by Shana Galen
Gideon spun in a circle, attempting to locate a window, and finding none, began to plan how he would survive the beating. Dagget laughed and lifted his hands menacingly.
“Now, Dagget—” Gideon began.
The door behind the woman slammed open, and the dash shouldered his way inside.
“Jean!” the dash hollered upon seeing the naked woman. The dash lunged for the man in the—presumably his—bed, and the woman threw herself on her husband’s back.
Gideon went for the door.
Dagget met him halfway. Gideon ducked to avoid the fist aimed at his nose and slammed the rocklike loaf into the man’s breadbasket. Dagget doubled over, and Gideon shoved past him. He ran for the stairs, skidding to a stop on the middle step when he spotted Jack Gipson lounging at the bottom.
“I was betting you’d be back this way,” Gipson said.
“Then you win the prize,” Gideon said between shallow breaths.
“Prize? What prize?”
“Here!” Gideon tossed the cap holding the hot coals inside, and Gipson caught the bundle. With a scream, he tossed the cap from hand to hand then dropped it on the floor and ran into the rain to cool his reddened hands. Gideon jumped down the steps, lifted the cap by the strings, and plunged into the rain.
* * *
Gideon sheltered the cap from the rain as best as he could. He was blinded by the downpour as before, the winds were cold, and the thunder was closer than ever. The storm would persist tonight. They’d have to hole up in the building until the weather cleared, so he’d better make sure the coal stayed hot.
He zigzagged through the eddies and streams that now comprised the streets and finally ducked into the shelter. He’d no more than shook the rain off his face than the dog emitted a menacing growl.
“Don’t come any closer!” Strawberry warned. “I am armed.”
“With what?” Gideon asked. “A fan?”
“Gideon?” Her voice sounded hopeful, and when lightning crackled in the sky, he found her huddled in a corner with the glim-stick.
His old friend the glim-stick. His head still hurt from their first meeting, and now his face hurt from the moll’s shoe. Hell of a night he was having.
“Yes, it’s me, so call off the attack dog.”
“Beauty. It’s Gideon.”
Gideon moved to shove the bar back down over the door and lock them both in—and others out. The damn dog knew who he was. It just didn’t like him.
“I was afraid something had happened. You were gone an eternity.”
“Met with some old cronies.”
The next flash of lightning illuminated the room again. Gideon moved toward the back where the dilapidated remains of a staircase crumbled.
She huffed. “So you were carousing while I sat here in the dark and worried.”
“Something like that.” He bent and scooped up a stack of old pamphlets and newspapers.
“What are you doing?” Strawberry asked.
“Gathering material to burn.”
A long silence ensued, and he filled his arms. Some of the bills were so old they’d disintegrate as soon as the coal touched them.
“But there’s no fireplace. No stove.”
Gideon dropped the papers in the center of the room. “Don’t need one.”
The strings of the cap hung from his wrist. He grasped the edges and turned it over so the coal fell into the pile of papers. For a long moment, nothing happened. Gideon crouched down and blew on the coal, encouraging a fire. Smoke wafted into his nostrils, making him cough, but he blew again, gently. One old paper began to smolder and then another. A small fire leaped from one of the papers, and Gideon cupped his hands around it and shoved another paper into it. He fed the fire like that until it was stronger, and then gathered a handful of more pamphlets. These he rolled into logs to make them last longer. He laid several on the hungry fire and stacked others nearby. He could feed the fire for an hour or so before he ran out of tinder.
He paused, took a breath, and pulled the gin from his coat. His gaze met Strawberry’s across the flames. Lifting the bottle to his mouth, he took a sip, grimaced, and took another.
“You’re drinking? At a time like this.”
“Let me give you some advice, Strawberry,” he said, his throat burning. “When a man brings you fire, drink, and food”—he tossed the brick-like loaf onto the ground—“say thank you and stubble it.”
