He seemed not at all surprised to find she carried a weapon.
“Why not a pistol?” he asked.
“I would need to learn to shoot it with accuracy, and such knowledge comes only with a great deal of practice.”
“Ah.” He handed the stick back to her, and she sucked in a breath as their fingers touched, hers gloved, his bare. Even through the wool of her gloves she felt the warmth of his skin. She frowned, stared at his naked hands. They should be cold, not warm.
“Why not a knife, then?” he asked.
Her head jerked up and she studied his face, wondering at this odd conversation they were having in the middle of Coptic Street on a sharp, frigid night. She could see that he asked the question out of genuine interest, that he expected a reply. “I am small. My assailant might be large. It would be too easy for him to twist a knife from my hand and turn it upon me.”
“Ah,” he said again, and his straight brows rose above the limits of his spectacles. “But you feel confident to wield your stick?”
“Confident enough. No one would expect me to have it, and I have a good chance at landing a solid blow to the underside of the chin or across his shins before an attacker could know my intent.” Her landlady, Mrs. Cowden, had kindly shown her the way of it the day after Sarah moved in.
He was startled by her words. She could read that in the slight stiffening of his form and the way his brows rose even higher.
“Wise and brave,” he murmured, and she knew then that he was not only startled, but impressed.
She felt uncharacteristically unnerved by that. Yet also warmed by it, and pleased.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, aware that her responses to him were neither logical nor appropriate.
His smile widened. White teeth. An attractive smile that was somehow less than reassuring. “Waiting. For you.”
“Why?”
The wind picked up, snatching at her cloak, her hair, making her shudder. Mr. Thayne took note of that and glanced about, his attention turning to the lodging house. “You are cold. Perhaps we might take this conversation inside to the parlor. You will be more comfortable.”
She laughed at that, though she noticed that he made no mention of his own discomfort in the chilly night. “The parlor?” Oh, that he thought she lived in such a fine place—the expectation of a parlor—was both funny and sad. “On the ground floor are the kitchen and the dining room and the landlady’s rooms. The first and second floors are all to let. There is no parlor.”
Reaching up, he drew off his spectacles, and she was struck again by the beauty of his eyes, pale against the thick sweep of dark gold lashes.
“Then we may take this conversation to the room you rent.”
“I take a very small room from Mrs. Cowden,” she demurred, struck by the image of him, tall and masculine, filling the tiny space of her chamber. Standing beside her narrow bed. The thought made her breath catch. “There is not even a sitting room. I cannot have you come in at this hour of the night, Mr. Thayne.”
“Killian,” he murmured absently, his gaze sliding to the front of the house. The brick was dirty and the yard ill kept. Mrs. Cowden was anything but house proud, her fondness for gin overtaking her fondness for anything else, save money.
Sarah felt absurdly unveiled to have him study the house with such careful regard.
“You must call me Killian.”
Killian. She dared not say his name, lest he read her secret longings in the way her lips shaped and caressed the syllables.
“I am going inside now, where it is warm”—an untruth, for though it would be sweltering hot next to the kitchen fire, the remainder of the house was bound to be little warmer than the brutal climes she was subject to outdoors—“and where I hope Mrs. Cowden has kept a plate for me. Whatever you wished to discuss will have to wait for the morrow. At the hospital.” She frowned. “How did you find me?”
Again, he looked to the street, his gaze alert. The focused intensity of his perusal was enough to stoke the embers of her unease.
“Does it matter?” He returned his gaze to hers. “I am here now.”
It did matter, but she knew enough of men and their ways to understand he would offer nothing further. To understand, too, that his alert posture and the way he positioned himself between her and the street meant that he yet felt the threat of whoever—whatever—had followed her.
Deciding that she was destined to lose any further argument, she turned and led the way to the front door. Modesty, propriety, her good name…she might have presented any of those as reasons he must not come inside. But, in truth, what was the point? The other lodgers in the house on Coptic Street would have no care if she brought a man to her room. She knew for certain that one of the girls did exactly that on a regular basis and slipped Mrs. Cowden an extra shilling each week so that she would turn a blind eye.
Pausing at the door, she looked back at him over her shoulder. Killian. He bid her call him Killian, as she had a thousand times in her dreams.
“You are safe with me, Sarah.”
No, she did not think so.
But she knew he meant to reassure her that he was not the one who had chased her through the alleys, and that she thought was the truth. “You have no hat.”
His eyes narrowed slightly at her observation. “Does the lack offend?”
Sarah made a soft, chuffing laugh that hung in the air with a nervous aftertone. “Taking offense at some nicety of fashion is a luxury I have no use for.” She pressed her lips together. “It was only an observation.”
“Because your pursuer wore a hat, and you want to be certain that I am not he.”
“No, I—” At his cool, assessing look, she shook her head. “Yes.”
“I am not he. Had I chosen to hunt you, Sarah, you would not have known I was there.” He paused, his lips curving in a dark smile. “And I would have caught you.”
Yes, she believed that, and it gave her a twisted sort of comfort to know it.
