by Lois Greiman
Ella kept her tone even. “Word is ’e died in the fire. You set the blaze?” she asked.
Roth chuckled. “Could be. Why you want to know?”
“Maybe I want to know ’oo to thank.”
“And maybe you ’ope to stick me like ye did ’er mistress.” Roth nodded toward Silk.
“Maybe,” she agreed. “You know the bloke named Grey?”
“Never ’eard of ’im.”
“’Ow ’bout you?” she asked Beard.
“Never ’eard of ’im,” he echoed, but where Roth’s tone had been challenging, his was matter-of-fact.
“Who ’ave you ’eard of?” she asked.
“I ’eard of Roth,” Roth said, and shifted closer. “’Eard ’e’s gettin’ tired of conversing.”
She shifted her gaze from Beard and speared the other with a glare.
“’Ow about livin’? You tired of that too, Rot?”
He stopped.
“Roth,” corrected Beard.
She smiled. “What do you know ’bout the bunter what lived ’ere?”
“The girl? I know she ’ad ’er some titties,” Roth said. Beard chuckled. Toothless said nothing.
Despite her altered image, anger splashed through Ella. Maybe it was her own. Maybe it was Leonard’s. Sometimes it was impossible to differentiate. ”You’ve never seen a pair before, I ’spect,” Ella said.
“I seen me my share.”
“Yeah?” Shay was becoming restive. “’Ow much you ’ave to pay?”
Roth shifted his blade to his opposite hand, shuffled his feet. “Least I don’t swive no corpses.”
Ella felt her blood heat, felt murderous intent well up inside her, but she took a firm hold of her psyche. “What the devil are you talking about?”
He chuckled. “Truth is, I’m getting fair tired of talking.”
“Me too,” Beard said.
“I ’eard she died in the fire,” Ella said.
“She never come out of the ’ouse,” Beard said. “Never come to the window. Only the gents. The pretty one and the—”
“Shut up,” warned Roth. “Listen, York.” He licked his lips, smiled a little. “I’m just ’ere ’cuz a fine ’orse is worth a good bit, but if you get dead in the process, I ain’t likely to shed no tears.”
Shay shifted inside her, swaggering a little. “I don’t die so easy as you might think, friend.”
“We’ll see.”
“I’ll tell you what,” she said, shoving Shay back a careful inch. “You give me back the bottle and I’ll let you go on your merry, free and clear.”
“What bottle?” Beard asked.
“I give the orders ’ere,” Roth said, bristling.
“A cut-glass container,” she said, ignoring the leader, speaking to Beard. “Brownish in color. Could be most full of cologne.”
“I didn’t see no bottle,” Beard said, and turned narrowed eyes to Roth. “You ’oldin’ back on me?”
“Shut up.”
“It’s worth a fair bit,” Ella said, addressing the bearded member. “Ain’t ’ardly fair…Roth getting the entire take.”
“You already sell it?” Beard asked.
“He’s playin’ with you,” snarled the leader.
“I want my share,” Beard growled.
“Shut up.”
It happened so fast. Faster than Ella was prepared for. But suddenly Beard slammed into Roth. They went down in a flutter of arms and legs. She watched for one stunned second, then, seeing Toothless’s attention was diverted, she launched herself in his direction. He turned toward her a moment before her shoulder hooked into his rib cage. But too late. He staggered backward even as she sprang for Silk’s saddle.
The mare leaped toward the doorway. Ella teetered into the saddle, but the entrance was narrow, slowing their progress. Ella’s leg scraped against the jamb. She gritted her teeth against the pain as they crashed down the stairs. Silk pivoted to the right, skidding in the mud, ready to flee, but suddenly Toothless was there, latching onto Ella’s leg. She tried to kick him aside, but he held tight, and suddenly she was falling, tumbling toward the ground. Air exploded from her lungs. She jerked to her knees, gasping, but it was already too late. Three grim faces surrounded her in the darkness.
“Well now.” Roth was breathing hard, fingering his blade. “I don’t much like it when outsiders cause trouble betwixt me and mine.”
