Chapter Thirteen

 

 

 

By the time Grant managed to fight his way to the top of the stairs, Juliet was nowhere to be seen. Cursing under his breath, he slammed open the first door he came to and scared the dickens out of a tiny blonde barmaid.

With a shriek she ran across the room and cowered beside the bed. "Please don't 'urt me," she pleaded, looking up at him out of blue eyes glassy with fear.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Forcing his expression to soften, Grant held up his arms and backed towards the door. "I promise. I'm just looking for someone. A woman - a young man," he corrected himself, for that was how Juliet would appear to anyone in the tavern. "He would have come by this way just a few minutes ago. Thin, wearing a brown hat and a bulky overcoat. About this tall." He moved one of his hands midway up his chest. "Have you seen anyone like that?"

The barmaid slowly stood up. "I - I might 'ave. Why are you looking for her - I mean ‘im."

It was a quick slip of the tongue. Hardly noticeable, really. But then it was a runner's job to notice what others missed.

"So you have seen her," he said.

"Maybe I 'ave and maybe I 'aven't. What - what's it to ye?"

"She's stolen something. Quite a few somethings, actually. I'm a runner."

"Ye are going to arrest 'er?" the barmaid cried. "But ye can't do that! She saved me life, she did! Two sailors were trying to...trying to..."

"I understand," he said gently when her bottom lip began to wobble. "Are you all right?"

"I am now, thanks to 'er. She came bargin' in like she owned the place. Then she shot the one with the beard. Right in the shoulder, like she's done it a 'undred times before. Didn't even blink."

"That sounds like Juliet," he said with a sardonic twist of his mouth. For all her countless faults – being a thief, liar, and manipulator principle among them – the woman was absolutely fearless. "Did you see where she went?"

"No." The barmaid crossed her arms. Lifted her chin. "An' I wouldn't tell ye even if I did."

"She's a criminal," he said flatly.

"Not to me."

A flash of movement behind the barmaid caught his eye. Crossing the room in three long strides, he drew back the rough square of burlap covering the window and looked out through the dingy glass.

On this side of town there were no gaslights to speak of, but the clouds had parted just enough to release a sliver of moonlight that allowed him to see Juliet's narrow slip of a silhouette as she hurried down the alley. Her hat obscured her brilliant red hair and from this angle he couldn't see her face, but he knew it was her. He felt it, deep in his bones.    

"There you are." Mouth setting in a grim line, he bolted out of the room so fast that Lilly's hair whipped across her cheek.

She jumped when the door hit the wall. Jumped again when it rebounded and slammed shut. For a moment she stood frozen save the quick rise and fall of her chest as she tried to catch the breath that had been stolen from her when she'd been dragged up the stairs and thrown onto the hard mattress. Sickness stirred in her stomach and rose up into her throat as she thought of what the sailors would have done if Juliet hadn't stopped them. What they might still do if she did not take measures to guard herself against them.

Pressing a fist against her belly to hold the sickness inside, she hurried to the door. But before her trembling fingers could slide the bolt lock into place it swung towards her with so much strength that she was knocked off her feet.

She landed hard on her backside and her head hit the floor with enough force to send bright dancing lights flashing in front of her eyes. Dazed, she tried to stagger to her feet, only to lose her balance and fall back against the bed. A mewling cry of distress spilled from her lips when she felt strong hands close around her waist and pull her up into a sitting position.

"Stop!" she cried, using what little strength she had left to slap at the stranger's arms. To her surprise he immediately let her go and stepped back, a frown touching the corners of his mouth as he gazed down at her. 

"Easy love, I'm not going to hurt ye. I was just seeing if ye were all right. That was a hard tumble ye took." The concern in his husky voice caught her off guard, as did the warmth in his gaze.

As stunned by his kindness as she had been by the sailor's cruelty, Lilly stared up at him in silence. His eyes were a clear, icy blue surrounded by thick lashes several shades darker than his hair. Thick and wavy, the sleek brown locks tumbled rakishly across his brow. His nose was distinctly shaped, as if it had been broken and reset more than once. His lips were bold and sensual. He had a strong chin and a rigid jawline complete with side whiskers that extended down past his ears, giving him a rakish appearance.

He was, without a doubt, the handsomest man she had ever seen. No that he had much competition. The men who frequented The Lusty Mermaid were not only ugly in appearance, they were ugly in heart and soul.

They were men who leered and pinched and grabbed. Men who thought that because she brought them their ale she ought to sit on their lap and let them paw at her tits and shove their hands up her skirts. They were men who did not see her as a person, but as an object. One to be used and discarded at their will. 

