A Lady Most Dangerous (Helen Foster)

by Caroline Hanson

  Helen looked around as though the answer might present itself. Some way to save him. To get him out of here, when the reality was that they would be caught in a matter of minutes, maybe less. He had the information she needed. He was willing to give it to her. And, of course, he was dying. “It’s a stomach wound,” he said. “Can’t fix that. Not here.” She knew he meant in this time period. “The gambling den and brothel. If you need the serum, get it from Mrs. Wells’s gambling den and brothel. She is…in charge,” he said. Really? Go Women’s Lib.

  “And…” his eyes began to glaze, a strange rattle coming from his throat.

  “What?” Helen asked, “Stay with me! What?” she asked, pressing on his side to try and slow down the blood loss. He coughed, his body shaking violently, convulsing, blood pouring out of his mouth in a choking gurgle. And then he went still, dying before her eyes.

  There would be no answers now. Helen wanted to scream in rage. She ran her hands down his chest, feeling his pockets, the material tacky as it clung to his rapidly cooling blood. She found the vial of serum in his pocket, nondescript and amber in color. She pocketed it quickly, not even daring to believe that she might have caught a break. She stood, dropped her cape and exited the theater via the back door.

  Mary had been only 100 yards away, barely conscious and her face pale. For a moment, Helen thought her friend had been shot or stabbed. “I don’t feel so good,” Mary had said thickly when she saw Helen. Helen had put her arm around her, bearing all of her friend’s weight as they made their slow escape.

  If he hadn’t come along…

  He’d saved her. Saved her and Mary both. Like some sort of superhero, he had come out of the night, materializing out of nothing, saved the day and then vanished again. Although she supposed that was where the metaphor started falling apart. He didn’t vanish into the night so much as she left him to deal with the aftermath of her problems. Would he be alright? Would he use that cold hauteur to escape the police too? What if she had left him in danger?

  Tears pressed hotly behind her eyes and she took in a ragged breath. Don’t be some stupid girl who fucks things up just because some guy gets her panties in a twist. And God did he. The moment he’d arrived, his deep voice next to her as he literally took hold of her problem and carried Mary down the street, all she’d wanted to do was finish what they had started a few weeks ago in a carriage. Her stomach flipped with a rush of desperate longing as she remembered being with him in the carriage. Of his hardness pressed between her legs and how firmly he’d gripped her, crushing his mouth to hers in a dizzying display of passion.

  Best not to dwell on that too much. She felt like she needed to apologize for letting him think that she was dead. She’d hurt him.

  She’d seen it in his eyes when he looked at her – like she was a sunrise and he’d been trapped in the dark for years. Shock, blindness and awe. A desire to have a vision so burned into one’s brain that they would never forget it.

  She’d felt it in the way he’d gripped her arm – firmly, reflexively, his fingers almost biting into her. His whole body had locked up and there had been a moment, just a second, where it felt like he’d gone utterly still and then his grip had relaxed, ever so slightly. To be…proper, she supposed. If she had to define it. He’d grabbed her, gripped tight, and she could almost see the thoughts in his mind—Don’t let her out of your sight. His tall, lean form had been close to her. Close enough for her to smell him, to see the muscle in his jaw tick as he negotiated with the driver to take them away. She could see the fine weave on his dark coat. She had felt him so intensely it had raised the hair on her arms and swept away every sensible thought in her head.

  Stupid, Helen. Stupid and dangerous.

  And he wanted her to meet him. Had demanded it, actually. She couldn’t go, could she? Helen knew exactly what would happen; he’d angrily demand an explanation, she’d give him one and might even shed a few useless tears, and then she’d be on her back before she knew it.

  So she wouldn’t.

  She wouldn’t do it. There was a terrible pressure on her chest, and she pressed her fist there, hard, as though that might make the ache go away, the pain of not seeing him and letting him go once again. Letting him go, she thought snidely. He wasn’t even hers! He was still engaged; he’d sat next to his pale, beautiful fiancée at the damned opera!

  Edward was her Achilles’ heel and above her station.

