In Bed with the Earl Page 9

  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.

  He cursed, ignoring the pain that shot along his legs.

  The woman punched him in the temple, bringing his head whipping sideways. Malcom relinquished his hold, and Verity Lovelace took off running.

  Her skirts, along with her bare feet, hampered her flight, slowing her progress.

  As Malcom set out in quick pursuit, she shot a glance over her shoulder. A streak of lightning lit the night sky, illuminating her face and deepening the terror that spilled from her gaze.

  Another man, a weaker one, might have been affected by the paroxysm of dread that contorted her features. She hefted her skirts higher, and—

  All his muscles coiled. “Watch out,” he bellowed.

  The young woman ran face-first into a lamppost. Her entire body jolted as the force of her collision sent her flying backward into a puddle.

  His heart hammering in his chest, Malcom cursed and quickened his stride.

  The damned fool. What was she thinking?

  He skidded to a halt and leaned over her prone form.

  Verity Lovelace lay motionless on her back, her thick, dark lashes closed with moisture clinging to them. Blood poured from her nose, blending with the rain slapping down at her, turning the crimson pink.

  “You are a damned fool, do you know that?” he snapped, going to a knee beside her. And stubbornly resistant. And damned if his admiration didn’t grow tenfold. Grown men, even taller than his six foot four inches, had backed down before challenging him.

  Leaning over her, Malcom lightly tapped her cheek. “Wake up, now,” he murmured, unable to explain the panic knocking around inside his chest.

  She groaned. “I’m awake.”

  And a wave of relief swept over him.

  His response merely stemmed from the fact that the woman was a spirited adversary. One who, despite the fear that had cloaked her slender person, had challenged him at every turn, and as such, it was nigh impossible to be anything but vexed by such a woman.

  “Verity Lovelace,” he repeated more insistently, giving her opposite cheek another little tap. Mud stained her skin but did nothing to conceal the satiny-smooth texture. Like the finest fabrics he’d unearthed in the unlikeliest of places.

  At last, the young woman’s lashes fluttered. She struggled to open her eyes, and then she did . . . and out of the sewers, with the lamppost illuminating her face, Malcom found himself leveled by those eyes. A shade not quite blue and not quite purple, but a melding of both, held him spellbound.

  “Wh-who?” She closed her eyes once more, and that dangerous spell was thankfully shattered. When she opened them again, pain glinted in their depths, along with a return of her earlier fear. “You.”

  He forced his lips up into the requisite sinister smile he’d donned over the years—the one he’d made himself wear in the name of survival. “Aye, me.”

  A lone wind gusted down Great Russell Street, carrying away with it the softest sigh that had slipped from her lips, one of resignation. Except, with a show of strength he was hard-pressed not to appreciate, the minx struggled to her feet. “Do you intend to kill me?”

  “I don’t kill women.”

  Her eyes worked over his face. “Do you hurt them?”

  “Only the ones in need of hurting.”

  Verity’s cheeks went several shades whiter. She shivered in a likely blend of fear and cold. And then with that same impressive boldness, her nose still bleeding, she went up on tiptoe and studied his face.

  Making some indistinct murmur, Verity fell back on her heels. “I don’t believe you.”

  And she’d be right. He’d dealt with any manner of men and women and children in East London, some women who’d been as ruthless and cold as Malcom himself. Malcom damned the nearby lamppost that cast a light about him and his mottled cheeks. He didn’t know whether to be outraged at the minx for calling him out as a liar, or himself for having been unable to deceive this chit before him. “I don’t care what you believe.”

  Did she seek to reassure herself? Or him? Either way, his appreciation grew all the more. “Of course you don’t. I’m not going with you,” she said tightly when he reached for her a second time. She stiffened. Like one of those London blackbirds ready to take flight.

  “You there!”

  The shout went up, and as one they looked to the swift approach of the burly stranger who’d been determined to drag her off—the very-much-alive stranger. A flash of silver sparked in the inky-black London night. In his lifetime living in these streets, Malcom had found himself cornered and approached by any number of adversaries. As such, with the man’s swift approach came the rush of blood in preparation of fighting his foes.

  The previously recalcitrant virago slid closer to Malcom.

  “I trust he’s not a friend of yours?” he drawled, even as he drew a pistol.

  “This isn’t funny,” she whispered, her cheeks pale. “Help me.”

  Malcom caught the young woman and propelled her ahead of him. “Go,” he bit out.

  She took off flying with an impressive speed for one of her shorter height and bare feet.

  The steady footfalls echoed behind them, increasing, and gaining.

  Malcom directed a glance over his shoulder and cursed at the pistol pointed at his back. “Bloody hell,” he clipped out. Pausing, he stopped, turned, and, drawing back his hammer, he let a shot fly.

  A cry went up as his shot found its mark in one of the assailant’s hands, effectively knocking the gun from his fingers and bringing their pursuer to a halt.

  Verity skidded to a stop and spun back. “Did you shoot him?” she cried.

  “I grazed him.” He’d always been an expert shot.

  “It’s all the same,” she rasped. “A shot is a—”

  The wounded stranger was already moving toward them—albeit slower, but still with the same dogged determination.

  “Would you care to remain here, debating the point and waiting for your company to return, or continue as we were?” This time, he didn’t allow her a say. Malcom scooped her into his arms and took off running. And miracle of miracles, the minx made herself silent. She clung to him, and with her face pressed against his shoulder, her still-bleeding nose soaked the fabric of his shirt.

  “You are losing him,” she whispered.

  Of course he was. Malcom knew these streets better than the gangs that roamed them.

  She peeked her head up. “I think it is safe for you to set me down. I don’t see—”

  “Shh,” he warned. “He’s there.”

  “How do you . . . ?” And blessedly, self-preservation won out over the chit’s infernal curiosity.

  Adjusting her in his arms, Malcom lengthened his stride and took an abrupt shortcut along a narrow alley between two abandoned structures. The remainder of the way, Miss Verity Lovelace, a proverbial magnet of trouble, remained quiet in his arms.

  Even with the mud of London’s sewers clinging to her garments, a whispery hint of lavender filled his senses. Fragrant blooms, crisp, sweet, and . . . clean, unlike the women who dwelled in these parts. Or the whores whom he’d taken to his bed over the years.

  And unbidden, like a moth to that damned flame, he leaned closer and breathed deep of that scent of purity.

  Why did his heart thump funnily at the feel of her against him? Aside from the worry about his place in East London, she wasn’t his concern.

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.

  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 Mal
com, 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.