“Next to nothing,” she confided, and her heart thumped erratically as she looked upon her captor in an altogether new light—a necessary one. Verity drifted closer. He was well over a foot taller than her, and she had to crane to look at him. As she did, she searched a face shockingly symmetrical in its beauty: carved features, hawklike nose, slightly bent from having been broken. Nicked and scarred as it was from his high forehead to sharp cheeks, the marks still did little to diminish an astonishing handsomeness. It momentarily distracted, made him . . . human. And therefore, safer for it. The man was preferable to the Devil he’d professed to be. “Are you familiar with the toshers who work these tunnels?”
“Toshers don’t work the tunnels,” he said flatly. “They live here.”
Before Verity could pose the question hovering on her lips, a portentous rumble sounded in the distance.
She froze; her gaze locked on her captor, and where his features had been carved of stone before, now there was a disquiet reflected in his eyes that riddled her with more terror than the previous weight of his blade against her. “Wh-what . . . ?”
With a curse, he sheathed his dagger. “Come on,” he barked, and raced off, not bothering to see if she complied.
At that unexpected freedom, Verity backed herself in the opposite direction.
He suddenly stopped and spun back. “Are you mad?” he thundered.
The only madness would be remaining here and facing his wrath head-on. Except . . . the pandemonium at her back reached a fever-pitched crescendo that gave way to chirping and shrieks. Her stomach twisted. “What is that?”
Muttering a black curse that carried through the tunnels, the man raced back and snagged her wrist.
“What? I don’t—” Her words ended on a squeak as he yanked her through the tunnels.
Verity tripped and stumbled, her heavy skirts slowing her. The wool dragged in the water, and frustration welled within her. “What is that?” she cried for a second time, this time her question nearly drowned out by a deafening uproar; it licked at their heels.
And her captor became the unlikeliest savior, pushing her ahead, propelling her in front of him. Her feet numb, her body trembling with a combined fear and cold, she allowed him to shove her on.
Her breath rasped, noisy in her ears.
Or was that his?
She paused to glance back and found his focus singularly forward.
“Move,” he thundered.
Verity stumbled, and righting herself, she pressed on.
They reached the end of the tunnel passage, and he yanked her by the back of her dress, wrenching her close. Except . . .
“My slippers,” she cried out. Only they weren’t hers. They were Livvie’s. Livvie’s favorite pair. Livvie’s only pair.
“You’re off your head,” he shouted down at her. “If you go back, you’ll find your feet a feast for a thousand rats and no need for any damned slippers.”
Before she could formulate so much as a thought, he hefted her up and tossed her atop a two-foot-wide ledge; the path led onward through a narrower, darker tunnel.
Her sudden savior drew himself up as easily as one drawing oneself upon a swing. “Get moving,” he clipped out, nudging her lightly between the shoulder blades.
Bile stung the back of her throat.
At his order.
At being caught alone with this lethal figure.
At herself for having made so many mistakes this night.
Going off with this brute, however, would mark the height of the greatest folly.
Verity considered the five-foot drop down.
“That would be a mistake.” He sounded almost bored as he correctly predicted her intentions.
A moment later, a sea of black came rushing forward.
Verity swallowed a cry and told her legs to move. To no avail. She stood frozen, her bare feet locked to the brick floor, and she closed her eyes, prepared for the rising flood of water and rats to gust over her.
And then she was lifted off her feet. Propelled up. Verity tried to scream. Tried to breathe through the wave.
Only . . .
Her eyes flew open as she was jarred by the quick footfalls of the stranger. She reflexively twined her arms about his neck and clung tight as he raced onward; with the added weight of her sodden skirts and frame, he may as well have moved with the same ease as when Verity had once carried Livvie as a babe.
They—he—continued on, and after an endless path of twists and turns, he crashed through a wide opening. And the coal-tinged air had never smelled safer. A faint glow bathed the bricks, heralding their return to Earth.
“Loosen your damned grip,” her captor muttered.