  That idea seemed ridiculous – Edward above her station – but maybe it was true. Even though she came from a time of equality, there was something so… lofty about him, so unrelatable to everything in her life that it was as if he came from a different set of people entirely.

  How could she be back to this already? The lusting and angsting and all she’d done was see him for a moment. Screw it. She was done with him. She wasn’t going to think about him ever again. Well, certainly not for the moment.

  The coach came to a halt on Brompton Street and Helen shook Mary, trying to wake her. “We’re here. Can you walk? Mary? Can you hear me?” Mary made a sound but didn’t open her eyes.

  “No more to drink for you,” Helen said, loud enough for the driver to hear her. “I’m cutting you off.” She draped Mary’s arm across her shoulder and awkwardly moved them out of the hackney. The driver watched them curiously but didn’t say anything or offer to help. As they turned the corner of the street, she felt like she’d hear the driver at any moment; that he would shout for a constable or to any of the number of people who were out and about at this time of night.

  But he didn’t. And soon they were at their door, and she was huffing and puffing as she dragged Mary up the stairs to their apartment. Helen unlocked the front door, all of her muscles protesting, not wanting to go a step further. The door banged open and she dragged Mary to the couch, releasing her with a loud oomph. Mary barely moved in response. She reached out to touch her, wondering if it were good or bad that she couldn’t feel a fever. Mary looked pale.

  “Don’t do this to me, Mary. I need you—” she meant the words to be confident and strong, but they wobbled at the end. She pulled the small bottle of serum from her pocket, examining it under the lamplight. There wasn’t a skull and crossbones on it or anything to make it seem obviously poisonous. She opened the bottle and sniffed it, the liquid totally odorless. What the hell was this stuff? Could she trust what the German said?

  With Mary this sick and getting worse by the hour, could she afford not to? Mary hadn’t woken up at all, had barely even moved since the opera. Her skin was icy, and there was a smear on her cheek from where she’d wiped blood from her nose with her sleeve. Mary didn’t have time. She knew it. Mary had told her she thought she was dying, and she sure as shit looked like it. She dipped her finger into the liquid and tasted it. Bitter but that was all. We are not all murderers, the German had said. Maybe he hadn’t had any choice either. He’d told her about the gambling den, how many of them there were. She went with her gut, trusting the German and that the vial would heal Mary. She didn’t have another option. So much of being a soldier in combat was waiting. Waiting, waiting, and then a frantic blur of activity where one had to make decisions based on one’s gut and hope to not wind up dead.

  “Fuck it,” she said and slapped her friend across the face lightly, then harder until Mary flinched, loitering on the edge of consciousness. “Drink this, Mary. It will heal you. Do you hear me?” Mary made a soft groan in response. She grabbed Mary’s jaw and poured the liquid inside. “Swallow, damn you. I can’t even make a joke about swallowing because you’re so damned sick.” Mary’s throat worked as she swallowed the mouthful of serum.

  And just like that, the energy left Helen and she slumped back against the couch as best she could in her stupid corset. Her problems were mounting. Save Mary, wipe out the Germans and the gambling den. A gambling den of all places! And Edward. She’d told him she’d meet him in the morning.

  Should she go? No. Duh.

  But would she go? Th
at was the real question.

  Chapter 7

  It seemed as if Helen had watched the clock all night long, her attention shifting from her sick friend to the thought of meeting Edward so frequently it was like a mental ping pong game. She was exhausted by the time the morning came.

  And there was no change. Mary was still sleeping deeply, occasionally shifting around. Her color was better though. The serum hadn’t killed her at least, and she didn’t think Mary would have survived the night without it.

  Helen vowed she wouldn’t be gone more than an hour, and left a note next to Mary’s bed along with a glass of water and some food covered with a cloth in case she woke up. The cloth was to protect against bugs since it wasn’t as if they had Tupperware or foil.

  Her heart beat fast with trepidation as she made her way through the streets of London.

  Helen entered the park fifteen minutes early and blew out a noisy breath. It was cold and damp outside, and even through her many layers she could feel the chill. She closed her eyes and concentrated, accessing that part inside of her that could channel her energy into heat and conducting electricity. She warmed herself, feeling the power wash over her gently, amazed at how easy it now was. When she had first arrived, it had been difficult to use her power. It had drained her and almost cost Helen her life. If Edward hadn’t been there, she might not have made it.

