by Lisa Kleypas
Garrett’s mind sifted through remnants of conversations she’d had during the past week.
“No one knows what side he’s on. But he’s not a man you should have anything to do with.”
“Ransom is a cold-blooded cutthroat whose soul is bound for hell . . .”
“If he did meet you in secret, where would it lead?”
And Ransom’s low voice . . . “I see no fault in you.”
As Garrett stood there, trapped in that mysterious ache of a mood, she could hear a couple quarreling on a nearby street, the bray of a donkey, the cries of a watercress seller as he rolled his handcart along the pavement. The accumulated hum of city noise filled each passing second as London eased from the tumult of the day to the seething excitement of a warm summer night. It was a mean, big-bellied, prosperous city, shod in brick and iron, wearing a thick overcoat of factory smoke, carrying a million secrets in its pockets. Garrett loved it, all of it, from the dome of St. Paul’s down to the lowest sewer rat. London, her friends, and her work, had always been enough for her. Until now.
“I wish . . .” she whispered, and bit her lip.
Where was Ransom at this moment?
Maybe loving the sewer rat was taking it a bit far.
I wish . . . a phrase she never used.
If she closed her eyes—which she was not idiotic enough to do in a parish containing three prisons—she felt as if she might actually be able to see him, like an image trapped in a fortune-teller’s crystal ball.
Garrett was bemused to discover the silver police whistle was in her hand. Without even being aware of it, she had fished the whistle from her jacket pocket. The pad of her thumb rubbed across the gleaming surface.
Obeying a lunatic impulse, she raised the whistle to her lips and gave an abbreviated blow. Not enough to produce a shrill alarm that would alert a constable, just a little chirp. She closed her eyes and counted to three, waiting and listening for an approaching footstep.
Oh, I wish, I wish . . .
Nothing.
Her lashes lifted. No one was there.
It was time to go home. Morosely she tucked the whistle back into her pocket, unhooked the cane from her left arm, and turned to leave.
A smothered exclamation was torn from her as she walked into a wall, the leather bag dropping from her hand. “Suffering savior!”
Not a wall. A man. Her face was mashed against the center of a broad chest.
Before her mind fully comprehended what had happened, her body had already recognized the feel of tough, heavy muscle, the big hands gripping her securely, the clean masculine scent that was nicer than anything in the world. Dark blue eyes took swift and thorough inventory of her, assuring himself of her well-being.
Ransom.
He’d been following her after all. A shaken breath of laughter escaped her. As she looked up into his hard face, exhilaration flooded her as if it had been injected directly into an artery. She was shocked at how good it felt to be with him. Her soul was leaping.
“That whistle is only for when you need help,” Ransom said in a low voice. A scowl darkened his face, but his fingertips flexed slightly as if he longed to fondle and caress the shape of her.
Garrett couldn’t help smiling up at him. “I do need help,” she replied, striving for a normal tone. “I’m hungry.”
A hint of raw emotion stirred beneath his controlled surface. “Acushla,” he said in a rough whisper, “don’t do this.”
“It’s my birthday,” she told him.
His hot gaze turned her inside out. “Is it?”
She nodded, trying to look forlorn. “I’m alone and hungry, and it’s my birthday.”
Ransom uttered a curse as soft as a vesper prayer, and lifted his hand to her face, gently cupping her jaw. The touch of his fingers was so pleasant that she felt a change come over all her skin. After surveying her for a burning moment, he shook his head grimly, as if marveling at a particularly unfortunate turn of fate. He bent to pick up her bag.
“Come,” he said.
And she went with him, neither asking nor caring where they were going.
Chapter 6
Garrett took Ransom’s arm as they walked. He was dressed in workingman’s clothes, with a vest made of leather as thin and soft as glove material. The muscled surface of his arm was hard beneath her palm. He guided her through streets lined with rows of serried buildings. They passed beer shops, a public house, a chandler’s shop, and a store selling secondhand clothes. The street became increasingly populated with sailors and jolly tars, men in greatcoats, shop girls, costers, and well-dressed tradesmen’s wives. Garrett relaxed her usual vigilance, knowing that not a soul would dare approach her in the company of a big, healthy bruiser who was so obviously at home in the streets. In fact, he was the one who made other people fearful.