Had I chosen to hunt you. An odd turn of phrase. A chill crawled up her spine, one that had nothing to do with the wind or the cold.
Seeking to alleviate the fraught tension of the moment, she said, “I shall be lucky if Mrs. Cowden kept a plate for me this evening, but if she did, I will be glad to share my meal with you.”
At her words, some indecipherable emotion flickered in Killian’s eyes. “Your offer is most kind, but I have…already dined.”
The slight hesitation did not go unnoticed, and she wondered what his words masked. After a moment, she sighed and turned back to unlock the door.
She led him inside. The hallway was dark, musty, the paint yellowed and flaking, the floor a tiled geometric pattern of gray and black. Sarah thought that once, many years ago, the pattern might have been white and black, but layers of accumulated grime had altered the shade. The hallway was so cramped that they could not stand side by side, and Sarah went in first with Killian close behind.
Turning back, she was confronted by his cloak-draped form, so broad and tall. He unnerved her. Drew her. Appealed to her on some level she could not explain.
Suddenly, she felt glad that she was not alone.
No, more than that, glad that he was here. It was a dangerous and inappropriate gladness that bubbled and danced inside her like the effervescent spring water her father had insisted was good for the health. Killian’s presence made her feel safe. How long since she had felt that way?
Hoping that her expression betrayed none of her inappropriate thoughts, she reached around him to draw the door closed, an action that brought them far closer together than they ought to be. He was so warm, the heat coming from him beckoning to her. She did not understand how he could be. It was bitingly cold outside, and he had been in the wind just the same as she.
He was looking down at her. She sensed that, but dared not raise her gaze to his.
Stepping back, she undid the fastening of her cloak, but did not draw the garment off. The ha
llway was barely warmer than it was outdoors, and she was loath to forfeit whatever heat the cloak offered.
Directly ahead lay the rickety staircase with the faulty third stair, the one with the poorly nailed board that would pop up and bang the unwary person sharply on the ankle bone if he were not careful. She knew that now, and she knew to be careful. There was room enough for one person to go up or down, but not enough for two to pass. She had learned to pause at the top or bottom and call out to see if someone was coming in the opposite direction before she began her ascent or descent.
There was no light coming from the dining room, and none showed under the crack of the door that led to Mrs. Cowden’s chamber. Sarah was glad of that, for it meant there was none about to beg explanation for Mr. Thayne’s inexplicable presence here.
“I will be but a moment,” Sarah said, and hurried beyond the stairs to the small kitchen at the back of the house. No candles were lit, but the hearth held a faltering flame, and Sarah moved close to warm her hands. Closing her eyes, she let the heat sink through her.
He made no sound, but she knew he had followed. Stepping to the side, she glanced at him over her shoulder. The glow of the dying embers danced over his features, painting him gold and bronze and more beautiful than any man had a right to be.
“Here,” she said, beckoning him closer. “There’s room enough for both of us. The night is so cold, you must be frozen clear through.”
“No.” He made a small smile, looking handsomer still because of it. “I am not cold.”
“Oh, how can you not be? The wind cuts right through a person.”
“I do not notice such things. Not the cold in winter or the heat in summer.”
“You are an adaptable fellow.”
“That is one way to describe it.” He glanced about the tiny kitchen, his gaze lingering on the covered plate set on one side of the small table. “You must be hungry.”
She shook her head. She wasn’t. The fright of earlier in the evening had left her insides shaking still, but she would take the plate up with her and eat a bit later.
“Where are your rooms?” he asked.
“Rooms?” she echoed, and made a humorless laugh. “Only one, I’m afraid. But it suits well enough. I’m on the second floor.”
She took the plate and led the way from the warm kitchen back into the frigid hallway, up the stairs to the landing on the first floor, then up another flight to the second.
“How many rooms up here?” Killian asked, his voice hushed, the sound incredibly appealing.
“Three. And three on the floor below.” She unlocked the door of her chamber and pushed it open. “I have the smallest of these. ’Twas the frugal choice.” Why had she said that? It sounded small and petty.
Setting the plate on the little tulip table in the corner near the door, she then took up a lucifer match, struck it to the sandpaper, and lit the stub of tallow candle that sat in the small porcelain dish, one of the few possessions she had salvaged from the shattered remnants of her old life.
The flame flickered and danced, barely denting the darkness. She turned to face Killian Thayne, who filled the doorway like a shadow.
What to do now? Invite him inside? There seemed no help for it, but she felt so odd to be in this situation, to have him here in this dim and crowded room. He had been here before, but only in her mind, her dreams, her fantasies.
The reality of him was overwhelming.
“Come in,” she said, suddenly incredibly weary.
He did as she bid, stepping inside and pulling the door shut behind him. He filled the space, so tall, so broad. His eyes locked on hers, glittering in the dancing candlelight, and her heart beat so hard, she thought it might fly apart. She dropped her gaze and toyed with the remnants of the match; she could not look at him, did not dare to look at him, for so many twined and knitted reasons.
“You are cold,” Killian observed, stepping closer, and before she could protest he had his cloak off his own shoulders and over hers, still warm from the heat of his body, smelling faintly of citrus and man.
