Sarah stared at Killian where he stood under the street lamp. Had he followed her? Had he been the one stalking her—hunting her—in the dim alleys?

Her pursuer had been behind her, yet Killian had arrived here before her, an unlikely outcome if he was the man who had chased her—unless he had taken to the skies and flown like a bat. His breathing was slow and even while her lungs sucked in great gasps of air, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm thanks to her flight through the poorly lit streets.

“What are you doing here?” The question she had meant to speak in ringing tones came out shaky and weak. “What are you doing here?” she asked again, strident now, her breath blowing white before her lips.

His brows drew down as he straightened, lifting his shoulder from the post.

“Do not come closer,” she said, holding her cudgel before her.

He stilled. His head was uncovered. Her gaze dropped to his hands, searching for a low-crowned hat like the one her pursuer had worn. But his hands were empty, his skin bare. He did not wear gloves, though the wind was bitter. Her pursuer had worn gloves; she was certain of it.

“Do you have a hat? Gloves?” she demanded.

“Sarah,” he said, his brow furrowed in concern as he took a step toward her. Not Miss Lowell. Sarah. The way he said her name in his warm-chocolate voice made her heart twitch.

She held up one hand, palm forward. Again, he stilled. “Do you?” she asked.

“No. I have neither hat nor gloves.”

She exhaled, forcing her shoulders down, unclenching her fists. She studied his face and her emotions danced from fear to elation. Because Killian was here, waiting for her, staring down at her with unwavering intensity.

Then anger crashed in a wave, dampening her terror and panic and unreasoning joy. Anger at Killian, though she could not say why. Anger at the man who stalked her. Anger at herself, at her circumstance, at the way her heart lifted simply because Killian was here.

She did not know herself in that instant. She was not this girl.

“What is it?” he asked, lifting one hand as though reaching for hers, then dropping it back to his side before he made contact. She yearned for that contact even as she drew back to avoid it.

“I was—” she glanced over her shoulder, almost expecting a second man to materialize behind her, one with black gloves and a black hat. When she saw no one there, she turned to face him once more “—followed. Someone followed me from King’s College. A man. Tall. Garbed in black. He wore a low crowned hat. He chased me through St. Giles.”

“Chased you?” Killian’s gaze flicked along the empty street and something in his expression gave her pause. She glanced back, but the street behind her was empty.

“It was not the first time,” Sarah said. “He follows me all the time but this is the first he has come so close. He knew my name. He said my name. At least…I think it was my name.” She pressed her lips together, stilling the flow of words.

Again, Killian looked to the street. She followed his gaze. The night was dark, save for the twinkling stars and a thin sliver of moon. The shadows were darker still. Only the one lamp shone, casting its glow in a circle some ten feet across, then fading away to nothing at the periphery.

Yet Killian perused the dark street as though he could see things that were veiled from her sight.

“He is not there now,” he said. From a distance, a faded cacophony of laughter and shrieks carried to them through the cold air.

“But he was. Has been. In the mornings. At night. He is always there. My shadow.” She did not doubt her own perception of that.

Killian tipped his head toward her. “I believe you.”

His simple assertion summoned a flood of relief, vindication, though it should not matter if he believed her or not. Nonplussed, she waved a hand toward his dark spectacles. “I cannot imagine that you can discern anything wearing those. The street is dark as Hades, and your spectacles make it more so.”

“I see as well with them as without. Better, in fact.” He offered a one-shouldered shrug, the casual gesture out of keeping with his normally reserved manner. “My eyes are sensitive to light.”

She stared at him, thinking his comment a jest. But his expression showed him to be in earnest. “But it is night. There is little light.”

“I see what others do not.” He studied the street a moment longer, and then he turned toward her and smiled. Despite everything—her breathless run, her fear, her disorientation—that smile touched a place inside her, making it crackle and flare like a spark roused to flame.

“Hades,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said the street is dark as Hades. Do you refer to the Greek god of the Underworld or the shadowy place itself?”

She blinked. “The place.”

Killian clasped his hands behind his back and tipped his face to the sky. “How do you know Hades is dark? I always imagined it belching tongues of fire which would make it quite bright, I should think.”

“You are attempting to distract me from my distress.”

“I am. And I appear to be doing a poor job of it.”

