And yet everything had changed.
Flynn reached out and pushed a piece of heavy brown hair from her face, seeing her for the first time. She would never be considered pretty by the most conventional of standards, and it was why her disguise had been effective. She had a jaw that was too strong, cheeks that were too sharp, and brows that fell short of elegant. She didn’t have long sweeping lashes or a pert nose or a Cupid’s bow mouth. Perhaps, in the right clothing and the right accessories, she might be considered handsome, but her height and the span of her shoulders had probably intimidated more than one man. A warrior, he thought, his chest tightening in an unfamiliar way. His warrior. One who hadn’t run. One who had defended him. One who had defied him and fought.
One who would answer a great many questions for him when she woke up.
But a warrior who was still vulnerable and bleeding.
Flynn forced himself to shove all other thoughts from his mind for the time being. He ignored the wide strip of blood-smeared linen that bound her small but unmistakable breasts and examined the cut on the top of her shoulder. It didn’t look as deep as he had feared, the bulky coat taking the worst of the blade, but it was long and would require stitches. He balled up her ruined shirt and pressed the linen against the wound, winding her scarf under her arm and over her shoulder to keep it in place.
And went to fetch his kit.
Chapter 8
Charlotte was on fire.
No, that wasn’t entirely true—her shoulder was on fire while the rest of her was strangely chilled. Amid the merciless throbbing, she struggled to open her eyes as her mind fought to make sense of where she was. She was lying flat on her back, staring up at familiar rough-hewn rafters.
She was back in her room in the studio. How did—
It came back to her in a rush that made her flinch and surge upward.
Except she didn’t get anywhere because two hands were pushing her back down with an uncompromising strength. “Don’t move,” a voice growled in her ear. “I’m not quite done.”
A wave of realizations rolled over Charlotte, each worse than the last. She had been in a bloody street brawl. At some point in time, she must have fainted, because she didn’t remember the journey back here. She was naked from the waist up, save for the bindings around her breasts. Flynn Rutledge was seated beside her, doing something to her shoulder that felt like he was applying a branding iron.
And there was no way in hell that anyone in this room believed that she was a he any longer.
“What are you doing?” she mumbled, while shoring up her defenses and her arguments because she was going to need them all.
“Stitching.” His voice was grim. “And I’d be obliged if you refrained from moving again. This will sting.”
It was all he said in warning before she had the vague impression of something cold hitting her skin, followed by a searing pain that left her gasping. She turned her head away from the overwhelming stench of whiskey, telling herself that was making her eyes water.
“You should have run when you had the chance,” Rutledge said impassively from beside her, leaving Charlotte to guess what he was thinking. “When I told you to.”
“And I told you I wasn’t leaving you,” she gritted. Even though it had become abundantly clear that Flynn Rutledge had been telling the truth when he had said that he could handle himself.
“You could have been killed,” he said.
“I wasn’t.” Her teeth clenched. “Though I hate that I fainted.”
“Shock,” Rutledge said, bending over her shoulder again. “And you bled like a stuck pig.”
“If I had to do it again, I still wouldn’t run.” That was the truth, and for some reason, she needed this man to know it, even though that decision may have cost her everything. But the passive Charlotte who had allowed others to steer the course of her life for far too long had been left behind in London. The Charlotte who had bargained with a terrifying man named King, trusted a baron she didn’t know, and struck out on her own would not apologize for her actions now. Whatever happened from here on out, she would, at the very least, have a voice.
She listened to Rutledge’s steady breathing as he worked. “Tell me your name,” he said finally.
She felt a tug at her shoulder, and fire erupted anew. “Charlotte,” she said through clenched teeth. “Beaumont.”
“Charlotte,” he repeated, and despite the throbbing at her shoulder, a shiver ran through her at the intimacy of her name on his lips.
Rutledge abruptly straightened and drew a sheet over her bound chest. If she thought his use of her name was intimate, this should have been beyond the pale, being exposed as she was. But somehow, this new Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to muster the appropriate horror.
This Charlotte had acted on instinct in a deserted lane, even though she had been terrified. This Charlotte hadn’t run away. In fact, she’d fought back—had splinters in her fingers and burning, aching stitches to prove it—and that had left her with a rash confidence of the sort she had never before experienced.
“I’m done.” She heard Rutledge’s boots move across the floor, and she still couldn’t tell if he was furious or not that she had deceived him.
Charlotte tucked her chin and craned her head to see a neat row of stitches marching across the top of her shoulder. “Thank you,” she said slowly.
“Don’t touch it. It will be sore for a while. And then it will itch like hell. The stitches can come out in maybe ten days, so long as it heals properly.”
“How do you know how to do this?” she asked.
He had his back to her, and she could hear the sounds of water in the basin as he washed his hands. At her question, his movements ceased before they resumed again, unhurried. He dried his hands on a rag and finally turned, his eyes the color of storm clouds. He bent and plucked a bottle of whiskey from the floor next to her bed and dragged the chair he’d just occupied toward himself. He sat, crossing his booted foot over his knee, and brought the whiskey to his lips.