His action highlighted exactly the reasons she admired him so. Because he would do something like that for her. Because he offered so many quiet kindnesses to so many people. She saw it time and again on the ward with patients, and even with staff. Though his tone was usually cool and analytical, his treatment choices unaffected by emotion, there were small things he did that showed the warmth beneath his icy facade.
She knew he had given Mrs. Bayley warm coats for her two growing sons, saying they no longer appealed to him, though they were brand-new and never worn and far too small to ever fit on his broad-shouldered frame. And she had seen him slip coins in the night nurse’s apron while she slept, a shilling or two, enough to buy shrimps and tea and butter.
He was a cold, cold man with a flame inside him that he hid behind a heavy screen.
She stood staring up at him, feeling foolish and overwhelmed and so grateful for this small kindness. Tears pricked her eyes and that made her angry. She had no place in her life for self-pity, and after crying for three days straight when she found out her father was dead, she had thought herself moved past such a childish waste of time.
“Tell me why you came here tonight,” she said, pushing aside her maudlin thoughts and pitching her voice low so as not to carry through the thin walls.
“Let us sit, Sarah.” So reasonable. So calm.
His words made her anxious. Sit where? On the low bed? Uneasy, she cast a glance exactly there, and for a moment, she could not understand what it was she saw on her pillow.
Then she did understand and fear curdled in her belly.
On her pillow was a small box of chocolates tied with a bow and beside it, a length of lavender ribbon.
She gasped and stumbled back, the very familiarity of those things making them all the more sinister.
Someone had been here. In her room. Someone had left these unwelcome gifts.
Distress ramped through her, closing a tight fist about her heart.
“What is it?” Killian asked sharply, drawing near. “You’ve gone white as the belly of a dead fish.”
Sarah’s gaze jerked to his, and she could not help the startled chuff of laughter evoked by his words, despite the unease that gnawed at her.
“An appealing image.” Dead fish. She shuddered, thinking of her father, his body never fished from the Thames. Never found.
The shudders would not stop, though she willed them to.
Killian closed his hands about her upper arms, and he held her, just held her. She wished he would draw her closer, not just clasp her arms, but clasp her body tight against his own.
Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she pondered what to say. Her thoughts and suspicions burbled like a witch’s brew, noxious and vile. It was possible that Killian had brought the box and the ribbon, but if he had, why not simply hand them to her? Why sneak into her chamber and leave them on her bed, then sneak back outside to await her arrival?
And if he hadn’t…then how had they gotten here? Who were they from?
“My father used to bring me candy and ribbons sometimes, before he…became ill.”
Killian’s gaze flicked to her pillow, then back. “Ill?”
Her chin kicked up a notch. “He became addicted to opium. By the end, he clung to the shadows and eschewed the light. Sunlight made him cry out in pain. Lamplight made him wince. He took no food, and his complexion took on a terrible grayish cast.” There had been no more money, for he had been too ill himself to see patients. He had spent his days abed in a darkened room, and his nights prowling the streets, or perhaps in opium dens. One night, he had fallen in the river and drowned. More than ten witnesses had seen it, and though she had no body to bury and mourn, she had their testimony, the gruesome truth of it.
“My father is dead,” she continued, “so he could not have set those things on my pillow.” She turned her head and looked back toward the ribbon and chocolate, the memory
of the man who had followed her terrifyingly clear. An icy chill slithered through her. “Someone was here, in my chamber. But I locked the door when I left and it was locked still when I returned.”
“Perhaps the landlady…” Killian offered the suggestion, but his tone implied that he himself did not lend it credence.
She shook her head. “She turns a blind eye to quite a bit, but she is not so unscrupulous as to let a stranger in my room. No, he came in by some other means.”
She realized then that he yet held her, his strong fingers clasped around her arms, and she had to battle the urge to lean in against him, to rest her cheek against his chest and let the sound of his heartbeat ease her worries. Instead, she forced herself to step away from him. The backs of her legs brushed the spindly chair in the corner as his hands dropped away. She sank down and stared up at him, her thoughts a muddle of wary confusion.
There was no sense in any of this. Not in the pursuer who dogged her every step. Not in the gifts left on her pillow. And not in the attention shown her by Killian Thayne.
She yet had no idea why he was here.
“I think you should go,” she said, and lifted up enough to drag his cloak from about her and hold it out in offering before sinking onto the seat once more. His brows drew together as he took the cloak from her and draped it over his forearm.
“That request poses a slight problem.” His hard mouth curved up a little. “I am afraid that my damnably chivalrous nature precludes my leaving you here alone tonight.”
For an instant she made no reply, her thoughts spinning through a thousand remembered dreams where he had been in this room with her, his lips on hers. She took a slow breath and forced herself to speak. “What are you suggesting?”
“Ah, there is the question. I can remain here with you—”
“You cannot—” She shook her head from side to side.
“—or you may accompany me to my home—”
“I cannot—”
“—and I beg you to cease interrupting my every word.”
Nature of the Beast Page 24
