She eyed it like she’d never before seen a dress . . . but said nothing. Her clear, wary stare continued to take in everything, alternating between Malcom and Fowler, until the older man left and all her energies were trained once again on Malcom. “What is this?” Her nose began to again bleed, trickling down her nostril.
“I think it should be obvious.” He stalked over to the steaming bath and grabbed one of the white cloths Fowler had set out. Malcom soaked the article and then twisted it. Droplets plinked upon the smooth surface, rippling the water. He twisted the cloth several times, until he’d squeezed out the residual moisture. Wordlessly, he returned to his guest and handed the garment over.
The young woman hesitated, and not taking her gaze from Malcom, she ripped the cloth from his unresisting fingers and backed away until she had placed his bed between them. She stopped abruptly, glancing down at the mattress.
Her brows shot to her hairline as she tripped over herself in her haste to be away from him.
As he came around the bed, she continued backing away, until the backs of her legs collided with his wall. The sharp thump jarred the painting above her head, and the young woman shot her gaze up to that pastoral landscape of pale-blue skies and emerald-green earth, and then she whipped her focus over to Malcom once more.
The gown she clutched slipped and revealed a far more bounteous display of flesh.
Unbidden, his gaze lingered on that tantalizing cream-white flesh.
Verity Lovelace gasped. “Do not come any closer.” She held her fists up, positioning herself in an awkward pugilist’s stance.
Malcom slowed his steps. And for the first time since he’d come upon her in his sewers, he found himself smiling—a real smile. The muscles of his mouth protested that foreign movement. It was an expression he’d never managed but only ever manufactured—to intimidate. To mock. To threaten. This was . . . different, and unnerving for it.
“Do you find this amusing?” she spat, and all her impressive bravado ended on a squeak as he closed the remaining space between them.
Abandoning her dress for a right hook, Miss Lovelace brought her arm back.
Alas, the hellcat had revealed her penchant for a well-timed blow too many times before this to ever land another.
Catching her wrist in a firm grip, he brought her arm back to her side.
“Please,” she whispered, her eyes sliding closed.
“Please” had long been the word he had heard and preferred to hear from the mouths of the women he’d bedded over the years. Never, however, had it been uttered in fear.
Still, he had less experience in assuaging the fears of any person, let alone those born outside the rougher set he’d kept company with through the years. “Here,” he said gruffly. Relieving her of the damp cloth, he swiped at her face.
She flinched, and he gentled his touch.
The woman’s earlier bravery appeared restored as her lashes swept up; still, she regarded him with weariness spilling from the spellbinding, purple-blue depths of her eyes.
Resting the damp rag, now stained crimson, over his shoulder, he stretched a hand between them.
She shot her hands up protectively once more.
“Stay calm. Nervousness makes it worse.”
“And you know because you’ve h-had so many?”
“You ask a lot of questions.” Even in the sewer, when he’d had a knife at her person and demanded answers, she’d met them with queries. It was another foreign experience for him; people in the rookeries didn’t ask questions . . . unless retribution or revenge waited at the end of that query. “Don’t lean your head on the wall. Tilt it forward.” He reached and angled her head slightly. “Otherwise you’re going to choke on your blood.”
She blanched.
Malcom caught her pert little nose between his thumb and forefinger and pressed.
The young woman resumed thrashing.
“I’m not trying to suffocate you,” he said curtly. It was foolish to be offended by her continued fear—bloody hell, he should relish her unease, for it would make it easier to have answers to the questions he sought. “If I wanted to, I’d squeeze your neck.”
“Is that meant to reassure me?” she countered, with some of the strength restored to her voice.
“Breathe through your mouth.”
Those perfect rosebud lips formed a little moue, a bow like a cherub in a painting he’d plucked from the sewers and should have sold, and yet had retained for some reason. Malcom released the appendage, and the suspicious hellcat touched her nostrils. “It stopped.”
“I put pressure on the part of your nose that was bleeding and stopped the flow.”
“Thank you.” Those words came almost grudgingly, as if it cost her a pound of flesh to deliver them.
Another smile tugged.
“What do you want with me?” she asked quietly.
Not bothering with assurances about his previous promise, which meant nothing to her, he folded his arms at his chest. “You were going to land both of us in trouble.”
Those thin, arched brows slid back into their proper place, and then a smidgeon lower. “And I’m supposed to trust that you’re some chivalrous figure rescuing a woman who’d become lost in the sewers?” Suspicion swirled in her eyes. “That you’ve brought me here to clean me up and care for my nose?”
Actually, he had. The sight of her, bedraggled and dazed and her eyes brimming with terror, had reached into a place inside where a softness dwelled, a weakness that he’d believed himself incapable of.
“I never proclaimed to be chivalrous. Only practical.” And ruthless in his determination to protect that which was his, and to bring down those who’d infringe upon it. But then, something she’d said penetrated those uneasy thoughts. Lost in the sewers . . . Malcom mentally tucked away that unwitting admission. Malcom crossed his arms at his chest. “Have your bath, change your dress, and then we will speak.”
She darted her tongue out, the pink flesh trailing a nervous path along a rosebud seam he’d failed to note . . . or properly appreciate . . . until this moment. Until that action. “Speak about what?”
He’d be the one asking questions. Not this minx. Not allowing her the opportunity to pepper him, Malcom started for the door.
Of course, the impudent spitfire stole another query before he could exit the rooms. “What is your name?”
“North.”
With that he left, and found his way to the kitchens.
Seated at the table, with his broken foot resting on one of the small kitchen chairs, Fowler frowned. “Giles is doing a sweep outside. Water’s ready for you.” He nodded his balding head toward the wood bathtub. “Wot in ’ell are ya doing, bringing a fancy piece back?”
“She’s not a fancy piece,” Malcom muttered. With the polished speech of a lady and a blustery pride and spirit, she was nothing like the hardened women he’d kept company with through the years.
The other ancient tosher limped over to the table, his lame left leg dragging as he walked. “Oi went ahead and assumed ya wanted the porcelain one for yar number.”
“She’s not—” He caught the glimmer in those ancient eyes. “Oh, go to hell,” he muttered. “Both of you,” he said for the pair of them. “I should turn you both out.”