Which reminded her about the jail break-in.
“I needn’t ask what you’ve been doing since we last met,” she said, “since I read an account of your latest exploit in the Police Gazette.”
“What exploit?”
“Breaking into the holding jail,” she chided. “Attacking those three soldiers. It was very wrong of you, and quite unnecessary.”
“I didn’t attack them. There was a bit of a scuffle at first, but that was only to get their attention while I spent a few minutes blistering their ears.”
“You broke in to scold them?” she asked skeptically.
“I made it clear that any man who tries to harm you will have me beating hell’s torment on him. And if I ever found out they attacked another woman, I told them I’d—” He broke off, apparently thinking better of what he’d been about to say. “Well, I made them afraid to do it again.”
“And that’s why you were described as an unknown offender? Because they were too terrified to identify you?”
“I’m good at scaring people,” he said.
“Apparently, you’ve appointed yourself judge, jury, and executioner. But all of that should be left in the hands of the British system of justice.”
“The law doesn’t always work when it comes to men like that. All they understand is fear and retaliation.” Ransom paused. “If I had a conscience, it wouldn’t be troubled over those bastards. Now, tell me about your visit to the workhouse.”
As they walked, Garrett told him about the patients she’d seen in the infirmary, and her worries about the poor conditions of the place. The improper diet of mostly porridge and bread was especially harmful for children, for without sufficient nourishment, their growth would be permanently stunted and they would be vulnerable to disease. And yet her appeals to the workhouse officials had fallen on deaf ears.
“They said if workhouse food were improved, too many people would be pushing their way in to obtain it.”
“They say the same about prison food,” Ransom said, darkly amused. “Make it too good, the argument goes, and people will commit crimes just to have it. But no one who’s ever found himself on the wrong side of a prison door would ever say that. And the only crime someone commits to end up in a workhouse is to be poor.”
“Obviously some common sense is needed,” Garrett said, “which is why I’ve decided to go over their heads. I’m compiling a report for the Home Secretary’s Office and the Local Government Board, to explain in detail why workhouse administrators should adopt a minimum set of standards. It’s a matter of public health.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “As busy as a stocking full of fleas,” he murmured. “Do you ever make time to enjoy yourself, Doctor?”
“I enjoy my work.”
“I meant kicking up your heels now and then.”
“I had a similar conversation with Dr. Havelock earlier today,” Garrett said with a rueful laugh. “He called me a wet blanket. I suppose you’d agree with him.”
Ransom let out a soft breath of amusement. “Do you, now?” he asked. “A wet blanket smothers fire. You’re what starts the fire.”
That threw her off guard. “Of course, I�
��m an infamous temptress,” she said sardonically. “Anyone could see that.”
“You think I’m mocking you?”
“Mr. Ransom, it’s one thing for you to pay me a reasonable compliment, but it’s quite another to carry on as if I were Cleopatra.”
Instead of looking chastened or abashed, Ransom regarded her with a touch of perplexed annoyance. “Come with me,” he muttered, taking her arm and urging her toward a narrow lane, where a row of costermongers’ wagons and carts had been turned on their ends and chained together, with their shafts aimed upward. A strong aroma of toasted herring and burnt chestnuts wafted from a lodging house nearby.
“Into a dark alley? I think not.”
“I’d rather not discuss this on the street.”
“There’s no need to discuss it. I’ve made my point.”
“And now I’m after making one.” Ransom’s grip on her arm was very firm. The only reason she didn’t twist away was that she was curious about what he would say.
Guiding her into the shadows of an empty doorstep, Ransom set down her bag and cane, and turned toward her. “Whatever else you may think about me,” he said gruffly, “I would never play that kind of game with you. The devil knows how you could doubt my attraction to you after our lesson at Baujart’s. Or didn’t you notice that being near you made me as randy as a prize bull?”
“I noticed,” Garrett whispered sharply. “However, the male erection isn’t always caused by sexual desire.”