She pressed her lips together in what looked like a silent struggle. “Thank you,” she finally said quietly. He toasted her with the bottle.
“You’re welcome. Now, drink a little of this.”
“No. I can smell that foul brew from here.”
He shoved another paper log on the fire and moved to sit beside her, resting his back against a wall. “A sip won’t kill you, and it might warm you up. Just a sip. I’ll use the rest to clean your leg.”
“You intend to pour that on my leg?”
He made a sound of acknowledgment. “Saw a doctor do that once. He said it cleans a wound better than water.” He held the bottle to her. “Come on, Strawberry. Drink to your health.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t!”
“Don’t smell it. Drink it. Here.”
He pinched her nose and held the bottle to her lips. She gave him a murderous look, which was less than effective when he held her nose, and sipped. Immediately, she attempted to spit it out. Gideon clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Swallow.”
With fury in her eyes, she did. He released her mouth, and she coughed violently. “Eh! Awful man!”
“Give it a few moments. You’ll feel warmer. Now, let me see your leg.”
Her back went rigid. “I will not!”
He had the strong urge to down the rest of the gin and put himself out of this misery for a few hours.
“Strawberry,” he said, trying for a patient tone, “the fire won’t last all night. Let me see how badly you’re hurt.”
“I can’t show you my legs.”
The buffer yipped its agreement.
“I’ve seen legs before. Yours are nothing new.”
She eyed him skeptically.
“Don’t you think if I were planning to ravish you, I would have done it by now? Showing me your dirty, bloodstained leg won’t throw me into a wild frenzy of lust.”
She smiled at that.
“Oh, so you can smile.” Gideon smiled back. “Was it the wild frenzy of lust? I thought that was a clever one.”
She gave a short, breathy laugh. “You’re not at all what I expected.”
“Pull up your skirts,” he said. Bet no man had ever said that to her before.
She closed her eyes and dragged her hem to her knee. Her stockings were shredded, and blood caked one shin from ankle to knee. She had a nasty scrape, as he’d expected.
What he hadn’t expected was the hot flash of lust he felt when he saw her pale, undamaged leg. Yes, he had seen women’s legs before, but he’d never seen any like these. They were the color of cream, and shapely, neither too plump nor too skinny. Her skin had a pinkish-gold tinge to it. The color might have been an effect of the fire, but Gideon didn’t think so. Small ankles peeked from the ugly boots she wore. Their delicate bones were visible, and he had the strangest need to kiss her anklebone, to touch that fragile flesh and bone.
“Oh, dear Lord.”
His gaze shot to her face, which had grown pale. Her lips trembled. “I can’t look again. I think I shall faint.”
“No swooning. No vapors.” He shoved the gin bottle into her hands, forced it to her mouth.
Reluctantly, she sipped it. This time she swallowed without protest.
“It’s not so bad,” he said, taking one of her frilly underthings between his fingers and using it to wipe away some of the blood and dirt. Sh
e gasped.
“It will hurt more when I clean it. Better take one more drink and brace yourself.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Leave me alone.”
Gideon raised his hands, the bottle in one hand glinting in the firelight. “That’s your choice, but if infection sets in, who knows what might happen. I’ve seen cubs with cuts like this. After a few days, yellow-green stuff runs from the wound, and then it turns all black and falls off. Cubs lose legs and arms like that all the time. I think I saw one floating by on my way back.”
“You’re lying.”
He cocked his head to the side. “It’s your leg. A pretty one too.”
She inhaled sharply. “You said you would not ogle me.”
“No, I said I wouldn’t ravish you. Now, am I pouring gin on the wound, or will you risk it turning black and rotting off?”
“Give me that bottle,” she demanded.
He handed it over.
She took a long swallow, and Gideon had to yank it away from her mouth. “That’s enough. I only have one bottle.”
She was coughing so hard she probably didn’t hear him. Finally, she looked up, hand to her throat. “Do it,” she whispered.