Air rasped rustily down Ella’s throat. She gasped, trying to breathe, to think, to hold fast to Shay’s faltering image. At least the lantern and the candle had been left inside. It was as dark as hell on the street. Dark as hell with no help in sight and her chest burning like fire.
“Pick ’im up,” Roth ordered.
Beard leaned in. He smelled rancid and unkempt. Taking a handful of coat, he hauled Ella to her feet. She struggled against him. Fear and disorientation made it difficult to hold the image. She felt it fading. Felt her own frailties return on a wave of weakness, but she murmured a fortifying incantation, holding on tight. The words whispered eerily in the night.
“What’d ’e say, Roth?” Beard asked.
“’E said you’re a bleedin’ idiot. Now get behind ’im and ’old ’im steady.”
He did as told.
Ella felt an arm encircle her neck. She struggled for breath, for calm.
“Now…” Roth stepped close, fingering his blade. “Yer gonna tell me why you’re ’ere, or you’re gonna die wishin’ y’ ’ad.”
Terror. Rage. Confusion. They brewed like toxins in her soul, stirring up Shay’s restless image. She felt it swell in her once again, felt his raw energy consume her.
“Damn you to hell,” she snarled, and Roth smiled as he put the knife to her throat.
Chapter 10
“Let her go,” Drake ordered, and watched as the dark trio jerked toward him. He’d arrived only moments before and wished like hell he’d not left his mount down the street, but he’d only meant to see his sister’s last residence once again. He hadn’t planned to find trouble. But the light in the shattered windows had pulled him down the street like a wayward lamb.
He’d rounded the corner just as the woman’s steed had skittered past, and now he stood, unarmed and unprepared, facing a ragged band of miscreants who looked in no mood to bargain.
“’Oo are you?” asked the man called Roth.
“Naught but a concerned citizen,” Drake said. “But I suggest you do as I say.”
“Oh?” The villain drew the knife from the girl’s throat, but the other, the bearded fellow with the wide, popping eyes, remained as he was, holding her arms. “And why’s that?”
Excellent question. “Because sometimes concerned citizens shoot street vermin through the heart. Me, on the other hand…” He raised his arm, hoping like hell the other couldn’t see that he held nothing but a stick in his hand. “I like to aim for the eyeball. The left eyeball. I have excellent vision. Yours is clear as the dawn.”
There was a moment of silence, then: “Yer lying.”
Drake smiled a little, wishing like hell he’d brought a blunderbuss. Or a damned cannon. “The last fellow who thought so lived almost a full day.” His voice was steady. So all those years dealing with drunken captains and dull-headed commodores hadn’t been a complete waste. “Of course he would have been blind anyway, what with the missing eye.”
“Damn you!” Roth snarled, but his tone was less than certain.
“Tell your hairy friend to let her go and I may let you keep yours.”
“Her?” Roth asked.
But Drake refused to be distracted, either by his own billowing fear or the other’s obvious confusion. Apparently commodores weren’t the only sorry bastards who were crazy. “Let her go,” he repeated.
Roth delayed a moment, then stepped closer. “I’m thinking your eyesight ain’t maybe so good as you think it is.”
Dammit. “You willing to bet your eyes on that?” he asked.
Roth stopped for a second, then: “Ye
ah,” he said, and in that instant, he launched forward. Drake jumped back. The blade cleared his cheek by inches. From the darkness, someone yelped, but it was all he could do to fight his own battle now, to stay alive. The knife swept at him again. He leaped back a second time, but his leg was already weakening.
Dammit all, he should have stayed astride. The knife again, but this time Drake lunged toward his adversary instead of away. They went down hard. Pain rattled through his thigh like a deathblow. He sucked in air, trying to remain lucid. But in that instant, Roth slammed something against Drake’s ear. The world spun crazily, but he managed to roll sideways. It took him a moment to realize Roth was scrambling away, which meant only one thing; the bloody bastard had lost his knife, and if he found it…
And in that second he did.