  She had to admit he’d saved her life on more than one occasion. Seeing Edward again had been hard; had made her feel guilty for the way she had deceived him, allowing him to think that she was dead. He had looked tired, his face a little gaunt as though he hadn’t been eating well. She had seen dark circles under his eyes as he if were not sleeping either. Was that because of her? I’m fucked up. I shouldn’t want him to be sad about losing me.

  Last night, she’d imagined that she had affected him. But in the light of day she wasn’t sure. He hadn’t acted relieved to see her alive. He hadn’t even seemed particularly surprised. In fact, the lack of expression on his face made her think maybe she didn’t need to feel so guilty after all. Back home when someone came back from a mission alive, they were usually hugged, slapped on the back, congratulated and welcomed.

  The only indication, the only brief sign that maybe he was glad she was alive, was the slight hesitation he’d had when it was time for her to leave. She’d felt a connection with him in that moment, an almost tangible need to kiss him and be kissed. For just a moment, she thought they were both feeling the same thing – as if the only way to know they were both alive and real was to physically touch him.

  And he had told her to wait, as though afraid that if he let her out of his sight he’d never see her again. But maybe that was because he wanted to throttle her for disobeying him that night on the dock.

  “Oh yes I’m sure he missed you…for all of two seconds,” she grumbled, her breath fogging in front of her. Fortunately, he had his beautiful and perfectly matched fiancée there to take care of him. That woman was going to be his wife and Helen would be a fool to forget it. The truth was that Edward, while hot, was a complete Neanderthal. A smart and polite Neanderthal, but a brute nonetheless. It was his way or no way; she’d let him think she was dead because he would have thrown her over his shoulder and put himself in harm’s way as he took over her mission.

  Helen heard the sound of raindrops first, the soft patter of water landing on the leaves around her. “Damn,” she said and then felt the drops on her nose, forehead and hands, every part of her that was exposed. She licked one from her lip and blinked. Everything around her was gray, the surface of the little pond rippling as the rain poured down.

  Good old English rain.

  “What happened?” Edward asked, his voice coming from behind her. Helen yipped in surprise and whirled around, shocked to find him only a few feet away. His jaw was clenched tight, his expression dark and distant.

  “You startled me,” she said and felt herself flush.

  He didn’t answer or even move, but just stood there watching her and waiting for some answer. She didn’t know what she had expected, a hug, to be swept up into a passionate kiss, maybe even for him to laugh in joy at her being alive. That last one had seemed a bit far-fetched, but she’d thought about it.

  “Edward. Nice to see you too,” Helen said, not sure if she was stalling or just trying to gather her wits about her. Rainwater slid down her neck.

  “Are we doing pleasantries this morning, Miss Foster?” he asked, voice hard as he looked her over from head to toe.

  “What happened to you? You look like you got in a fight,” she asked instead, taking in his slightly swollen lip and the bruise on his cheek.

  “I did,” he said, teeth gritted. “What happened?”

  Helen’s mind went blank. Which was a bit bizarre as she had imagined having this conversation a thousand times. She had come up with the perfect words to explain her actions, had managed to put things in such a way that she knew he would forgive her, but she sure as hell couldn’t remember it now. “My friend from the future came to save me. I have to thank you actually. It was the newspaper clipping of the boat explosion in your diary that did it. Otherwise, I’d be at the bottom of the sea right now.

  “Don’t,” he said, in a hard, flat voice. “Don’t even say it, do you know I—” He abruptly stopped speaking. She swallowed hard, not sure what to say next, how to interpret his words. All eight of them.

  Reaching up with his gray gloved hand, he took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. Helen didn’t know how he’d avoided ‘hat head’ which was only slightly better than ‘helmet head’ but he had. His hair had been perfectly tamed, the dark locks styled away from his forehead. But he raked them anyway and then it was a mild disaster.