“Are you su—?”
“Just do it!” Her voice was raspy but held a note of determination.
He placed one hand on her uninjured leg to hold her still, and raised the bottle with his other hand. He’d meant to pour the gin immediately, but the warm, silky flesh under his palm caught his attention. He glanced down to be certain he touched bare skin, not her gown.
His dark hand rested on her pale flesh, his palm wrapping almost all the way around her calf. How the hell did she have skin so soft? Even with the mud and the rainwater, he thought he could detect the slightest hint of flowers. Some sort of soap? Was it her gown? Her skin? He’d never known a woman who smelled like that, so sweet and clean.
“Gideon?”
“Oh, right.” He lifted the bottle again and poured.
She screamed and kneed him in the jaw. He yelled and fell back, rubbing his jaw with one hand. “Bloody hell and back to bloody hell again!” His jaw hurt like one of the cubs had taken a poker to it. First his head, then his temple, now his chin.
“I am sorry.” She reached for him, clutching his arm. “I am so sorry.”
Gideon sat. “I’m fine.” He shook her hands off him. He didn’t want her sympathy. “I think we’re even.”
Her skirts had fallen over her legs again, and he gestured to the hem. “May I?”
She nodded. He lifted the hem again and examined his work. The leg was much cleaner now, and the wound free of most of the dirt and grime. He couldn’t see well in the firelight, but it didn’t appear to be a deep wound.
“Just a scratch,” he told her, dropping her skirts.
“A scratch?”
Gideon drew back. His face couldn’t withstand another hit. “A serious scratch.”
“I hate you.” She leaned back, resting her head against the wall of the building. Gideon tossed another paper log on the fire and forced his gaze to remain on the flames. It didn’t help. He could see the curves of those shapely legs in his mind. His fingers tingled with the need to caress her impossibly soft skin.
“The feeling is mutual, I assure you.” Except if he hated her, why did he want to see that leg again? She wasn’t the sort of woman he usually found attractive. Not that he ever had cause to be in close contact with her sort before.
Marlowe was what Gideon considered his ideal. She had dark hair and striking blue eyes and a round, voluptuous body she’d been clever to conceal. Marlowe had been a cunning rook with a quick wit and more balls than most of the men he knew.
This girl…
Gideon glanced at Strawberry.
She was no Marlowe.
Strawberry was tall and thin. She had curves—he’d seen that well enough when he’d lifted the hem of her skirts—but the curves were gentle and sloping. Not like the rounded, generous curves he preferred on a woman. Her hair hung about her shoulders, half of it pinned and the rest damp and tangled across her back. She had red hair, not the bright red of the Scots or Irish, but a delicate blond with pale red infused throughout.
Or perhaps that was the fire playing tricks on his sight.
The fire could not deceive him as to the length or the thickness though. The locks must have fallen to her waist, at least, and they were so thick he could have fashioned a sturdy rope from them.
She opened her eyes. Gideon looked away quickly, a habit and not a necessary one, considering the unfocused quality of her usually clear gaze. She would be feeling the effects of the gin now. Maybe the gin was playing tricks on his mind too. Else why would he still be thinking about the silky length of leg under her skirt or what he might find if he lifted those skirts higher?
The dog nuzzled her hand, and she rolled her head to look down at the creature. Suddenly she straightened, looking as though she’d seen a rat. “Gideon!”
“Where is it?” he asked, looking around. Rats were nasty little buggers. He’d been bitten enough times to form a personal dislike.
“She’s white. Underneath all that dirt and grime, she’s white!”
It took him a moment to realize she spoke of the dog. Sure enough, the rain had washed some of the dirt away. He would have called her color more of a gray, but with the application of soap and another rinse, the dog’s fur would have been white as snow. Gideon threw another paper log onto the fire.
“Guess she goes to prove appearances can be deceiving.”