His gaze dropped to her hands, and she realized then that she was turning the thick stick she carried over and over in nervous inattention. He eased it from her cold and numbed fingers, then tested the weight of it on his open palm.

“Why not a pistol?” he asked.

“You do not seem surprised to discover that I carry a weapon.”

“I am not surprised. You are a most intelligent and resourceful woman, Miss Lowell.”

He thought her intelligent, resourceful. She found his words more appealing than any poetic praise of her eyes or lips or hair.

He handed the stick back to her, and she sucked in a breath as their fingers touched, hers gloved, his bare. Even through the wool of her gloves, she felt the warmth of his skin. She frowned, stared at his naked hands. They should be cold, not warm.

“So why not a pistol?” he prodded.

“I would need to learn to shoot it with accuracy, and such knowledge comes only with a great deal of practice,” she said. “Besides, pistols are costly.”

“Why not a knife, then?” he asked.

She could see that he asked the question out of genuine interest, that he expected a reply.

“I am small. My assailant might be large. It would be too easy for him to twist a knife from my hand and turn it upon me. Besides, carrying a knife is more complicated. I would need some sort of sheath to protect me from the blade. And then there is the cost of acquiring both knife and sheath…”

His straight brows rose above the limits of his spectacles. “But you feel confident to wield your stick?”

“Cudgel,” she said. “Confident enough. No one would expect me to have it, and I have a good chance at landing a solid blow to the underside of a man’s chin or his privates or across his shins or kneecaps before an attacker could know my intent.”

“Wise and brave,” he murmured.

She pressed her lips together, disconcerted by his praise.

“And how did you learn to wield your cudgel well?” he asked.

“Perhaps I do not wield it well,” Sarah said.

“Perhaps. But the way you hold it suggests otherwise.”

“Do you know a great deal about cudgels?” she asked.

“Less than you, I suspect.” His smile widened to a grin, white teeth and a dimple in his cheek. “Who taught you?”

His smile lured her to smile back, even as she wondered at this odd conversation they were having in the middle of Coptic Street on a sharp, frigid night.

“My landlady. She stuffed a sack with rags and made me hit it until she was satisfied.”

“I see. A formidable woman, your landlady?”

Sarah thought of Mrs. Cowden who was shorter than Sarah by several inches, who had survived the deaths of three children and her husband, who rented rooms to those in need, who taught a naïve young woman how to protect herself, and she said, “Formidable, indeed.” She paused then asked again, “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting. For you.”

“Why?” Sarah stared at him. “And how did you know where to find me?”

The wind picked up, snatching at her cloak, her hair, making her shiver. Killian took note of that and glanced about, his attention turning to the lodging house.

“You are cold. Perhaps we might take this conversation inside to the parlor. You will be more comfortable.”

She noticed that he made no mention of his own discomfort in the chilly night.

“The parlor?” She laughed at that. Oh, that he thought she lived in such a fine place—the expectation of a parlor—was both funny and sad. “On the ground floor are the kitchen and the dining room and the landlady’s rooms. The first and second floors are all to let. There is no parlor.”

Reaching up, he drew off his spectacles, and she was struck again by the beauty of his eyes, silvery gray against the thick sweep of dark gold lashes.

“Then we may take this conversation to the room you rent.”

“I take a very small room from Mrs. Cowden,” she demurred, struck by the image of him, tall and masculine, filling the tiny space of her chamber. Standing beside her narrow bed. The thought made her breath catch because he had been there before, many times over, but only in her dreams and imaginings. To have him there in truth would be both daunting and alluring. “There is not even a sitting room. I cannot have you come in at this hour of the night, Mr. Thayne.”

“Killian,” he murmured absently, his gaze sliding to the front of the house. The brick was dirty and the yard ill kept. Mrs. Cowden was anything but house proud, her fondness for gin overtaking her fondness for anything else. Sarah felt absurdly unveiled to have him study the house with such careful regard. “You must call me Killian.”

Killian. She dared not say his name aloud, lest he read her secret longings in the way her lips shaped and caressed the syllables.

“I am going inside now, where it is warm—” an untruth, for though it would be sweltering hot next to the kitchen fire, the remainder of the house was bound to be little warmer than the brutal climes she was subject to outdoors “—and where I hope Mrs. Cowden has kept a plate for me. Whatever you wished to discuss will have to wait for the morrow. At the hospital.” She frowned. “How did you find me?”