"...say, ye are lookin' a touch out of it. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Belatedly realizing that the handsome stranger had been speaking to her while she'd been busy looking up at him like a love-struck fawn, Lilly blinked and drew back when he waved three fingers in front of her face.

"Three," she said automatically. "I'm not blind."

"I didn't say ye were." A line creased the middle of his forehead. "What's a lovely lass like ye doing in a place like this?"

He thought she was lovely? Lilly felt her cheeks warm as she dropped her gaze to her lap where her hands were clenched together in a tight knot. "It's - it's a long story," she said softly.

"And a hard one, I'd imagine." He held out his hand, palm facing upwards. "Come on, love. Let's get ye somewhere safe."

She studied his fingers. Like the rest of him, they were long and lean. His nails were neatly trimmed and free of dirt, although she could see a rough callous on the pad of his thumb. Biting her bottom lip, she peered up at him through a sweep of pale lashes. "Are you going to rape me?"

"Am I - no. No," he said forcibly, blue eyes flashing. "I'm not in the habit of takin' women against their will. Nor do I keep company with any men who do." His gaze softened. "Ye don't have to come with me if ye don't want to. But I think ye would be a great deal better off if ye did."

The last time Lilly had made an impulsive decision it had cost her more than she could have possibly imagined. She had no reason to trust the handsome stranger with the kind voice. No reason to think he was any better than the men who had held her pinned to this very bed. No reason to believe he was the knight in shining armor she had been desperately wishing for all her life.

"All right." She slid her hand slowly over top of his and felt the heat of his skin. The steady throb of his pulse. The strength of his grip as their fingers entwined. Yes, she thought. This feels right. "I'll go with you."

 

Juliet knew the exact moment Grant picked up her trail. She couldn't hear him. Couldn't see him. Couldn't smell him. But she knew he was there, just like she knew that this time she would not be able to elude him.

Even if her ankle was completely healed, she didn't know this part of the East End well enough to outrun a runner. Especially one as quick as Grant. He might have been called The Wolf, but he had the speed of a bloody horse, and there were simply too many alleys that twisted back on themselves or dead ended without warning. Or, worse yet, dumped straight into the Thames.

As she didn't fancy a midnight dip in the river, she angled towards Blackfriars Bridge. If she could reach the bridge - and cross it - she'd be able to disappear into Dickens Square. No matter how fast he was, Grant would never be able to catch her there. It was a veritable bramble thicket of tenements, alleys, and taverns, all of which had multiple entrances and exits.

The fog grew heavier the closer she got to the water's edge. Its smoky tendrils wrapped around her like a lover's embrace as she slowed her pace and squinted into the dark, trying to distinguish where the walkway ended and the bridge began. Nearly a thousand feet long and built of arched stone, it should have been easy to find, but the bloody fog was so thick it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of her face.

A quiet rustle had her grabbing for her pistol. But when she whirled around there was no one there. Heart pounding, she strained to see into the impenetrable gray mist.

"Come any closer and I'll shoot." The click of the hammer being drawn back emphasized the seriousness of her threat. "I swear I will."

But if Grant heard her that was no sign, only the rhythmic slap of water against the hull of an invisible boat. Somewhere out in the harbor a lone gull cried out, its mournful cry causing a shiver to race down her spine.

To hell with this. Pointing the gun into the fog, she started to back up. One step. Two steps. Three steps. On the fourth she turned and ran.

Cold water soaked her trousers and jacket when she splashed through a puddle. Ignoring the wet, ignoring the dull throbbing in her ankle, she grabbed onto an old mooring pole, boots sliding on the wet dock planks as she made a sharp left hand turn.

She hissed out a breath when splinters gouged into her palm, but didn't slow down. In the distance she could just make out the glow of two tall gaslights. The bridge! She'd found it. She was nearly there. But as if summoned from the depths of hell, a dark rippling shadow suddenly appeared directly in front of her.

With a chortled cry of fury, she slid to a halt. She started to raise her pistol but Grant was one step ahead of her, and she froze when he pointed his gun at the middle of her heart.

Anger and defiance flashed in her eyes as he walked up to her. Yanking the gun out of her hand, he tossed it into the Thames with a careless flick of his wrist. She winced when she heard it hit the water. It was a foolish thing, to mourn a weapon. But that pistol had saved her life more times than she cared to count. Now it was gone, and with it any hope she had of escape.

"I told you I would find you," he said, his voice a throaty whisper as he leaned in close enough for her to see the throb of his pulse at the base of his neck. "And I always keep my word."