Only, was it truly fair to think of him in that light? Given that he’d saved her life no fewer than three times in that short span? Those efforts had made a lie of his threat of death. And—
“Are you going to faint?” he snapped.
Verity bristled. “I don’t faint.”
“Aside from you removing your talons from my skin, I don’t care what you do or don’t do.”
She glanced down at her fingers, curled like claws into the fabric of his wool coat.
“I’m not interested in your services,” he said tautly.
“My . . . ?” Verity followed his pointed stare to where she gripped his chest. She gasped and released him. “I assure you, I am not selling services.” Quite the opposite, really. She was searching for her story, the source of her security, and soon to be the reason for her unemployment. Verity burrowed into her cloak, her efforts to find warmth futile. Even so, she rubbed her gloveless palms together frantically in a bid to bring warmth back into the digits. As she glanced around, dread, an increasingly familiar feeling, pitted her belly. “Wh-where are we?”
“Ludgate Street.”
“Wh-what?” she whispered; her shivering intensified, racking her frame until her teeth rattled painfully in her mouth. Bertha would be waiting. Wouldn’t she? Surely, with all that had happened since she’d descended into the sewers, the thirty minutes had passed. And with nothing to show for it.
Nothing but bare feet, feet which had at some point gone numb from the cold. “I suggest you be on your way, lass.” With that, her savior turned on his heels, and she’d no more than blinked before she found him vanished into the shadows.
A sob climbed her throat, and she forced it back, strangling on those useless tears. Could this night be any worse? As if in answer to that very question, the London skies opened up and poured down a deluge.
Squinting through the heavy curtain of rain, she began the long trek home.
Verity made it to the end of the pavement.
A stranger stepped into her path; with a fine French umbrella shielding him and his elegant garments from the elements, there could be no doubting he wasn’t one of the coarser sets that roamed St. Giles. And that truth made him and his presence here all the more dangerous.
“Well, you look a sight.”
That pronouncement was shouted into the noise of the rainstorm, and even through the din, Verity detected the clipped quality of his speech, confirming that which she’d already gathered about the man’s rank.
Hugging her arms around her middle, Verity lifted her chin and made to step around the gentleman. “Step out of my way, sir.”
Undeterred, he angled his umbrella and blocked her retreat once more. “It is raining.” He motioned to where a carriage waited at the end of the street. “Why don’t you let me help you, miss?”
“I’ve nothing to discuss with y-you.” The chattering of her teeth, along with her bare feet, made a liar of her.
“Actually, you do.” He flashed a hard grin.
The storm eased, but the rain persisted. Even as she stood up to her ankles in a puddle, barefoot, with the wind and rain battering at her, she refused to be the mouse to his cat. “What do you want?”
That already flimsy display of a casual grin faded, replaced by a frosty ice. “I want to know what you’re doin
g around these parts.” He looped a surprisingly strong hand about her forearm.
Verity gasped.
“What are you looking for?”
“Release me.” She wrenched at her arm. To no avail. She cried out when he tightened his hand in a blindingly painful grip.
“You’d be wise to have a care. Nothing good can come from a woman visiting these—”
With a sharp jerk of her knee, Verity brought it betwixt the stranger’s legs.
A hiss exploded from his lips as he crumpled to the ground. His umbrella fell to the pavement, and then the wind whipped it along. The fine article caught a lamppost and ceased its tumbling down the street. “You bitch,” he barked, and then he grabbed for her.
Verity already had her knee up, catching him square in the chest.
He tilted, and then lost his already precarious balance, toppling onto his side. His temple struck an uneven cobblestone.
The stranger’s mouth formed a small, surprised circle, and then his eyes slid shut as he fell facedown.
Verity didn’t move, hovering there, standing over the gentleman. Unable to breathe past the horror.
As she’d been wrong on every score earlier . . . the night indeed had gotten worse.
Good God, she’d killed a man.
Chapter 6
THE LONDONER
QUESTIONS!