Again, he looked to the street, his gaze alert. The focused intensity of his perusal was enough to stoke the embers of her unease. She tried to see what he saw but could make out only the shapes of the neighboring houses.

“Does it matter?” he asked without looking at her. “I am here now.”

“Yes. It matters.”

He glanced at her then returned his attention to the road. “Matron keeps a written record.”

She almost expressed her surprise that the matron had shared such information. Then she realized he had not said she had. He had only said she kept a record. Had Killian searched the matron’s office without her knowledge? He wouldn’t dare.

Oh, but he would.

Killian’s head whipped to the side, his attention focused, his nostrils flared. “The man who follows you…what did you see?”

Sarah stared into the darkness, unable to find the target of his attention. The street was empty save for the two of them, houses rising on either side. “Sometimes I saw a man-shaped shadow. Sometimes I heard footsteps. Tonight, I saw him, a shape, a form, indistinct. He wore a hat that hid his face…” She shook her head, then spun to her right, an eerie sensation crawling across her skin.

Killian was there, on her right, though an instant ago he had been on her left. She hadn’t seen him move.

“He does not approach you?” There was tension in his tone.

“He shrinks back when I face him, as though he is wary of confronting me directly.”

Killian’s lips drew back, baring his teeth and he prowled around her, blocking her view of the street, using his body as a shield. He made a sound such as she had never before heard—a snarl, a growl, a bestial warning. It made the hackles rise on the back of her neck. He seemed to grow in size, his shoulders broader, his chest wider. Here were threat and power. Here was the man she had sensed lurking beneath the façade. But none of the threat was aimed at her. It was aimed at the street and whatever danger lurked in the darkness.

“Do you see him?” she asked, her voice low.

“Inside, if you please, Sarah,” he said. “Now.”

Deciding that she was destined to lose any further argument, she turned and led the way to the front door. It seemed that Killian Thayne would be accompanying her to her room. Modesty, propriety, her good name...she might have presented any of those as reasons he must not come inside. But, in truth, what was the point? The other lodgers in the house on Coptic Street would have no care if she brought a man to her room. She knew for certain that one of the girls did exactly that on a regular basis and slipped Mrs. Cowden an extra shilling each week so that she would turn a blind eye.

Pausing at the door, she looked back at him over her shoulder. Killian. He bid her call him Killian, as she had a thousand times in her dreams.

“You are safe with me, Sarah.”

No, she did not think so.

But she knew he meant to reassure her that he was not the one who had chased her through the alleys, and that was the truth.

“You have no hat.”

His eyes narrowed at her observation. “Does the lack offend?”

Sarah made a soft, chuffing laugh. “Taking offense at some nicety of fashion is a luxury for which I have no use.” She pressed her lips together. “It was only an observation.”

“Because your pursuer wore a hat.”

“Yes. You seek to reassure me, but such reassurance is unnecessary. We already established that you were not my pursuer.”

Killian caught her wrist as she reached for the doorknob. “I am not he. Had I chosen to hunt you, Sarah, you would not have known I was there.” He paused, his lips curving into a dark smile. “And I would have caught you.”

Had I chosen to hunt you. A chill crawled up her spine, one that had nothing to do with the wind or the cold. She looked beyond him to the street once more, then away.

“Is it your intent to make me fear you?”

“Fear me?” He looked appalled. “Quite the opposite, though I have clearly made a hash of it.” His laugh was low and devoid of humor. “Once, I had skill at this. I knew the rules of the game.” The way he looked at her made her breath catch.

She was left with no doubt that the game he referred to was flirtation. A thrill ran through her, equal parts attraction and wariness.

Seeking to alleviate the tension of the moment, she said, “I shall be lucky if Mrs. Cowden kept a plate for me this evening, but if she did, I will be glad to share my meal with you.”

An indecipherable emotion danced across Killian’s features. “Your offer is most kind, but I have...already dined.”

The slight hesitation did not go unnoticed, and she wondered what his words masked. He offered nothing further and after a moment, she turned back to unlock the door.

