Chapter Seven
Running when one cannot breathe is not a wise course of action.
She did not have a choice, but the thought was a valid one.
Her corset seemed to grow tighter and tighter with every step, and her feet throbbed with the heeled monstrosities upon them. She hefted the heavy skirts in hand and ran as hard and as fast as she could through the unfamiliar streets, darting down as many side streets as she could, the fear of pursuit predominant in her mind.
She could only imagine the horrors Miss Ritson would unleash upon her if she were caught.
Oh, she was an idiot, she thought as she panted down another empty, filthy street. She was running through parts of London she did not know, less than half dressed, forced into a level of indecency she did not know she could attain, pins jabbing her at almost every point, and with absolutely no plan in her head but that of fleeing.
She cried out as her ankle turned, but didn’t dare stop, somehow still running despite the throbbing.
She couldn’t catch her breath, but that did not matter so much as putting as much distance between her and that place as she could. She felt safer fleeing in this state and in this distress than she had there, suffering under their attention and being part of their plans. Anywhere was better than there.
She tottered to a halt as she tried to get her bearings, her hair tumbling from the combs. She could only breathe in gasps, and her sides and her lower quarters ached from the pressure. Her dress felt heavier than the yards of ruffles and her arms ached with the weight of it. But she had run so many streets, was so turned around, surely no one could find her.
A faint whistling sent a chill up her spine and she glanced frantically around, seeing two men at the end of a nearby alley watching her with hooded eyes and knowing smirks. One of them whistled again, somehow making the sound evil and terrifying. They stared at her, and she stared back, trembling and horrified.
Then one of them took a step in her direction.
Somehow, she found more lung capacity to gasp and ran once again, turning to continue down the road she’d come in on. Ankles were forgotten, lungs were forgotten, it did not matter that she could not feel her face or anything below her neck, that she had no idea where she was, or that she was indecent. Now it was more than poor candidates for matrimony or the mortification of her appearance and demeanor. This was fleeing for her innocence, and her life, she was certain of it.
She had eavesdropped on enough conversations throughout her life to hear whispers of wicked things in dark places, and this was always how they went.
A woman in a place she should not be in, in a state she should not be in, and without any sense at all.
She was in exactly that predicament.
Street after street passed her, and she raced as fast as she could, limping and gasping pathetically. She could hear the men behind her, and her own clacking heels on the cobblestones gave them exact direction for her. She could not take the time to stop and remove them, or they would overtake her.
They would do so shortly as it was.
Odd sensations down her cheeks and burning in her eyes told her she was crying, but that seemed impossible. She could not do anything but run and panic, and she was not going to be able to do the former for very much longer.
In a last desperate attempt to throw off her pursuers, she wrenched down an alley suddenly, ignoring the dark and foreboding sense of it. She dodged crates and sludge, running headlong for the next street beyond.
Only to find that it ended around the next corner in a dank, filthy, sooty brick wall, and more wooden crates and scattered bits of rubbish.
She whimpered and swayed into the wall beside her, gripping it with her nails.
There was nowhere else to go.
She heard the footsteps come down the alley, and turned, sinking behind the nearest crates, hoping that the light was dim enough, and the men drunk enough, to somehow spare her.
And then she waited.
“‘Ere, Precious,” one of them called out. “Come to Papa.”
The other chuckled darkly. “Give us a taste, poppet!”
Margaret bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut.
Suddenly she heard shouts and scuffles, then other sounds, louder and echoing through the alley. A new voice, carrying above the others, rang out, followed by crashes and grunts, garbled exchanges, and the unmistakable sound of skin connecting with skin, as well as other things, and was that a snarl? She didn’t dare move or look, and she felt no relief in hearing it. Things could always go from bad to worse, and until she knew for certain, she wasn’t giving the newcomer any indication of her presence.
Her body shook and her limbs throbbed, her breath catching on each inhale and her vision swimming blearily before her. She was going to faint any moment, and that would not go well for her.
She reached behind her as her breath began to come faster, louder, and panic began to swell. She covered her mouth with her free hand while she desperately tried to pull the pinned fabric way and untangle the laces and knot, and only managed to mangle it and, somehow, pull even tighter.
Clamping down on a panicking whimper, she tried to use both hands to free herself, but nothing was happening except for making things much worse.
Tears sprang to her eyes again as the sounds in the alley were fading, or perhaps it was her hearing, as all she could make out now was the pounding of her heart and almost frantic pitch of her breath.
“Miss?” called the newer voice. He whistled a little and suddenly appeared in her portion of the alley. “Hey, miss, where are you?”