Of all the questions about the Earl of Maxwell, there is one pressing question for now . . . Where does he live? And more . . . where has he lived these past two decades . . . ?
V. Lovelace
Two things were confirmed in short order: one, Verity Lovelace, the suspicious woman in the sewers, had found herself in another spot of trouble; and two, she certainly hadn’t required any rescuing from Malcom.
She leaned over the unconscious form of a well-dressed man at her feet.
“You’re incapable of finding anything but trouble.”
With a loud gasp, Verity retrieved her umbrella and wielded it like a rapier she was prepared to spear him with. She stared at him through blank, unblinking eyes for several moments, and then her lashes drifted slowly down and up. “You,” she muttered, lowering her makeshift weapon.
And then she followed his gaze to the prone form behind her. “Are you gonna finish him off?” he asked curiously.
The young woman blinked those enormous eyes. “Finish him . . .” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “No. Of course not. I’d never . . .”
Aye, and her shock at that supposition was just another clue that marked her an outsider to the rookeries.
And yet even with that, the small slip of a woman had managed to fell a man more than a foot taller than her and a good stone heavier. Despite himself, admiration for the peculiar creature stirred. Nay, she hadn’t needed rescuing. Not this time.
As such, he should go . . .
The young woman hugged her arms around her middle. “I think I’ve killed him.”
Alas, she was determined to keep him at her side. “Would it be so awful if you did?”
“Yes.” Her voice emerged threadbare. She’d faced down an army of rats and flooded sewers, and yet this is what should affect her. And shivering in a soaking gown as she was, with her hair hanging in a tangle of equally sopping curls, and barefoot, against all better judgment, Malcom found he couldn’t leave her. Just as he’d been unable to turn out Giles, who’d had his hand severed. Or Fowler, with his damned leg. Or . . .
Bloody hell.
Malcom joined her at the nob’s side. Falling to a knee, he felt around the man’s neck.
Verity gasped, and squatted beside him. “Are you robbing him?” she squawked, stealing frantic glances about, proving once again that she wasn’t from these parts. All knew that, like the real rodents that roamed these cobblestones, street rats, too, scurried to their respective corners whenever the London skies opened.
“And tell me, is thievery worse than murder, Miss Lovelace?” he drawled.
That managed the seemingly impossible: it silenced the lady.
Malcom resumed his search and then found it: a pulse. Strong and hammering away. “He lives.”
Verity exhaled a small prayer.
She couldn’t remain here.
He couldn’t remain here. The foolish minx was free to do whatever she wanted. Only . . . it was because Miss Verity Lovelace hadn’t given Malcom the answers he’d sought as to why she’d been in the sewers. That was the only reason he even considered taking her with him.
It was absolutely the sole reason.
And not because she was barefoot and brave and spitting mad like a feisty cat. Only . . . Malcom squinted. With her cheeks crimson red, he’d taken that color to be her body’s response to the cold. He’d failed to note her swollen eyes—bloodshot ones. “Were you crying?” he demanded, horror creeping into his question. Tears . . . the ultimate sign of weakness in the roughened streets of East London; there was no place for them, and he’d not a single memory of shedding those drops—ever. Not even the rain falling upon her could mitigate the clear drops of her misery.
She bristled. “Absolutely not. I do not c-cry.” Her voice trembled from the force of her shivering.
“You’re a lousy liar,” he said flatly.
All at once, the downpour eased, and his shout was left echoing on the remnants of the previously gusting wind. Oh, bloody hell. He did a sweep of the still-quiet streets. Now that the rain had abated, the filth would creep from the cobbles, and along with them, the constables.
“I’m not crying, but even if I was, I’d certainly be entitled to whatever it is I’m feeling without making apologies to you.”
“Shh,” he warned.
“I will not.”
Of course she wouldn’t. The chit wouldn’t do anything she was supposed to do. As such, he should leave her to her own devices. And yet, with logic screaming at him, he jumped up and took her by the hand. “Come on,” he muttered, tugging her to her feet.