She led him inside. The hallway was dark, musty, the paint yellowed and flaking, the floor a tiled geometric pattern of gray and black. Sarah thought that once, many years ago, the pattern might have been white and black, but layers of wear and use and grime had altered the shade. Mrs. Cowden occasionally swiped a mop over the tile with halfhearted interest, but that only served to shift the dirt from left to right and back again. The hallway was so cramped that they could not stand side by side, and Sarah went in first with Killian close behind.

She felt glad that she was not alone.

No, more than that, glad that he was here. It was a dangerous and inappropriate gladness that bubbled inside her like the effervescent spring water her father had insisted was good for the health.

Turning back, she was confronted by Killian’s cloak-draped form, so broad and tall. He unnerved her. Drew her. Appealed to her on some level she could not explain. His presence made her feel safe. How long since she had felt that way?

Hoping that her expression betrayed none of her inappropriate thoughts, she reached around him to draw the door closed, an action that brought them far closer together than they ought to be. He was warm, the heat coming from him beckoning to her.

“How are you so warm?” she asked. “It’s bitingly cold outside, and you’ve been in the wind just the same as I.”

“My meal warmed me,” he said after a pause.

An odd reply.

Stepping back, she undid the fastening of her cloak but did not draw the garment off. Though the wind was absent, the hallway was barely warmer than it was outdoors, and she was loath to forfeit whatever heat her cloak offered.

Directly ahead lay the rickety staircase with the faulty third stair, the one with the poorly nailed board that would pop up and bang the unwary person sharply on the ankle if they were not careful. There was room enough for one person to go up or down, but not enough for two to pass unless they turned to face each other.

There was no light coming from the dining room, and none showed under the crack of the door that led to Mrs. Cowden’s chambers. Sarah was glad of that, for it meant there was none about to beg explanation for Killian’s inexplicable presence here.

“I will be but a moment,” Sarah said and strode beyond the stairs to the small kitchen at the back of the house. No candles were lit, but the hearth held a faltering flame, and Sarah moved close to warm her hands. Closing her eyes, she let the heat sink through her.

He made no sound, but she knew he had followed. Stepping to the side, she glanced at him over her shoulder. The glow of the dying embers danced over his features, painting him gold and bronze and more beautiful than any man had a right to be.

“Here,” she said, beckoning him closer. “There’s room enough for both of us. The night is so cold. You must be frozen clear through.”

“No.” He made a small smile, looking more handsome still because of it. “I am not cold. I do not notice such things. Neither the cold of winter nor the heat of summer.”

“You are an adaptable fellow.”

“That is one way to describe it.” He glanced about the tiny kitchen, his gaze lingering on the covered plate set on one side of the small table. “You must be hungry.”

She shook her head. She wasn’t. The fright of earlier in the evening had left her insides shaking still. “I’ll take the plate up with me and eat a bit later.”

“Where are your rooms?” he asked.

“Rooms?” she echoed. “Only one, I’m afraid. But it suits well enough. I’m on the second floor.”

She took the plate and led the way from the warm kitchen back into the cold hallway, up the stairs to the landing on the first floor, then up another flight to the second.

“How many rooms up here?” Killian asked, his voice hushed, the sound incredibly appealing.

“Three. And three on the floor below.” She unlocked the door of her chamber and pushed it open. “I have the smallest of these. It was the frugal choice.” Why had she said that?

“Ever practical,” he said, sounding as though the words pained him. But his expression gave her no insight into his thoughts.

“Spinster sisters share the room next to mine. They snore.”

“Yes. I hear that,” he said with another small smile.

Sarah smiled back, the tension knotting her shoulders unlocking. “It usually reaches a crescendo just past midnight and then they quiet down.” Setting the plate on the little tulip table in the corner near the door, she then took up a Lucifer match, struck it to the sandpaper and lit the stub of tallow candle that sat in a small porcelain dish with gold edging, one of the few possessions she had salvaged from the shattered remnants of her old life.

The flame flickered and wavered, barely denting the darkness. She turned to face Killian, who filled the doorway like a shadow.

What to do now? Invite him inside? There seemed no help for it, but she felt so odd to be in this situation, to have him here in this dim and crowded room. He had been here before, but only in her mind, her dreams, her fantasies.

The reality of him was overwhelming, as were the events of the evening, being chased, fleeing, arriving home to find him here.

“Come in,” she said, suddenly weary.

He did as she bid, stepping inside and pulling the door shut behind him.