She ducked her head down further, which unfortunately made her dress rustle and the ridiculous ruffles added to the sound in chorus.
He shifted in her direction. “Miss? You can come on out, I won’t hurt you.”
There was something about that voice, something warm and tingly that she ought to know. But everything was tingling right now, and she herself was both hot and cold, and wouldn’t someone who wanted to trick her say exactly that?
But he didn’t sound as coarse as her pursuers.
And she had no other options.
Ankles throbbing, head swimming, lungs and ribs screaming, she crawled out from her hiding spot and looked up at the man.
It was him.
She hiccupped a distressed sound of surprise and saw the recognition in his dark eyes as he looked at her. He was a glorious sight, dirty and rumpled and scruffy as he was, and somehow more handsome for not seeing him in ages. How long, she couldn’t remember, but she could barely remember her name right now.
He shook his head as he looked at her, his expression softening. “Oh, pet. Not you.”
She knew exactly what he meant. She didn’t want to be found by him in this state, in this horrible place, with those men after her. She didn’t want to see him like this.
But she was so relieved it was him that she couldn’t do anything but choke out more sobs.
He came to her quickly and helped her to her feet, where she tottered for a moment on her weak angles and dratted heels, then collapsed again with a whimper of pain, grabbing at her ankles and her sides.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, crouching down and wiping her tears from her cheeks. “It’s all right, you’re safe now.”
Everything that had happened to her that day, that week, and longer, came crashing down around her, and suddenly she couldn’t stop crying. Sob after sob wracked her frame, and her corset constricted tighter and tighter around her, cutting off her air and thought, and she clutched at his arms.
“I… can’t… breathe…” she managed, gasping and panting, her fingers clenching him.
He swore under his breath, his hands flying to her waist. “Why do you do this to yourselves?”
“I didn’t!” she screeched, somehow managing to find some sort of indignation even like this. She swayed and hiccupped a wheezing breath, tearing at the barely pinned too-small bodice covering her corset. “They… made me. Get it… off!”
Dark eyes clashed with hers for an instant, and then he was nodding. “All right, pet. I will, I will, don’t panic.”
She shook her head frantically. “Already… panicking!”
She could have sworn she heard him laugh, and then there was a blade out and she shrieked a little.
“Easy,” he ordered, his tone firm but his expression gentle. “Look at me.”
She met his eyes and her breath snagged somewhere in her throat.
He held her gaze and she felt her panic begin to ebb back into only agitation.
A corner of his mouth curved up a little. “Breathe, sweetheart. If you can.”
She bit her lip and whimpered with the pain tearing at her ribs. “I can’t,” she pleaded. “Please.”
He dashed away another tear, and cupped her cheek softly. “Of course. I have to cut it, hence the blade, all right?”
She nodded frantically and turned to give him easier access.
His hands moved to the sides of the now exposed corset and she felt him tugging at them a little. “Just to be clear, you want me to cut the laces of your corset here in this alley?”
“Yes!” she gasped, her head pounding with her pulse. “Stop stalling!”
He chuckled softly and the sound sent ripples up her spine that had nothing to do with her lack of air. “I just wanted to clarify. I would hate to be compromised and forced into marriage.”
The tension around her torso started to fade as he cut the laces and she found herself dragging in deep gulps of air with the release. “Is that… likely?”
He sighed heavily. “It would shock you how often it is attempted. Women practically fall at my feet all the time, and I never go out into Society alone. I really am very sought after.”
She managed a weak laugh and lowered her head as the air rushed back into her lungs. “Well, you are rather helpful. Probably would make a… most convenient husband.”
“Oh, I am a perfect gentleman, I would be the ideal candidate, I am sure, if ever I was snatched up.”
He cut away at the last of the laces and she felt the stiff fabric give way and fall against her arms, tightly pinned to her sides. His hand pressed lightly on her back, as if soothing her.
“Better?” he murmured, all teasing gone from his tone.
Slowly, Margaret nodded, letting her lungs remember how to function properly. “Never again,” she whispered. “Never, ever again.”
“What was that?” he asked, leaning forward. “Never what?”
“I am never wearing a corset ever again,” she vowed. She sniffled once then sat back and turned to face him, suddenly aware of the precarious situation she was in with this man… this glorious, charming, heroic, absolutely perfect man who had just cut the laces of her corset and could see every inch of her disheveled undergarments and exposed skin. Her cheeks began to heat and she covered herself as best as she could without letting the shreds of her corset fall completely away.
He raised a brow at her, his eyes staying on hers. “You normally don’t?”