Strawberry cocked her head, another lock of hair falling over her shoulder, and gave him a long look. “My brother Brook always says not to judge based on appearances.”
Gideon grunted. Brook Derring again—inspector, friend of the Bow Street Runners, and a master thief-taker. Gideon had no love for pigs, but when he’d had cause to work with Derring, the man had earned his trust.
That was not an easy feat.
“I suppose he’d know better than anyone. One too many men turned on him and tried to stab him in the back.”
Strawberry shook her head. “That’s not what he meant. At least, I don’t think that’s what he meant.”
Her words slurred slightly, and she’d stopped hugging her arms. The gin had warmed her. The fire and the dog at her side helped too.
“Don’t tell me the famous Sir Derring told you that underneath all the shit and stink of Saffron Hill or Bethnal Green, the rooks have hearts of gold. I’ve lived in the rookeries most of my life, and any man or woman with a heart of gold would have sold it the first chance they had.”
“Even you?” she asked.
“Especially me. Don’t start thinking I’m some sort of hero like your brother. I’m only taking you to Vauxhall to get my necklace back.”
“It’s not your neck—”
“I don’t care about you or all the jabbering you did about dreams. That might work with Lighter and Corker”—why the hell had all her nonsense persuaded Lighter and Corker?—“but it don’t work with me.”
“So underneath all your dirt and grime”—she gestured to his chest—“your heart is just as black.”
Gideon peered down at his shirt. It was still passing white. “Who are you calling dirty?”
“I meant it figert-figur-fig—” She lifted her hands in exasperation. “It was a metaphor. A metaphor is—”
“I know what a metaphor is. I know what figuratively means too. I may be a thief, but I’m not ignorant. I can read.”
“You can?”
He pushed back from her in disgust and tossed another paper log on the fire. He didn’t have many left, and the rain continued outside. They might be forced to stay here all night. Hell, this was London. It might rain for a week.
“I apologize,” she said. “I was judging based on a
ppearance again.”
“Makes no difference to me.”
Which was a lie. It did make a difference. He cared how she saw him. He didn’t know why he should care what some little girl in pink silk—who’d never had a care in her life—should think about him.
But he did.
The fire crackled in the silence, and outside the shushing of the rain continued as it sluiced off roofs and sliced through the coal-thick skies. Strawberry’s eyes drooped, and he expected her to snore in a few minutes.
“Is it true what the boys said about Marlowe?”
The question startled him, not only because he’d thought her close to sleep, but because it was so unexpected. “The boys? I promise you, Stryker’s crew haven’t been boys in a long time. If ever.”
He’d evaded her question, picking a quarrel over her words. The strategy was tried and true, and one he employed often.
“The men then,” she said. With a light wave of her hand, she brushed aside his defenses. “Is it true about Marlowe and you? You were lovers.”
Again, she’d pierced the heart of a subject he’d rather keep wholly to himself. Gideon wasn’t renowned for his prowess in fisticuffs. He was fast and smart because he didn’t always win when he fought. But he knew a few ducks and jibes.
“Will you run to Lord Dane and tell him if I say I…” He paused and remembered his audience. She was leaning forward slightly, intent on his words, her bubbies swelling slightly at the bodice of the gown.
Don’t start ogling her bubbies. It was bad enough he couldn’t force the image of her legs out of his head.
“If I say I bedded her?”
Even though he’d used the least offensive term he knew, her cheeks still heated and flamed. She must be as innocent as a sunrise. He liked seeing that blush creep across her cheeks, liked the color it added to her pale face. He almost wanted to shock her again.
“No. I don’t report to the earl. My brother loves Marlowe. I don’t think he’d care what she did or did not do”—she gave him a steely stare as though in challenge—“before they wed.”
Gideon snorted and shoved at the smoldering papers with a boot. “He cares. Men always care where a woman’s been. Especially his sort—the swells. They want their wives untouched by another man’s dirty paws.” He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers at her.