by Kelly Bowen
From out of the shadows, a figure emerged. Then another.
“Look what we have here.” The man who spoke first was barrel-chested, the buttons of his coat straining over the front of his torso. He had a hat pulled down over his ears so it was difficult to see his expression, but it was not difficult to interpret his intentions.
The second man stepped into the narrow lane. He wasn’t as big, but he had the build of a man who made his living with hard labor. “An aris-to-crat,” he mocked, making it clear exactly what he thought of the upper classes.
Beside him, he saw Beaumont open his mouth.
“That’s right,” Flynn snapped before Beaumont could say anything. “And I’d trouble you to leave myself and my servant alone.” If these two blackguards believed the boy was a mere servant, they’d likely leave him be. His rumpled appearance helped, as did the pallor of Beaumont’s face above his scarf and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. A surge of protectiveness hit Flynn with the force of a runaway carriage.
“That’s a fine coat you’re wearing, mate,” the smaller of the two men said to Flynn. “And fine boots. Expensive.”
Flynn didn’t need to glance at the grey coat or the boots he wore to know exactly how expensive they looked or why he might have been mistaken for a rich toff. The coat was made of superfine, lined and tailored, the boots made of polished, supple leather with reinforced soles. He had bought them with the money from his first large commission because, for as long as he could remember, winter had meant bone-chilling misery, ragged garments, and broken shoes stuffed with paper no match for the incapacitating cold. The coat and the boots had cost him dearly, and they had been worth every penny.
“We’ll take yer boots and yer coat and whatever is in them pockets.” The bigger man lifted his hand, and Flynn could see that he held a knife.
“You don’t want to do this,” Flynn said.
The men were laughing at Flynn’s words. “I can assure ye, we do. Besides, a bloke like you can afford it.” They took a few steps closer. “Now give me yer coat. I don’t want to make you bleed all over it.”
“Get out of here, Beaumont,” Flynn ordered under his breath.
Beaumont’s head snapped around. “What?”
“Go. Run. They don’t want you. They want me. And I can handle myself.”
“I’m not running. I’m not leaving you alone.”
Flynn fought back a surge of frustration. “It wasn’t a request,” he snapped. “And you don’t want to see this. Go. Get help—”
The man with the knife sprang at him without warning, catching Flynn off guard, but Beaumont drove his shoulder into the man’s barrel chest, making the attacker stumble. Flynn thought he saw the knife flash in the dull light but he was already leaping forward, wrenching the man’s thick forearm back and to the side in practiced movements he had not had to use in a long time. He felt the man’s shoulder joint pop, heard him scream, and the knife dropped to the ground. Flynn delivered a punishing blow to the man’s kneecap with the heel of his boot, and he fell heavily, but not before Flynn had snatched up his knife.
The second man was much faster than his cohort. Flynn felt the air hiss as a blade narrowly missed the side of his face, and he danced back, adjusting his grip on his own weapon. It was clumsy, this knife, unbalanced and bulky, but it would do. Flynn had done more with less in the past. The smaller man shuffled around his writhing, groaning partner, looking for an advantage that Flynn wouldn’t give him. He couldn’t see Beaumont, and he hoped that the boy was long gone.
“You don’t want to do this,” Flynn said again.
The man only bared his teeth in response and lunged with his knife. Flynn sidestepped easily, his fingers once again flexing around the wooden handle of his own blade.
“Just leave,” Flynn tried. “Take your friend. He’s got a dislocated shoulder and a shattered kneecap, and both need attention if he’s going to be able to use his arm and leg again.”
His attacker ignored him and lunged again, and this time, Flynn spun and brought his blade down, leaving a deep gash across the man’s chest. “Stop, please,” he said, though he was beginning to lose patience, the old battle fever rising and starting to pound through his veins.
The man shouted in fury and rushed forward, swinging wildly. Flynn dodged, and his blade found purchase in his attacker’s upper arm. But the man didn’t even flinch, nor did he slow his attack. He just kept coming, his knife whistling back and forth.
Flynn crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, and let him come, using his forearm to block his opponent and at the same time sinking his blade into the hard muscle of the man’s thigh, hoping to slow him down. But as Flynn twisted, the heel of his boot caught on an uneven ridge, and Flynn felt himself pitching backward. He hit the ground on his backside, and in an instant, his attacker launched himself on top of him.
He tried to roll away, but the man was like a wildcat, his movements erratic and frenzied as his knife flashed downward. Flynn waited for his opening as he blocked each thrust, knowing that his attacker could not maintain this for long—
A sharp crack resounded, and the man suddenly pitched forward with a stunned expression on his face, landing face-first on the ground. Beaumont stood over him, with what looked like a piece of broken fence board in his hand. Flynn scrambled to his feet.
“What the hell are you doing?” Flynn demanded, breathing hard, the blood still roaring in his ears. “I told you to go and get help.”