His face went blank. “What are you talking about?”
“Spontaneous priapism can be caused by scrotal chafing, traumatic injury to the perineum, a flare-up of gout, an inflamed prostatic duct—” Her list was interrupted as Ransom hauled her against him, front to front.
She was alarmed to feel his entire body shaking. It wasn’t until she heard a ragged chuckle near her ear that she realized he was struggling not to laugh.
“Why is that funny?” she asked, her voice muffled against his chest. He didn’t reply, couldn’t, only shook his head vehemently and continued to wheeze. Nettled, she said, “As a physician, I can assure you there’s nothing humorous about involuntary erections.”
That nearly sent him into hysterics.
“Holy God,” he begged, “no more doctor-talk. Please.”
Garrett held her tongue, waiting while he fought for a measure of control.
“It wasn’t from scrotal chafing,” Ransom eventually said, a last tremor of laughter running through his voice. Letting out an unsteady sigh, he nuzzled against the side of her head. “Since we don’t seem to be mincing words, I’ll tell you what caused it: holding a woman I’d already dreamed about more than I should. Being near you is all it takes to put me in high blood. But I’ve no business wanting you. I shouldn’t have come to you tonight.”
At first Garrett was too stunned to reply. He wielded honesty like a weapon, she thought dazedly. Now he’d left them nowhere to hide. Coming from a man as secretive as he was, it was astonishing.
“You had no choice,” she eventually said. “I summoned you.” Her cheek curved against his shoulder as she added, “My genie of the whistle.”
“I don’t grant wishes,” he said.
“A second-rate genie. I should have known I’d get one of those.”
A last whisk of amusement sank into her hair, and his fingertip charted the soft rim of her ear.
Garrett’s head lifted. As she saw how close his mouth was, and felt the clean, warm rush of his breath, her stomach did an odd little flip.
She’d been kissed before, once by a charming doctor while working as a nurse at St. Thomas’s Hospital, and another time by a fellow medical student at the Sorbonne. Both occasions had been something of a disappointment. The sensation of a man’s mouth against hers had not been unpleasant, but she certainly hadn’t understood how anyone could describe kissing as a rapturous experience.
With Ethan Ransom, though . . . she thought it might be different.
He was still, his gaze locked on hers with an intensity that sent a jolt through her. He was going to kiss her, she thought, and she went weak with anticipation, her heart thudding and pumping.
But he let go of her abruptly, his lips twisting with self-mocking amusement. “I promised you something to eat. We have to keep you in fighting trim.”
They went back to the main street and proceeded toward a steady thrum of noise. As they turned a corner, Garrett saw Clerkenwell Green ahead of them, bustling with a massive crowd. All the shop fronts were lit, and at least a hundred temporary market stalls had been set up and trestled in double rows. Originally a village green with walks, trees, and mown lawn, the space was now a paved public gathering place bordered by houses, shops, inns, factories, public houses, and coffee rooms. Near the center of the green, a space had been cleared for dancing jigs, hornpipes, and polkas to the music of fiddles and cornopeans. Street singers wandered through the milling throng, stopping here and there to perform comic songs or sentimental ballads.
Garrett regarded the scene with amazement. “It looks like a Saturday-night market.”
“It’s to celebrate the new underground London Ironstone line. The railway owner, Tom Severin, is paying out of his own pocket for fairs and concerts across the city.”
“Mr. Severin may be taking credit for the celebrations,” Garrett said wryly, “but I can assure you, not a shilling of it has come from his own pocket.”
Ransom’s gaze flashed to her. “You know Severin?”
“I’m acquainted with him,” she said. “He’s a friend of Mr. Winterborne’s.”
“But not yours?”
“I would call him a friendly acquaintance.” A ripple of delight ran through her as she saw the notch between his brows. Was it possible he was jealous? “Mr. Severin is a schemer,” she said. “An opportunist. He contrives everything for his own advantage, even at the expense of his friends.”
“A businessman, then,” Ransom said flatly.
Garrett laughed. “He certainly is that.”
