baubles for props and so on every month. You’re welcome to take anything here if you need it. If you have a friend or two suffering as well, you can take something for them too. All I ask is you help someone in a tight spot one day yourself, if they ever ask."
"Thank you. It’s most generous of you," she whispered, causing her throat to throb anew.
She tried not to stare at him in shock. Here was a very progressive and civilised man, completely at odds with the furious savage she had seen in the alley. Well, not savage, she amended, but he had defended her most vigorously with that one punch. His accent had certainly changed as well since
he had confronted her assailant in the alley.
Miranda tentatively searched through the gowns and selected a navy wool dress which looked as though it would fit. She turned her back as she pulled it over her head. Sadly, it was not an ideal choice, for it fastened up the back, and she sighed and began to return it to the pile with a shake of her head.
"Here, let me help," he said, understanding her predicament at once.
He began to do up the buttons with a deftness she found excruciatingly irritating. It was like he knew everything there was to know about dressing and undressing a woman. But why that should annoy her she had no idea.
She started as he raised her heavy fall of deep chestnut hair out of the way, draping it over one shoulder before proceeding to finish the task.
"Not a bad fit, though a bit tight at the top," he said with a long look.
Before she could reproach him for staring at her and making so personal a remark, he pressed his hair brush into her hand and stepped out of the way of the mirror.
She was startled by the intimacy. How did he know she was not verminous? Sharing one’s comb or brush was usually unheard of, at the very least seen by the superstitious as inviting bad luck.
She studied him silently out of the corner of her eye as she pulled the portion of hair that had not escaped out of the remaining coil of tangled ribbons and tried to bind it all up again neatly once more.
Her first impression, that he was huge, had not been erroneous. He had to be close to a foot taller than her own height of five foot six, which was itself unusual for a woman.
He was dressed in a plain dark suit, good quality, but nondescript. Apart from the height, one might never notice him, he comported himself with such an unassuming air.
Well, a blind person might not notice, she amended, for she had been correct about her second impression as well. He was easily the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on, bar none. And she had been introduced around at enough London balls and soirees by her aunt Lady Pemberton since she had arrived in Town to say that she had met her fair share of swains in her time.
Whilst not a connoisseur of men like Georgina, she knew her rescuer was a rare one, a fabulously attractive combination of classical features and awesome strength.
His movements were spare, economical, as he busied himself with a small decanter and two glasses sitting on the table near his desk. There was a goodly assortment of books and papers upon it as well, and a small bookshelf in one corner. She noted every book looked as though it had been read many times, for the spines were cracked, their gilt coming off. Not exactly the room of a lower-class person, she had to admit.
She told herself not to jump to conclusions. Just because he lived in a squalid part of town and worked at the theatre did not mean he was a barbarian. Yet the less time she spent alone with him the better, she was sure.
"Here. For your throat."
She took the brandy with a grateful smile and sipped. It burned, but left a soothing numbness behind. She noted the good quality of the liquor and once again found herself impressed despite herself.
"Do you live around here?" he asked suddenly. "I’ve not seen you before."
She frowned at the question. Surely he couldn’t know every single person who came into his theatre....
She shook head head. "No, so if you will please be so kind as to—" Her face blenched.
"What, what is it?"
"My reticule. He took it!" she wheezed.
"You should be glad that was the only purse he ended up seizing, Miss," he said in a forthright manner designed to frighten her.
He approached her now, towering over her, large with menace, again, just as he intended. He was surprised when she didn’t cower or back away.
In fact, her sweet warmth was so tempting he had to lock his knees so as not to close the distance between them. He had touched quite enough of her for one night, he thought, recalling her exquisite breasts pressed to his chest, her curvaceous waist and hips, her soft belly just made for cushioning a man between her gently plumped thighs...
"Drink up and we'll get you settled for the night, then," he said, his voice raspy as a file with steely desire. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to melt with this beauty. He could feel the red hot brand of desire scorching his loins, and twisted the lower half of his body almost awkwardly to keep his response from her view. Once a woman knew she was desired, it gave her power. And the one thing he could never do was yield it. It was the only way he had stayed alive for so many years.