Roth lurched to his feet and turned with a snarl.
Drake skittered backward on hands and feet. But too late. The other was already attacking, swinging wildly. The knife swept downward, cutting through the fabric of his breeches.
Drake roared in pain and kicked desperately. His foot connected with bone and Roth flew backward, allowing the other to lurch to his feet, ready to battle, to die.
But somebody’s shout bit into the madness. “Get on!”
Drake spun about. A horse was bearing down on him, thundering toward him through the darkness. He didn’t think, didn’t wait. Reaching up, he grabbed hold of anything he could catch and swung aboard. For a moment he lost his footing. Looking down, he scrambled for purchase. The earth raced beneath him. Dizziness flooded in. But he tightened his grip, half on, half off, gritting his teeth as they raced into the night. There were curses and shrieks from behind, but in moments they faded in the fleeing darkness.
The woman spoke something incoherent, tone soothing, and the horse slowed. Drake dropped to his feet, fought for his footing, found his balance. His leg was screaming in pain.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
Stupid damned question. Hell yes, he was hurt. His bloody leg felt like it had been ripped out of his hip. “I’m fine.”
“No you’re not.” She was beside him suddenly, though for the life of him, he hadn’t seen her dismount.
Her fingertips touched his ear. “Do you have a mount nearby?”
He gritted his teeth, fought for lucidness. “Not far back. Around the corner and—” He stopped suddenly, memory jostling as her features became clear in the uncertain light. “Lady Lanshire?”
He felt her surprise. Felt her draw back. Perhaps she hadn’t recognized him in the melee either.
“Sir Drake?”
“What the devil are you doing here?”
“I…” She paused, seeming momentarily shaken, but not nearly shaken enough. What the hell was she doing in East End in the dark of the night? What the hell was she thinking? “You’re bleeding.”
He touched his skull, winced. “Sometimes that happens when people hit you in the head with a damned rock. Why are you—”
“I think it was a brick.”
“What?” He stared at her, trying to sort things out, but it was no easy task. His head was spinning and his leg throbbed like the devil’s heartbeat.
“I have excellent eyesight too.”
He snorted. But a noise from behind jerked their attention to the rear.
“We’d best recover your mount,” she said. “Before someone else does.”
“Are you uninjured?”
“Yes. I…” Her voice shook a little. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
She looked momentarily perplexed. “For so gallantly coming to my rescue.”
He tried to reason out the problem with that statement. But another noise issued from behind. Their admirers seemed to be following. “I’ll give you a leg up,” he said, and cupped his hands.
Her foot was bare against his palm. What the devil was going on? he wondered. But she was already aboard, as quick and light as a fairy. He wondered rather dismally if he could do as well. It took him only a moment to realize he couldn’t, but finally he struggled aboard and settled in behind her, head spinning dizzily. He swayed against the motion.
“Are you well?” She turned toward him in the darkness. The scent of lavender filled his head.
“Yes. Fine.”
“You’d best hold on to me.”
He considered arguing, defending his manhood, but he liked to think he wasn’t entirely daft; he wrapped his arms about her waist. It was small and tight beneath the velvet jacket.
Leaning forward slightly, Elegance pressed the mare into a rocking canter. The movement pushed him closer to her back, doing nothing to disturb her balance. But in a matter of minutes they had reached his mount. The tall sorrel stood tied to a nearby elm and nickered low when he sensed their approach.
Drake glanced at the beast. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to dismount and ride his own animal, of course. On the other hand, passing out was rarely considered genteel.
Bending down, he untied his reins and straightened.
Ella glanced quizzically over her shoulder at him.
“Wounded,” he reminded her. “In your defense.”
“Ahh. Where do you live?”
“Clerkenwell. Warstock Street,” he said, for he could not quite think of Hawkspur as his home. He had inherited the estate upon his father’s death a year and a half earlier, but had never stepped inside the house since that day.