She emitted a squeak better suited to a bird. “What are you doing?” she cried, digging her heels in and forcing him to a stop.
“Would you be quiet?” He gritted his teeth. God, she was more stubborn than the English sun. “Unless you care to wait for a constable to come by and inquire as to what you’re doing with an unconscious, bleeding gent at your feet, I suggest you start walking, mada—” She’d already kicked her stride into a double time.
Fool. “You’re a damned fool,” he said under his breath as the rain picked up, drowning out most of that sound.
Alas, not enough of it. The minx, with her catlike hearing, sputtered, “I beg your pardon. Did you call me a damned fool?”
“I wouldn’t be off the mark. Climbing into sewers you have no place in, wandering St. Giles alone,” he muttered as they continued their flight. “You may as well hang a sign around your neck and invite trouble to join you for tea and biscuits.”
That effectively silenced the chit.
For a moment.
“Well, I didn’t originally begin here,” she needlessly reminded him as they turned the corner, at last putting some safer distance between her and the man she’d felled. “You were the one who brought me here. And left me.”
Oh, hell, he’d had enough of her ramblings. Malcom stopped abruptly, and with a gasp, Verity Lovelace crashed against his side. He swept his soaking cap off and bowed his head. “I’m sorry; did you expect an escort home?”
“Well, not an escort, per se,” she said, giving her skirts a shake. “But . . .”
And for the first time in more years than he could remember . . . nay, mayhap for the first time in forever, he laughed, the sound rusty and hoarse, and more growl-like than amusement filled.
Verity pursed those temptingly full lips. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Yes,” he confirmed, not missing a beat. “Now, come on.” Malcom hurried on.
Several moments passed before he registered his solitary flight. Cursing, he spun back.
Verity remained where
he’d left her, wringing out the front of her dress, her gently rounded features pale. Good God . . . he really should leave her to her fate. So why couldn’t he? Why was he determined to make this woman’s problems his own? It went against all he was and believed in. Cursing blackly, Malcom marched over to her. “What now?” he snapped.
The young woman sank even white teeth into a plump lower lip. “I left him for dead.”
“We left him for dead. Now, let’s go.”
Wholly uncaring about that distinction, Verity remained rooted to the pavement.
“What now?”
“Should we send someone for—”
“He was going to rape you,” he said bluntly. Color rushed to her cheeks, even as the matter-of-fact reminder of the fate that had awaited her sent a primal rage pumping through him. “Do you really care what happens to him?”
“I . . . shouldn’t,” she agreed.
“Precisel—”
“And yet, I’d still not have someone’s death on my hands.” She glanced down at the cobblestones.
He opened his mouth to chide her for that nonsensical logic, but then something made him call those words back. “You’ve never done this?”
She bit her lip and shook her head. “No.” Hers was a whisper.
Swiping at the rain that ran down his face and into his eyes, Malcom took in the soggy creature before him: her soaking skirts were matted to her frame. Her hair hung in a tangle of thick, albeit limp strands around her shoulders.
And then there were her bare feet peeking out from under the frayed hem of her skirts. Blood-soaked toes that she’d not complained about.
Bloody hell . . .
Malcom swept the slip of a woman up; even soaked through to the bone as she was, her frame was light against his.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Verity Lovelace’s voice pitched.
Ignoring her, Malcom loped over the barren cobblestones. At this hour, this end of London generally brimmed with seedy life and danger. But then, even in the sewers, water sent the rats scurrying off to hide.
The woman struggled against him. “Where are y-you taking me?” she demanded in an impressive display of strength and fury.
Malcom tightened his hold, quelling her attempts at freedom. He’d have his answers as to why a woman who spoke like a lady, and wore her indignation like one, too, had been in his tunnels. “Somewhere that isn’t here,” he muttered. The woman went limp in his arms, effectively silenced. Was it silence that checked her questions? Fear?
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