His brows came arching down, and his eyes went to her mouth.
Oh, God. He was going to kiss her again. And what was more . . . I want him to . . .
“Because of your column,” he seethed, banking the embers of that foolish haze of her desire. “Because you stole that which you’d no right to take. Because of no other reason than because I decreed it. Get out.”
“I am sorry for that,” she said softly. A memory slipped in of she and Malcom playing chess when they’d simply been strangers together in hiding and not adversaries at one another’s throats. A pang struck in her chest. “I am sorry for so much.” Where he was concerned. She’d had no other choice, however. Not when it had been his privacy versus Livvie and Bertha’s security.
Malcom peeled his lip in a hate-filled snarl. “As if your apology means shite to me.”
Verity winced. “I deserve that.” Her fingers shook, and to hide their quaking, she clasped them behind her back. “But I’m afraid I cannot leave.” Which was the absolute truth. “Not until we’ve spoken, and I’ve explained . . . my circumstances.”
Malcom cocked his head. “You’re refusing to leave?” Frost chiseled off that question into a curt, syllabic response.
Aye, no doubt he was one wholly unaccustomed to having his wishes gainsaid. Was that arrogance a product of his roots in the peerage? Or of the reputation he’d earned outside of it?
And this time, as questions whispered around her mind, they stemmed not from the need for information for any article, but from a genuine desire to know about the guarded man before her.
“I . . .” She dampened her lips. Go. This is futile. He’ll give you nothing. You already took that which he didn’t wish to share. Livvie’s face flashed to mind. But Livvie’s face red from the cold, frost clinging to her hair in an imagined world of them living on the streets this winter. Verity dug in her heels. “I do believe I am. You see, I knew it was foolhardy in coming to you again.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“Livvie, however, my sister,” she clarified, hating the fact that her words rolled into a rambling manner when she’d always prided herself on being a master of her words. “She—” Verity cleared her throat. “Livvie, that is, believed it would be wise for me to speak with you, and I was at first resistant, and yet ultimately decided to come here.” Malcom just stared at her; his expression carved of immobile granite. “To speak to you,” she finished lamely when he didn’t respond. All through the continuing silence, Verity realized the absolute madness in her being here. The futility in having come to Malcom North for this request. Or anything.
He slashed a hand forward, and with a gasp, Verity brought up her arms protectively.
A cool smile frosted his lips. “In my offices.”
It took a moment for that offer to register through the pounding of her heart. Verity let her limbs fall to her sides. “You’ll . . . meet with me?” she blurted, exhilaration humming to life.
“I suggest you start walking before I change—”
Verity was already striding forward, and for the first time since she’d begun the quest to find the Earl of Maxwell, she felt the stirrings of hope. Mayhap Livvie had proven correct in her supposition.
Mayhap there was more to the ruthless tosher, after all.
Chapter 14
THE LONDONER
SQUALOR!
Upon his kidnapping, the Earl of Maxwell traded wealth and luxury for strife and sorrow. Of that, the world is certain. The world holds its breath, awaiting answers to the questions: What were his struggles, and why should he not gladly embrace his lost life amongst the peerage?
V. Lovelace
This was nothing short of a mistake.
Of course, it was not the first Malcom had made where this damned woman was concerned.
The last had proven costly.
So why did he even now lead her through the halls of his residence, and allow her any more of his time?
Because she possesses some mystifying pull you cannot explain, nor resist . . .
He pushed back at the taunting gibe pinging in his head.
It would be far greater folly to send her on her way because of her past wrongs without finding out what the little deceiver sought from him this time.
They reached his offices, and he urged her on ahead of him.
The young woman hesitated; she peered tentatively inside, but made no move to enter. “These are not your offices,” she said with a canny smile, a product of her last visit.
“If you think I intend to show you any more of my private suites, then you’re even more cracked in the head than I’d originally taken you for in the sewers. Now move.”
With a snap of her muslin skirts, she swept inside with all the regal bearing of a queen, muttering something under her breath that sounded a good deal like “Well!”
The muscles of his mouth strained from what felt damningly like a grin drawing at the corners.
Entering behind her, Malcom drew the door shut.
Verity’s keen gaze touched on each corner of the room, those shrewd eyes taking in every detail. So that she could no doubt use it against him—again. Her stare briefly lingered on the chess table they’d played upon what felt a lifetime ago. He’d moved the damned thing out of his private suites and into his offices because he’d not wanted to be confronted with the memory of her in his rooms that night. The young woman ripped her gaze from the board and shifted it over to the unique metal piece hanging on the wall. She drifted over, presenting her back to him, highlighting yet another time that she didn’t belong to his world. Men, women, and children who’d lived in these streets knew one never turned their back—on anyone. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she murmured.
“What the hell do you want?” he asked, leaning against the panel.
The young woman continued her examination. “What is it?” Her voice was hushed.
“An amputation saw,” he said, taking delight in the way she stiffened. It was best she knew whom—what—she was dealing with. Malcom pushed away from the door, and wound his way over. He stopped at her shoulder. Lowering his mouth close to her ear, he whispered, “Have you ever seen one, Verity?”
She gave an unsteady shake of her head. “N-no.”
He stretched a hand past her, and she drew into herself; the defensive response of her body inadvertently brought her back resting against his chest. Malcom motioned to the rusted steel. “See those locking nuts?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “That holds the blade in place. And here,” he went on in silken tones. “This ornate handle”—the mahogany had been carved into the shape of an eagle—“is what the surgeon would use to saw through muscle, skin, and bone.”
“Would?” She angled her head back slightly, revealing cheeks that sometime in his telling had gone pale.
Not taking his eyes from her, he retrieved the object in question.
Fear spilled from her gaze, and as he brought the saw lower, she recoiled.
Smirking, Malcom pressed the handle into her palm, and curled his hand around hers, forcing her to grip the saw. “The world oftentimes has a preference for the pretty”—he touched his gaze on her face—“things,” he finished. “So much so that they’d allow them where there’s no place for them.” He guided her hand in an up-and-down sawing motion. “See how awkward it is to grip,” he breathed against her ear. “Now imagine cutting through skin and muscle.” She quietly gagged but did not pull away.