They went the remainder of the way to his residence in silence. Winding them through the alleys that led to the back of his lodgings, Malcom reached the kitchen doors. He kicked the panel with the heel of his boot.
“You can set me down,” she said, struggling against his chest.
He snorted. “And have you run off? I don’t think so, minx.” He’d not make the mistake of underestimating her again. And he’d certainly not risk losing her before he had answers to his questions. Failure to properly size up one’s opponents and their capabilities marked the difference between a slit throat and another night’s sleep. And God help the weakness, admiration for the spitfire swept through him.
When nothing more than the gusting winds greeted him, he kicked again, this time harder.
There was another moment of silence.
And then Bram drew the panel open a fraction and stuck his shaggy white head through. His eyes bloodshot, the man peered out. He squinted. “Why ain’t ya use the front door?” he asked, his voice heavy with sleep.
Malcom adjusted his hold on Verity Lovelace, bringing her closer to his chest. “Next time, I’ll have a care to bring any guest I return with through the front door for all the world to see,” he drawled.
The door at the opposite end of the kitchen burst in, and Fowler limped through. “Why didn’t you say the lad was home?”
The lad.
Good God.
He felt Verity Lovelace’s wide-eyed stare taking in everything.
Bram’s gaze landed on the stranger Malcom cradled, and all vestiges of sleep lifted. The older man instantly yanked the panel open. Pushing past the old tosher who’d trained him, Malcom did not break stride. “Have a bath prepared and brought up,” he called out.
“Where?”
“My rooms.”
“But . . . ,” Fowler sputtered. “But . . .”
Aye, the old codger was entitled to his shock. As a rule, Malcom allowed no one in those suites. “And towels.”
“Aye,” Bram said.
Malcom paused and, thinking better of it, looked back. “See that Giles is on the lookout for any suspicious figures in the street.”
As he walked, his boots trudged water over the scarred hardwood floor, leaving a murky trail of mud and grime that he made a habit of never trekking abovestairs. And yet, now that the immediate danger of their pursuer had abated, he noted the violent trembling that shook the woman in his arms, spasms that racked her body, and climbing the dark stairwell, Malcom held her closer.
“I n-need to leave,” she managed to get out between her chattering teeth.
“Is that what you want? For me to turn you out so you can risk meeting your would-be assailant? One who’s no doubt angry at being taken down by you?”
“He didn’t f-follow us here.”
“Are you sure about that?” Shifting Verity Lovelace so he could access the key hanging around his neck, Malcom shoved the key into the lock and entered his private suites.
Private suites only three had dared enter, and now he’d let another person in. A woman . . . one who’d been lurking in the sewers, searching for someone. And yet, gender mattered not in these streets. Man, woman, or child, each was capable of ruthless intent. Malcom shoved his hip into the door, closing the panel behind them.
He carried her over to his bed. “Can you stand?”
Her head moved against his shoulder in something that might have been either an uneven nod or a shake of denial. Malcom angled her away from him.
“I—I told you,” she whispered, her voice threadbare, her teeth rattling. “I—I’m fine.” She reached between them and struggled with the clasp at her throat.
He snorted. Aye, just fine. “I have it,” he said quietly and, pushing aside her hand, saw to the task himself. Malcom set the young woman down, and she immediately swayed. The forever-ruined cloak, bearing the stains of the sewers, fell with a heavy thud at their feet.
He caught her around the waist, holding her upright, and then reaching inside his jacket, he withdrew his dagger.
Her breath caught noisily. “Don’t—” she rasped out.
Malcom slid the tip of his dagger along the top button of her serviceable dress. Or her once serviceable dress. “I said stop,” she hissed like an angry cat, and, unfurling her claws, she lashed out at him.
Catching her by the arms, he lightly held her. “I know, given that I discovered you in a sewer, you don’t have a brain in your head. You’re in my rooms, slopping filth over my floor. Your garments are soaked and not doing you any good.” He caught the blade in the top button and it popped free.
“It’s one of my only garments,” she whispered; her chin came up a mutinous inch as her pride once more proved greater than her fear . . . or the vulnerability that admission seemed to cost her.
And despite everything he knew about trusting strangers, once again awareness stirred within . . . for the bedraggled creature who’d challenge him at any turn. “Fine.”
Some of the tension dissipated from her narrow shoulders.
Malcom raised his hands to see to the next button.
She gasped and struggled against him. “What are you doing? I—I thought—”
“You’re not wearing this garment.” He’d already lifted an elbow, shielding his face from another of the hellcat’s attacks. Her blow bounced off his arm. God, she did not quit. With her struggling like the cornered cat he’d accused her of being, Malcom made slow work of her buttons. When they were at last free, she clutched that sorry garment close and glared at him. Her face smeared from the blood of her injured nose. Her hair tangled and hanging about her shoulders. Hers was an impressive display of fury.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” he boomed, not taking his gaze from her.
Fowler entered and, with two buckets in hand, made for the porcelain tub in the corner. He dumped first one bucket and then the next, and then took his leave. From the corner of his eye, Malcom caught the young woman’s intent study of the tub. As if feeling his stare and resenting him for that impudence, she yanked her gaze forward.
After Fowler left, Malcom unfastened the buttons at his jacket.
“Oh, God,” Verity Lovelace whispered, darting her eyes about the room, a cornered creature seeking escape and knowing there was none.
“No need for theatrics,” he said dryly. “As I’ve assured you, rape is not amongst the crimes to my name.” Theft. Assault. Murder. There were any number of sins blackening his long-deadened soul. Harming a woman, however, remained the one not to taint him. Shrugging out of his jacket, Malcom tossed it across the room; the garment caught one of the hooks alongside the door. The young woman’s eyes bulged in her face, enormous saucers that she directed up toward the ceiling as he tugged free his shirt—
And for the first time since he’d set to undressing the both of them, he froze, stopped by the continued evidence of her innocence.
Surely it was an act. It was always an act.
Even knowing that, even silently chastising himself for being ten times the fool, he released the soaked article and left it dripping. He turned his attention to his boots, and was in the midst of divesting himself of them when Fowler reappeared with another two buckets. While he poured them, Malcom started for the armoire at the corner of the room. Yanking the doors open, he fished around and then tugged out a black garment. “Here,” he said, returning to the woman. He tossed the muslin article at Verity Lovelace, and she reflexively released her hold on her wet gown and caught the clean article to her chest.