Kendrick Donovan had made his fortune some years after sending his only son to sea, and had subsequently moved to London shortly after. Drake had never again seen his mother. Indeed, she had died in childbirth months before he knew she was expecting. The short, wilted missive he had received from his father had said little but that a daughter had been born…and a mother had been lost.
Ella pressed her mare into a high-stepping walk. The night was quiet but for the rhythmic clip of their horses’ hooves. The mist was heavy around them, closing them in, feeling like a silver blanket against his back, as if there was not another soul in the universe.
But that was hardly the case. There were others. Others who lived. Who died. Others who tried to brain concerned citizens with rocks.
“So, lass…” He paused, touched his fingers to his aching skull. Maybe the bastard had been wielding a brick. Maybe she did have excellent eyesight. “Are you going to tell me?”
She glanced back again. Her profile was muted by the darkness, but there was still something about her that moved him, emotionally…and otherwise. Amazing. “Tell you what?”
“Why you were there, in one of the most notorious parts of London in the dark of night.”
She trembled gently beneath his hands. “In truth, I’d rather not, sir.”
What the hell had she been doing near Grey’s house, yards from where Sarah had died? How was she connected to his sister’s death?
“I think, perhaps, I deserve a bit of explanation,” he said, “since I was wounded in your defense.”
“Let us remember that I did not ask you to come by.” She paused, letting him think about that. “By the by, what was your purpose in being there?”
For a moment he was almost tempted to share the truth, but he had learned the value of fabrications long ago. A small boy alone on a ship of lecherous drunkards found it prudent to lie well and lie often. Better by far to keep her guessing, for there was much he had yet to learn.
“I had business in Ratcliff. I was on my way home when I heard a scuffle.”
“Business?” Her tone sounded doubtful.
“Yes.”
“In Ratcliff.”
“Yes.” Always stick with a story, but don’t elaborate unless absolutely necessary. Any fabrication could be believed so long as you didn’t vary. “And what of you?”
She faced forward, straightening her back a little. “I believe I told you my intentions at the outset, Sir Drake.”
He puzzled over that for a moment, then chuckled disbelievingly. “Surely you don’t mean to sa
y you had planned a tryst.”
She said nothing.
“In Shoreditch?”
He could see the quirk of her lively mouth. “It is a terrible truth, but millers’ sons cannot always afford the best of accommodations.” She said the words with utter conviction. And suddenly the situation no longer seemed terribly humorous.
“You jest,” he said.
“There’s no need to make it sound like high treason,” she said. Her tone was fraught with laughter. What kind of woman narrowly escaped death or worse and laughed when she spoke of it? Perhaps she was lying about her reason for being there, but then what kind of lady would say she had slept with a workingman when she had not?
“I thought you had settled on Lord Milton,” he said.
She tilted her head the slightest degree, gave a tiny shrug. “Perhaps I’ve decided not to settle at all.”
He was silent for a moment, then another. Their mounts’ hoofbeats clattered on in tandem. It was not easy finding one’s way through the mist-shrouded streets, but she seemed to have no trouble.
With some difficulty, he recognized the alehouse that sat at the corner of Warstock and Hutton. She turned her steed toward his rented home with no visible cues. They were only minutes from his house, but in truth, he had no desire to go there despite the pain in sundry parts of his anatomy.
“Aren’t you going to see to my wounds, my lady?” he asked.
She glanced at him, brows raised slightly in her mercurial face. “I hardly think that would be proper.”
“Proper?” he said, remembering her bare feet, her admitted liaison.
She gave him an arch look.
“I am sore wounded,” he said. “Surely that gains me something.” His argument was extremely ungentlemanly. The ton would call it gauche, he knew, though he understood little of society’s upper crust. Still, he found that he failed to care, especially when, after a moment, she turned her mare about and headed back in the direction they had come.
In a matter of minutes, they had arrived at their destination. Dismounting wiped away any lingering feelings of self-satisfaction. Pain struck him like a gong. He swayed against it, head reeling.
“Theatrics, Sir Drake?” she asked, and tied her mare to a hitch near her cobbled walkway.