  Not that it looked bad but it made Helen’s stomach clench, and she had to squash the desire to move forward and touch him, kiss him, make his hair even worse. That was what she wanted to do to him—rumple him. She’d rip off his neckcloth and unbutton his jacket, leave a hickey on his neck and do things Victorian women couldn’t even dream about, so that he was nothing like his usual aloof self. She wondered how far under the surface that Edward was. He did exist. Somewhere in there. She’d met that Edward once in the carriage on her last night. He’d ravished her, and she’d been sixty seconds from take off when he went back to being the duke – who, Helen knew, was a total prig. She sighed. He looked very grumpy.

  “How could I have missed you? How is that possible?” he stopped near her, so close that she shivered in response. She knew he was talking about the last night he’d seen her. He’d gotten a boat and called for her until his voice gave out.

  “You saved my life. Not in the traditional sense I suppose, but you did.” She cleared her throat, disappointed that her words had come out sounding as if she were a hardened smoker.

  He was still, his tone so calm that it raised the hair on the back of her neck. “You look…unharmed.”

  “I am. I had some bruising and cuts obviously, and I was freaking exhausted and have never been so cold in my life, but yes, I was pretty damn lucky as it turned out.” It was hard to stop talking. A nervous reaction.

  Helen looked down at the ground, at the little puddle of mud that was forming around them as the rain continued to pour down. She moved a little, hoping that the extra two inches she put between them was somehow subtle. She didn’t like having to look up at him. It pissed her off.

  He tilted his head slightly, crossed his arms over his chest as he stood there and watched her. She could feel him staring at her, could feel the tension and heat coming off of his hard body. You have a mission, genius.

  “It’s been two weeks. Two weeks I…” He studied her face, keeping his words to himself which was irritating as hell.

  “What?” she said, and it came out a whisper.

  His next words sent off an alert inside of her, a warning that things might suddenly go to shit. Like being on a mission and thinking the streets were empty, only to find out it�
�s because every person in the whole damned village was quietly holding a gun on you waiting to blow your brains out. “I was there all night. On those docks. I paid a fortune—I’m still paying actually—willing to give a reward for anybody who finds your…body.” Then he laughed, the sound twisted and unhappy. “My hope was to find your dead body and bury you in the earth. I see you all the time—” He stopped speaking again and closed his eyes for just a moment. A long exhale. “But now you’re here… Two weeks. And now, all I can think is that it’s been two damn weeks and you let me think you were dead. If I hadn’t found you last night. If I hadn’t recognized you, would you have ever told me that you were alive?” She didn’t like the sharpness of his vowels. It couldn’t bode well for her.

  Her eyes filled with tears and she wanted to apologize, go back and redo the last few weeks. She’d hurt him. That was pretty fucking obvious. She could apologize and then what? Would he be back in her life wanting to control everything she did? Trying to save her at risk to himself?

  He reached out a hand and touched her face, his hand warm through the glove. “Did you hear me calling for you?”

  Her voice trembled. “I thought it was best for both of us. You are getting married and all I did was put you in danger. Yes, there was an attraction between us, but most of the time I just made you crazy.”

  “You know what’s worse than being made insane by someone? Being so bored that you want to die. You make me crazy, but at least when we were together, at least I knew I was living.”

  “You put yourself in danger for me.”

  He looked at her so oddly she wondered if she’d said it in another language. “Of course I do,” he said slowly. “I will protect you, Helen.”

  “No! That’s part of the problem! You can’t protect me! She could barely speak through the lump in her throat. She clutched on to the anger she felt and tried to harness it, wanting to get through this meeting without breaking down. Why the hell had she come here? “I don’t want to be your whore. And if I’d come back to you at the docks that’s what I would’ve been. You would have taken me somewhere; hell, we might even have had sex in the coach, and I’m sure you would promise me money, jewelry, even a home…and I might’ve taken it. I could’ve rationalized it, that I’d destroyed the plans and so I was free, that as long as you got married and had children, that maybe it wouldn’t have messed up the timeline too much. How could I have lived with myself if I did that? The Nazis are here and I have a job to do; things are not fixed. I still have a mission; if anything, it’s worse now. How could I live with myself if I betrayed my people just to become your whore?”