“I know how to do this because I grew up in a part of London where a soul might slit the throat of another for the chance to survive another day,” he said when he lowered the bottle. “A part of London my mother left every evening so that she could sell herself to wealthy men who preferred not to stray so far into the rookeries. Doctors didn’t like that part of London either. Necessity is a powerful motivator.” He took another swig of whiskey. “Your turn for a truth, Charlie.”
Charlotte forced her features to remain neutral, unsure if he was testing her or trusting her with that sudden confession. “As a woman and an artist, the opportunities beyond tepid watercolors are somewhat lacking. I did what I had to do to obtain this commission,” she said evenly. “Necessity is a powerful motivator.”
Rutledge dropped his gaze, studying the bottle in his hands. He tapped his fingers on the glass; his forehead creased. “Does Lisbon know? That you are a woman?”
“Yes.” There was no reason to lie. Rutledge could ask Lisbon himself. “I’m not the first he’s hired.”
Rutledge seemed to absorb that. “And you didn’t think you could trust me with the truth?”
“I didn’t know you.”
“You know me now.”
“I do. And I can tell that you’re angry.” She couldn’t say she blamed him.
His answer was slow to come. “I was,” he said eventually.
Charlotte frowned. “But you’re not anymore?”
“You lied to me.” He said it more as a statement than an accusation.
“I never lied to you,” she replied haltingly. “Everything I told you was true. Except my name. That wasn’t the whole truth.” And it still isn’t, a small voice in the back of her mind accused. You haven’t yet told him that you’re a lady. Though given how he felt about titled women, she was not about to mention it now and make this worse. That truth would keep for a bit longer.
“It’s the same thing,” he said, and he wasn�
��t wrong.
Charlotte closed her eyes before staring up again at the rafters. “You have my apologies, whatever they might be worth now. But what would you have done? If you were me? When you knew deep down that you possess all the ability and skill required, but your whole life you’ve been told that it’s not enough? Would you have risked the truth?”
He didn’t answer that.
“Will you ask Lisbon to replace me now? Make me leave?” Her question fell like a stone into the silence. But she needed to know. Because if she had to, she would fight for this too. She would not fade passively into the background. Not anymore.
His head came up, and he stared at her. “Leave?”
“It’s a fair question.”
“It’s an insulting question. Do you think I am intimidated by you? By your talent and skill?”
“No.” Charlotte shook her head wearily. “I don’t think you are intimidated by anything, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Then you’d be wrong.” His silver eyes pinned her to the pillows with the sharpness of a rapier. He set the bottle of whiskey aside and abruptly stood, snatching one of the lanterns and striding toward the door. Charlotte frowned in confusion as he made his way across the studio floor to the panel that was still shrouded. Through the open door, she could still see him and the lower portion of the panel.
He set the lantern down, turned and met her gaze across the space, and yanked the sheet from the panel.
Charlotte couldn’t see the top of his work, but what she could see was stunning. St. Michael, in all his defiant glory, stared out larger than life from the surface. Everything that Rutledge had captured in his sketch was also visible here. A raw emotion of the sort that made his Madonna portrait so breathtaking.
Flynn retraced his steps back to her room, pacing the tiny space near the end of her bed.
“It’s magnificent,” Charlotte said honestly. “But I’ve always known it would be.”
“How?”
“Because I knew how much of yourself you’d put into it. And because I know that you have the talent and skill to do that justice. I’ve seen it.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the panel. “You’re creating something extraordinary.”
“It’s because of you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Rutledge stopped pacing long enough to run a hand through his hair. “I haven’t created anything like that in a long time. I’ve been…lost. Unable to find joy in something that has been as necessary to me as breathing for as long as I can remember. And that didn’t just intimidate me—it terrified me. And then you showed up. And gave me…” He trailed off, visibly struggling for a word. “Direction. Made me remember what was important. Gave me back my purpose.”
Charlotte felt a strange current skitter through her veins that made her shiver. He was making her sound like she had some sort of magical power over him. “I didn’t give you direction, Mr. Rutledge. I deceived you. Ignored you.” She rolled her shoulder with a wince. “Disobeyed you.”
“You tolerated my less than honorable conduct with a grace I didn’t deserve.” He was looking at her now with an intensity that was making her pulse do strange things. “And then defended me. Like my very own Jeanne d’Arc.” There was an odd note of reverence in his statement, and another shiver streaked through her, even as she told herself that it was the historic maiden, not herself, who held his regard. To think otherwise threatened to scatter her wits beyond repair.
“Jeanne d’Arc was burned to death at the stake for her visions of St. Michael,” Charlotte tried, aiming for levity and failing miserably. “I have no such aspirations, I can assure you, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Flynn,” he said, moving closer to the side of the bed again. “Call me Flynn. And I will call you Charlotte. I think it’s about time we got that part right, don’t you?”
