God, she was brave. Malcom curved his lips up in a slow, cold smile. Either way, no one struck him. Certainly not a strange slip of a woman invading tunnels that belonged only to him.
“You should not have done that.”
Chapter 5
THE LONDONER
WHO HAS HE BEEN?
What did the Lost Heir turn to in his absence? Thievery? Begging? Worse? Society can only wonder . . . for now . . .
M. Fairpoint
You should not have done that . . .
No truer, more accurate words could have been applied to Verity and her decisions this night.
All of them.
Since Verity had discovered her story had been ripped off, there were any number of things she should not have done: climbed into the bowels of London’s underbelly. Unarmed, at that. Waded through filth in search of her sister’s slippers.
“I—I disagree,” she said on a rush; terror brought her voice creeping up an octave, and yet, neither would she be silent in the face of the ominous threat glinting in his golden stare.
Golden, like a feral cat’s.
The thought had no sooner slipped in than he took a slow, predatory step closer.
Her heart thudded, and she backed up. This had been a mistake.
“You . . . what?” he murmured, his voice a shade deeper than a baritone.
Verity’s bare foot caught an uneven cobble. She stumbled and managed to right herself. “I disagree. You deserved a good s-slap.”
Thankfully, those words managed the seemingly impossible.
The stranger stopped his menacing approach. “Did I?” He dusted the tip of his dagger, a blade that glimmered even in these tunnels, along an enormous palm.
She took in that menacing drag of his blade. By God, she’d not let him unsettle her any more than she had been. Verity gave a shaky nod. “Indeed.” Of its own volition, her gaze slid longingly behind the stranger; with wide shoulders and enormous thighs, he stood, a mountain of a man, blocking her path to freedom. She’d never make it past him.
“Indeed,” he echoed, a taunting edge to his voice. A cool, emotionless grin tipped the right corner of his mouth, leading hard lips into a dangerous half smile. As if he’d followed her thoughts and celebrated her fear. “Fancy lady, are you?”
Verity scoffed. “Hardly.” She might have the blood of an earl in her veins, but that blood was tainted by birthright. Either way, this hulking figure hardly cared; he merely mocked, and as such, she met that disdain with the stony expression she’d perfected with the villagers’ children. “My birthright, however, shouldn’t matter. You’ve no right to put your hands on any woman,” she said crisply. And yet, how many times had she witnessed her mother in the village, subjected to that fate because the world had known she was nothing more than the mistress of a nobleman? And how many times had Verity herself encountered a less-than-subtle touch? The only difference was . . . there’d been nothing sexual about this man’s hands on her. There’d been a perfunctory, all-businesslike purpose to it. Even so . . . there’d also been a thrill of danger, a whispered warning echoing through her that said Run.
He touched his middle and index finger to an imagined hat’s brim. “I’ll remember your lesson on propriety when I’m not stalking through a sewer.”
She’d have to be deaf and dumb to fail to hear the jeering edge there. Only through her terror, Verity noted the details that had previously escaped her: the quality of his dark wool trousers and matching cutaway jacket. His cultured tones better suited for an English gentleman. She ran her eyes over the gleaming strands of blond hair drawn back from a clean-shaven face. And there could be only one certainty: this man who taunted her even now was no sewer dweller. “Who are you?” she asked quietly, the question born of a curiosity that came from the work she’d done and loved.
“The Devil.”
That whisper scraped chills down her spine.
He was on her before she could form a proper, useless scream. Covering her mouth, he muted that cry, drowning out a futile plea for help. She’d been a fool to challenge him. Verity bucked and writhed and thrashed. Oh, God. I’m going to die here . . .
Bearlike in size and strength, the man caught her wrists in one hand and brought them above her head. In one fluid move, he spun her around and pinned her palms to the brick wall, anchoring her in place. “Be still,” he commanded like a king.
Terror lapped at her senses, stealing any logical thought beyond the evil he intended with her. Verity increased her struggles. She bit at his callused palm but couldn’t part her lips enough to catch the coarse skin. Blackness tugged at the corners of her vision. And even as unconsciousness was preferable, she could not give in. Because she’d never awaken. She’d die here.
He placed his lips against her ear, and her eyes rolled toward the dank stones overhead.
“I said, be still,” he whispered. Spearmint wafted in the air, conjuring memories of the treats her father had tucked into her palm as a girl when he’d come to visit, that child’s treat contradictory with this brute now at her back.
Ever so slightly, he eased some of the pressure in his hand, allowing her to draw some breath.
“Are you going to be quiet?” The question hadn’t even fully left his mouth before Verity was nodding her head in a jerky shake.
He edged his enormous palm away, and her entire body sagged, but her captor kept her upright as easily as if he played with a child’s doll. Verity gasped, struggling to bring air into her lungs.
“Now,” he said coolly, “you’re not the one asking questions. Are we clear?”
Fighting still for a proper breath, Verity managed nothing more than a nod.
“Now.” He lowered her arms but still kept them wrapped in a manacle-like grip, one with a shocking amount of strength, and yet there was also a gentleness to it that belied any criminal intent. Or was that merely hope and wishful thought on her part? He turned her back so that Verity faced him. “Who are you?”
“V-Verity Lovelace.” Her voice emerged hoarse from fear and the useless fight she’d put up against him. She pressed her eyes briefly closed. All the while trying to put disorderly thoughts to rights. To plan her escape. To answer his questions.
The stranger released her. “Miss Verity Lovelace,” he murmured, bringing her eyes open.
Another gasp burst from her; he had his dagger in hand, casually angled at her chest. Flee. She arched forward, poised for flight.
“Uh-uh.” Her captor had perfected the cheerfully delivered threat. “I’d advise against that.”
He’d end her. She saw the promise of her death reflected in those gold eyes.
“Now, what were you searching for, Miss Verity Lovelace?” Verity had been jeered and mocked the better part of her life for her birthright alone. This stranger before her, however, was the first who’d managed to gibe so perfectly with a single syllable. “Or . . .” He did a sweep of the tunnels. “Is there a husband whom you are here on behalf of?”
“N-no. There’s no husband.”
“A client?”
A client? And then the meaning of his question hit her. “No.” The denial burst from her, that indignation preposterous to her own ears, given that he was a thug of the streets with a clear intent to kill, or at the very least harm, her. Even so . . . “I’m here of my own volition.”