“I did.” Beaumont was blinking rapidly. “That board was very helpful.”
Flynn glanced down at the board in Beaumont’s hand and realized with horror that the jagged wood was slick with blood. As was the boy’s whole left hand and the entire outer edge of the sleeve of his coat, an ominous dark stain in the low light.
“You’re bleeding,” Flynn said, reaching for him.
Beaumont frowned and swayed slightly. “I do feel a little funny,” he said.
“Shit,” Flynn swore, catching the boy under his arm and noticing the gaping tear at the shoulder of his baggy coat. The edges had bloomed dark as more blood soaked into the fabric. The heavy man must have gotten him when he had charged at Flynn. When Beaumont had stepped into his path to stop him.
He switched sides, pulling Beaumont’s good arm over his shoulder, even as the boy tried to push his hands away. “I don’t need your help,” he mumbled, but his words were slurred. “I’m fine.” And then his eyes rolled up in his head, his lashes fluttered, and he went limp against Flynn.
“Shit,” Flynn swore again. “Shit, shit, shit.” How badly had Beaumont been cut? He couldn’t see how deep it went. Stitches might be enough to fix it. Provided it didn’t go putrid. Provided infection didn’t spread down his arm. Provided Beaumont didn’t subside into a fever and waste away. Flynn had seen that before. More times than he cared to remember and from wounds that had looked completely innocent at first.
Fear—real fear—coursed through him. He bent and scooped the boy up into his arms, thinking that he wasn’t as heavy as he expected. Flynn hurried toward the spire of St. Michael’s, trying not to jar the boy too much.
He reached the grounds and hesitated briefly, wondering if he should alert Lisbon. No, that could wait. And there was no guarantee that Lisbon wouldn’t insist on summoning a doctor. The sort that poked and prodded with their lancets, drained more blood, and generally made a bad situation worse. Flynn might not be a surgeon or a physician, but he had treated knife wounds more times than he cared to remember, and he trusted himself more than the quacks he had seen in action. After all these years, he still kept a kit in his belongings that contained everything he needed to treat such wounds.
That decided, he veered in the direction of their studio. He crashed through the door, kicking it shut against the cold with his foot, and hurried to Beaumont’s room, laying the boy on the bed with as much care as he could manage. He left Beaumont just long enough to fetch both the lanterns from the studio floor and set
them on the tiny washstand, dragging it closer to the bed.
Beaumont was pale, a scrape on his temple Flynn hadn’t noticed before slowly leaking blood. But he wasn’t worried about that. He needed to see what sort of real damage had been done to the boy’s shoulder. Flynn’s fingers fumbled first with his scarf, pulling it away, before attacking the buttons of Beaumont’s baggy coat, and he shoved it open. As gently as he could, Flynn eased his good arm out of its sleeve, rolling him over slightly so he could pull the coat out from under him and away from his left.
The boy groaned slightly but didn’t open his eyes.
He tossed the coat to the floor, already reaching for the ties of his equally shapeless and bulky shirt. Against the pale linen, the blood looked more sinister, Beaumont’s entire left arm soaked and darkening. Flynn cursed and pulled at the stubborn laces of the ruined shirt, needing to see the extent of the injury. Beaumont groaned again, his head twisting to the side, one of his hands coming up to push at Flynn’s.
“Stop,” the boy whispered faintly before he went limp again.
“Shut up,” Flynn snapped, not certain Beaumont could even hear him. “Lie still.” The laces gave way, and Flynn grasped the worn linen in his hands and pulled, the fabric tearing easily. “I can’t see where the blood is—” He stopped.
Stopped speaking, stopped moving, stopped breathing.
Though he could see Charlie Beaumont’s chest moving up and down. No, he thought numbly, not Charlie. Or Charles, for that matter. He didn’t know who the hell was on the bed in front of him, but it wasn’t a he.
It seemed obvious now, in the way that hindsight makes complete fools out of otherwise intelligent men. But Flynn hadn’t seen it because he hadn’t been looking. Because he’d never had a reason to look. Because he’d been so inwardly focused and consumed by his own bitter struggles that he hadn’t bothered to look at hers.
The initial shock was starting to fade, and Flynn fought to put his thoughts in order and examine what lingered. The anger that had instantly welled with the unwelcome surprise had also diminished, and he recognized that response was more a product of his damaged pride than anything else. Because with it, there was admiration that she had been able to hide in plain sight so deftly. There was wonder at the measures that she had felt she had needed to take so that she could do what she was clearly born to do.
But most prominent was the peculiar protectiveness he had first felt in that narrow lane. A protectiveness that had suddenly taken on a whole different slant. It was probably better that Flynn had believed himself to be defending a boy named Charlie Beaumont because, had he been defending the nameless woman lying so still before him, he wasn’t sure he simply wouldn’t have slit the throats of both thieves. Which was a ridiculous sentiment, he knew, because in theory, nothing had truly changed.
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?”