Charlotte hesitated. “From a professional standpoint, I’m not sure that—”
“I ripped your shirt in two. Strict professionalism might be compromised.” He gave her a wry smile.
Charlotte felt herself flush to the roots of her hair. If he was trying to make her laugh or put her at ease, he wasn’t doing any better at levity than she had. Because all she could think about now was just how much she might want to do just that to him.
And not while either one of them was insensible.
“Very well,” she managed. “Flynn.”
The smile abruptly disappeared, and his eyes fastened on hers. He reached out, and his finger slowly traced a path down the side of her cheek. It was such a gentle, tender gesture that it made Charlotte want to burst into tears. It was only the fierce burn of her shoulder that kept her from reaching up and catching his fingers with hers as if that could keep him here forever.
“So you won’t make me leave?” she whispered raggedly.
His hand suddenly dropped, and he averted his eyes from her face. “Of course not,” he said curtly, stepping away from the bed. “You should rest. Probably for a few days. And for pity’s sake, stay off the scaffolding. You’ve lost a fair amount of blood, and I have no desire to scrape you off the floor if you get light-headed at the top.” He retrieved the remaining lantern from the washstand and made his way to the door.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said quietly.
“It was nothing. I’ve stitched up more individuals than I care to remember.” He paused in the doorway, though he didn’t turn to look at her.
“Not for that. Well, yes, for that too, but for understanding. Thank you for understanding.” Her throat was still tight. “And for accepting me. And believing in me.”
“I’m only returning the favor,” he said and closed the door firmly behind him.
Chapter 9
He had wanted to kiss her.
When Charlotte had said his name, her cheeks flushed and eyes fixed on his, he had almost lost his head. He squeezed his eyes shut. For the love of God, two hours prior to that moment he had still believed her to be a boy. As a boy, Charlotte’s genuine friendship and beautiful heart had left him humbled. His steady wisdom and gentle acceptance had left him healed.
As a woman, all of that had left him reeling, his sudden desire to kiss her the only thing that had emerged clearly.
He cursed softly to himself. Was there anything in this world that was less romantic than kissing a woman who lay helpless in a bed, pale and bruised, her shoulder a painful mess of stitches? Was there anything less honorable than fantasizing about kissing a woman who was there as his equal—his colleague? Charlotte was not some loose tavern wench hoping to catch his eye for an evening’s entertainment. In fact, she had gone to extreme measures to ensure that that sort of idiocy would never happen. The least he could do as a professional, as a man—as a bloody human being—was respect that. He hadn’t even sought Lisbon out to tell him what had happened as though, by avoiding the architect, Flynn could pretend that nothing had changed and they could proceed with business as usual.
Flynn leaned forward and banged his forehead against the edge of the scaffold gently, wondering if he was losing his mind. Because, despite the stern logical lecture, he still wanted to kiss her.
“Could you imagine if we had to use ultramarine? How ghastly expensive that would be?”
The comment snapped his head up and he spun, finding Charlotte standing behind him. She was studying the deep blue of the heavens he had added to the background until he had lost his daylight. The same deep blue that she would eventually start adding to hers once she was ready.
“You shouldn’t be up,” he grumbled.
“And you shouldn’t have to wait on me hand and foot any longer while I stare at the rafters. I’m perfectly capable of seeing to myself.”
Her color was much better than it had been two days ago, though she was still a little pale. She had dressed herself in her trousers and another one of her oversize shirts, though the laces were loose to allow room for the bulky bandage he had wrapped around her shoulder.
“Sit then,” he said, f
etching a chair and setting it at her side.
She made a face but obeyed readily enough. “I can’t abide not working. It’s not as though the stitches impede my painting hand.” She held up her right hand and waved it around.
“Tomorrow,” he told her. “One more day.”
“But—”
“One more day, Charlotte.”
She sighed. “If this whole art thing doesn’t work out for you, a career as a surgeon might be an excellent option. A tyrannical surgeon, but a surgeon nonetheless.”
He smiled despite himself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
“Would you prefer that I did not sleep here?” he asked suddenly. It had been weighing on him since that night he carried her back here, bloodied and broken.
“What?”
“Would you prefer that I seek other lodgings? I just thought that perhaps you might wish to be alone—”
“Does my being here make you uncomfortable?” she asked, her brows furrowed.
Yes, he wanted to say. Because now I lie awake at night imagining what it would be like to have you beneath me. And above me. And that makes me hot and hard and restless and very uncomfortable.
“Of course not,” he said instead. “I just didn’t want my presence to make this awkward…”
“Now that I’m Charlotte and not Charlie?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate your honor, Flynn Rutledge,” she said, smiling softly at him and making something deep in his chest ache. “Thank you for asking.” She dropped her eyes, her cheeks pink. “But I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want you to go anywhere.”
Warmth flooded through him, and it threatened to ignite into a different sort of heat. “Good,” he said. “I don’t want to go anywhere either.”
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