They skirted the crowd and headed to a row of stalls, each independently lit with self-generating gas lamps, grease lamps, or candle flames covered with rush light shades. Food was kept hot in large cans resting on iron firepots, or in tin and brass machines with fragrant steam issuing from little funnels at the top.
“What kind of food would you—” Ransom began, but broke off as his attention was caught by a minor disturbance near a cluster of stands. A plump, rosy-faced young woman wearing a felt hat festooned with colored silk ribbons was clutching a long, flat market basket while a red-haired constable tried to tug it away from her. People were gathering to watch the spectacle, some laughing, others lobbing insults at the constable.
“’Tis Maggie Friel,” Ransom said in a rueful tone. “I know the family well—I was friends with her brother. Would you mind if I take care of this?”
“By all means,” Garrett said readily.
Ransom strode to the arguing pair, while Garrett followed close behind. “What’s this, McSheehy?” he asked the constable.
“I’m confiscatin’ her ribbon spool for givin’ me sass, is what it is,” the officer snapped, wresting the basket from the woman’s grasp. It contained threads, scraps of fabric, and a long dowel holding rolls of laces and ribbons.
The sobbing woman turned to Ransom. “He can’t take me ribbands just cos I cheeked him, can he?”
“I can, and I will,” the constable told her. With his face flushed from outrage and exertion, and his ruddy brows and hair, he was as red as a live coal.
“You great bully,” the woman cried. “May the cat eat ye, and the devil eat the cat!”
“Hush now, and hold your clack, Maggie,” Ransom interrupted quietly. “Colleen, would it harm you to speak more kindly to a man who’s charged with keeping the peace?” As she made to reply, he raised his hand in a staying gesture and turned to the constable, his voice lowering. “Bill, you know selling those ribbons is her livelihood. Taking them from
her is the same as taking bread from her mouth. Have a heart, man.”
“She called me a dispargin’ name one time too many.”
“Bandy-Shanks?” Maggie taunted. “Ye mean that one?”
The constable’s eyes narrowed.
“Maggie,” Ransom warned softly, sending the woman a meaningful glance. “Stop cheekin’ the poor man. If I were you, I’d make peace and offer him a length of ribbon for his sweetheart.”
“I have no sweetheart,” the constable muttered.
“’Tis shocked I am,” Maggie said acidly.
Ransom chucked her beneath the chin with a gentle forefinger.
Heaving a sigh, Maggie turned to the constable. “Oh, fie, I’ll give ye a ribband, then.”
“What would I do with it?” McSheehy asked with a frown.
“Are ye daft?” she demanded. “D’ye know nothing about sweetheartin’? Give it to a girl ye fancy, and say it flatters her eyes.”
Grudgingly the policeman handed the basket back to her.
“Slán, Éatán,” Maggie said as she began measuring out a length from the spool.
As Ransom drew Garrett away with him, she asked, “What did she say to you?”
“The Irish are superstitious about using the word good-bye. Instead we say slán, which means ‘go in safety.’”
“And the other word? . . . Ay-ah-tahn. What does that mean?”
“Éatán is how the Irish say my name.”
Garrett thought the three syllables were lovely, with a musical lilt. “I like that,” she said gently. “But your last name . . . Ransom . . . that’s English, isn’t it?”
“There have been Ransoms in Westmeath for over three hundred years. Don’t make me prove I’m Irish in public, lass—it would prove embarrassing to us both.”
“No need,” she assured him, a grin crossing her face.
His free hand slid to the small of her back as they walked. “Have you been to Clerkenwell Green before?”
“Not for a long time.” Garrett nodded toward a tidy church with a single tower and spire, set on a hilly rise above the green. “That’s St. James, isn’t it?”
“Aye, and over there stands Canonbury House, where the Lord Mayor lived with his daughter Elizabeth long ago.” Ransom pointed toward a manor in the distance. “When he found out Elizabeth had fallen in love with young Lord Compton, he forbade her to marry, and shut her in the tower. But Compton managed to sneak her out of the house and carry her off in a baker’s basket, and they wed soon after.”