She stiffened and shook her head, her eyes widening in alarm.
"Please do come sit down, in this desk chair here, or the bed if you’re really exhausted. The brandy will warm you, then we shall put you up for the night—"
"I couldn’t possibly stay here—"
"At The Three Bells down the road," he finished as though she had not spoken.
"But I need to go to—"
"It’s late, you’ve had a fright, you’ve just admitted you’ve fallen victim to a cutpurse as well as despoiler of women, and you look all in. As well you might be. Let’s agree not to argue about this. I’m rather tired too. This play run is coming to an end, and we start Antony and Cleopatra in two days’ time. I need some sleep. I’ll take you over to The Three Bells and get you a room.
"Then I’m coming back here to turn in, to be in time for more rehearsals in the morning. So as much as I’ve adored your scintillating company, I need my rest."
His tone was irritatingly neutral, the accent more fine than she might have expected. It was a voice which would not have been out of place had she heard it at her aunt’s. But did he have to be so, so damned emotionless?
She threw back the rest of her brandy with a brio she didn’t feel. "In that case, thank you so much. I’m very sorry to have taken up so much of your valuable time."
"No need to apologise. I’m sorry if I seem rude. It’s just that time is pressing on, and I’m afraid I’m always a busy man. Someone can bring you over to the theatre in the morning and we can talk then."
"Talk?" she echoed in confusion. She could scarcely grasp how refined his accent had become, let alone the words.
"Yes," he said simply.
"I’m not sure—"
"What’s your name?" he asked suddenly.
She started. But there was no point in lying. He had no way of knowing anyone in her world. "Miranda Lyons. And may I ask the name of my rescuer?" she inquired when he continued to stare at her in silence, looking as though he were trying to place a mildly familiar but not recently seen face.
"George Davenent, of course. Owner of The New Rose. You saw me looking at you from behind the curtain. Damned if there wasn’t more of a show in the pit than on the stage tonight. It was abysmal."
She gaped. This was the dangerous criminal half of London was meant to be living in terror of?
Miranda stammered, "I-I-I’m sorry. I never meant to disrupt—"
"I rather guessed. That was part of the trouble. The more you slapped them away the more they came on. But just for future reference, my dear, don’t ever flash your oranges unless you want them squeezed."
CHAPTER TWO
Miranda gasped and coloured to the roots of her hair. She tried to find a sensible and stinging retort, but he was already striding out the door. The proximity to his bed of the gorgeous girl who had been bare only moments before was so incredibly tempting he was sure he was going to explode.
It had been a long time, it was true, just about three years since he had had a lover. Even when he had last slaked his baser needs, it had never been with anyone as spectacular as this. Her every movement, line and curve seemed designed to inflame the passions.
But if he was very much mistaken, the girl had not yet even begun to grasp her power. She was still very young, not even twenty, he was sure. She was staring into his eyes as candidly and trustingly as a child, seemingly unaware of the intimacy of such a gesture. Or the fact that the midnight blue orbs were like a velvet ca
ress on his hard cheek.
"Come, time to get you that room at The Three Bells."
As he waited for her to join him by the front door, Geroge found himself trying to recall the last time someone had touched him for no reason other than that it was an affectionate, warm and human thing to do.
Now she came up behind him and startled him by taking his elbow, hugging it briefly to the valley between her exquisite peaks.
"I said, thank you, Mr. Davenant. I’ve acted very foolishly this night and was most fortunate that you happened along when you did."
He nodded curtly, and would have withdrawn his arm had he not looked down in the dim candlelight and seen that her thin shoes were really not suited to the ground underfoot, strewn as it was with filth. Dung and rotting cabbage leaves were probably the least unsavoury things she would be stepping in. The last thing she needed was a sprained ankle or knee. So he allowed her to retain her grip on his arm, telling himself he was only being practical.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 6 Page 39
