Bloody hell.
Malcom joined her at the nob’s side. Falling to a knee, he felt around the man’s neck.
Verity gasped, and squatted beside him. “Are you robbing him?” she squawked, stealing frantic glances about, proving once again that she wasn’t from these parts. All knew that, like the real rodents that roamed these cobblestones, street rats, too, scurried to their respective corners whenever the London skies opened.
“And tell me, is thievery worse than murder, Miss Lovelace?” he drawled.
That managed the seemingly impossible: it silenced the lady.
Malcom resumed his search and then found it: a pulse. Strong and hammering away. “He lives.”
Verity exhaled a small prayer.
She couldn’t remain here.
He couldn’t remain here. The foolish minx was free to do whatever she wanted. Only . . . it was because Miss Verity Lovelace hadn’t given Malcom the answers he’d sought as to why she’d been in the sewers. That was the only reason he even considered taking her with him.
It was absolutely the sole reason.
And not because she was barefoot and brave and spitting mad like a feisty cat. Only . . . Malcom squinted. With her cheeks crimson red, he’d taken that color to be her body’s response to the cold. He’d failed to note her swollen eyes—bloodshot ones. “Were you crying?” he demanded, horror creeping into his question. Tears . . . the ultimate sign of weakness in the roughened streets of East London; there was no place for them, and he’d not a single memory of shedding those drops—ever. Not even the rain falling upon her could mitigate the clear drops of her misery.
She bristled. “Absolutely not. I do not c-cry.” Her voice trembled from the force of her shivering.
“You’re a lousy liar,” he said flatly.
All at once, the downpour eased, and his shout was left echoing on the remnants of the previously gusting wind. Oh, bloody hell. He did a sweep of the still-quiet streets. Now that the rain had abated, the filth would creep from the cobbles, and along with them, the constables.
“I’m not crying, but even if I was, I’d certainly be entitled to whatever it is I’m feeling without making apologies to you.”
“Shh,” he warned.
“I will not.”
Of course she wouldn’t. The chit wouldn’t do anything she was supposed to do. As such, he should leave her to her own devices. And yet, with logic screaming at him, he jumped up and took her by the hand. “Come on,” he muttered, tugging her to her feet.
She emitted a squeak better suited to a bird. “What are you doing?” she cried, digging her heels in and forcing him to a stop.
“Would you be quiet?” He gritted his teeth. God, she was more stubborn than the English sun. “Unless you care to wait for a constable to come by and inquire as to what you’re doing with an unconscious, bleeding gent at your feet, I suggest you start walking, mada—” She’d already kicked her stride into a double time.
Fool. “You’re a damned fool,” he said under his breath as the rain picked up, drowning out most of that sound.
Alas, not enough of it. The minx, with her catlike hearing, sputtered, “I beg your pardon. Did you call me a damned fool?”
“I wouldn’t be off the mark. Climbing into sewers you have no place in, wandering St. Giles alone,” he muttered as they continued their flight. “You may as well hang a sign around your neck and invite trouble to join you for tea and biscuits.”
That effectively silenced the chit.
For a moment.
“Well, I didn’t originally begin here,” she needlessly reminded him as they turned the corner, at last putting some safer distance between her and the man she’d felled. “You were the one who brought me here. And left me.”
Oh, hell, he’d had enough of her ramblings. Malcom stopped abruptly, and with a gasp, Verity Lovelace crashed against his side. He swept his soaking cap off and bowed his head. “I’m sorry; did you expect an escort home?”
“Well, not an escort, per se,” she said, giving her skirts a shake. “But . . .”
And for the first time in more years than he could remember . . . nay, mayhap for the first time in forever, he laughed, the sound rusty and hoarse, and more growl-like than amusement filled.
Verity pursed those temptingly full lips. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Yes,” he confirmed, not missing a beat. “Now, come on.” Malcom hurried on.
Several moments passed before he registered his solitary flight. Cursing, he spun back.
Verity remained where he’d left her, wringing out the front of her dress, her gently rounded features pale. Good God . . . he really should leave her to her fate. So why couldn’t he? Why was he determined to make this woman’s problems his own? It went against all he was and believed in. Cursing blackly, Malcom marched over to her. “What now?” he snapped.
The young woman sank even white teeth into a plump lower lip. “I left him for dead.”
“We left him for dead. Now, let’s go.”
Wholly uncaring about that distinction, Verity remained rooted to the pavement.
“What now?”
“Should we send someone for—”
“He was going to rape you,” he said bluntly. Color rushed to her cheeks, even as the matter-of-fact reminder of the fate that had awaited her sent a primal rage pumping through him. “Do you really care what happens to him?”
“I . . . shouldn’t,” she agreed.
“Precisel—”
“And yet, I’d still not have someone’s death on my hands.” She glanced down at the cobblestones.
He opened his mouth to chide her for that nonsensical logic, but then something made him call those words back. “You’ve never done this?”
She bit her lip and shook her head. “No.” Hers was a whisper.
Swiping at the rain that ran down his face and into his eyes, Malcom took in the soggy creature before him: her soaking skirts were matted to her frame. Her hair hung in a tangle of thick, albeit limp strands around her shoulders.
And then there were her bare feet peeking out from under the frayed hem of her skirts. Blood-soaked toes that she’d not complained about.
Bloody hell . . .
Malcom swept the slip of a woman up; even soaked through to the bone as she was, her frame was light against his.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Verity Lovelace’s voice pitched.
Ignoring her, Malcom loped over the barren cobblestones. At this hour, this end of London generally brimmed with seedy life and danger. But then, even in the sewers, water sent the rats scurrying off to hide.
The woman struggled against him. “Where are y-you taking me?” she demanded in an impressive display of strength and fury.
Malcom tightened his hold, quelling her attempts at freedom. He’d have his answers as to why a woman who spoke like a lady, and wore her indignation like one, too, had been in his tunnels. “Somewhere that isn’t here,” he muttered. The woman went limp in his arms, effectively silenced. Was it silence that checked her questions? Fear?
Fear was safer. When he had her in his residence, her fear would give him answers to the questions he—
Verity Lovelace slammed her fists into his chest with a startling force for one her size; the unexpectedness, along with several uneven cobbles, brought Malcom crashing to his knees, loosening his hold on the termagant.