She bit the inside of her lip, debating the propriety of having a conversation about undergarments with him, but considering her state, there was not much left to the imagination, and absolutely no propriety here. Slowly she shook her head and exhaled heavily, then winced at the sharp pain in her ribs.
“Interesting.” He eyed her with concern. “You need a physician, I think. Can you stand?”
She started to nod and shifted her feet, then hissed as her ankles reminded her of their state and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
He took one of her ankles in hand, his touch surprisingly warm and she squawked a little at the sensation. He turned her foot gently one way, then another, his eyes flicking between it and her face, noting her reactions and sounds. Then, without warning, he wrenched the horrid shoe from her foot, then did the same with the other.
“Bad corset and bad shoes?” he said as he rose, a hint of a scold in his voice. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Someone clearly does not like you very much. Or they have very poor fashion sense. Which is it?”
Margaret wriggled her now free toes with a sigh of relief and rubbed at her ankles. “Honestly, I think both.”
He barked a laugh and stared down at her, looking her over with thoughtful attention.
Self-conscious and painfully aware of her indecency, she cowered a little. “What?”
He pursed his lips a little. “I’m trying to decide what to do about covering you. There’s some material draping crates, but I wouldn’t trust it to not be infested with things.”
She shuddered and shook her head. “Thank you, no. What if we tear some of this horrid fabric off my skirts?”
He shook his head at once. “I think not. Ill-advised ruffles or not, it still leaves your legs covered, and I dare not tempt fate further by exposing them, fetching picture though it would make.”
Margaret wondered if her cheeks would ever cool again and looked away, putting a hand to one. “Well, I suppose I shall go without, then.”
He made no sound and she glanced up to see a thunderous expression that surprised her. “Not on your life,” he said in a voice so low she felt it in her toes. “I’ve already fought off two blackguards for you, I’ll not take on the rest of London too.”
After she managed, eventually, to swallow, she found herself snorting in derision. “Hardly the whole of London, and I take no compliment in the attention, I assure you. It is not personal, merely a bit of female flesh, and that can be got anywhere, I expect. Nothing to do with me at all.”
“You expect rightly, but I think you underestimate your charms.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “I have it. Don’t go anywhere.”
She gave him an incredulous look as he dashed back down the alley. Where, exactly, did he think she was going to go?
He appeared a moment later with a gentleman’s coat, poorly mended and hardly in good condition, but it was clean and it was large enough to cover her top half completely and entirely.
He grinned at her and her heart hammered against her ribs. “One of your admirers wore a coat, if you recall. As he is not currently in need of it, I thought it the least he could do to offer it up in recompense.”
Ah, so not precisely a gentleman’s coat then. No matter. “Rather thoughtful of him,” she mused softly, smiling for the first time in what seemed to be years.
He nodded sagely and shook it out. “I thought so.” He tilted his head at her, his smile softening into something that tickled her insides. “So you can smile. I thought perhaps you had lost that gift.”
She thought about offering up a teasing quip, she thought about blushing and being demure, she thought about changing the subject… She thought of a hundred and three things she could, or should, have said in response that would have been appropriate and polite, and perfectly suitable to any such compliment from a man.
But he was different.
And with him, so was she.
She lowered her eyes and swallowed. “So did I.”
For a moment, neither moved, and she could almost hear the measured breaths he took in the silence of the alley. Then he moved around her and the coat was gently placed across her shoulders.
Margaret slid her arms through the sleeves and pulled it tightly closed, buttoning it where she could, but still gripping it with one hand across her gaping bodice. “Thank you,” she murmured.
In response, his arms came around her and she was hefted up in his hold. She gasped in a mixture of shock and pain, clamping down on her lips hard to keep from making a sound.
“Sorry,” he said with a hiss, shifting her a little to move his arms to more comfortable places. “Is that better?”
She tucked her chin, mortification washing over her again. “It is fine.”
He did not move, waiting, and she glanced up to find him pinning her with a hard look. “Fine is not exactly descriptive,” he grunted, raising a brow rather imperiously.
She managed a weak smile. “To be perfectly frank, I am not sure any position would be comfortable at this moment. I hurt everywhere. Quite fiercely.”
His shoulders dropped a little and his hold tightened, but not painfully. “I am so sorry. I’ll take you somewhere to help. A friend of mine.” He started out of the alley, his hold secure, yet gentle, and he carried her far too easily.
“Is he a physician?” she asked weakly, suddenly feeling fatigued and limp.
He made a noise of either amusement or derision, she couldn’t tell. “He’s something. Close enough, I expect. Less pompous, though.”
Margaret gave up any idea of pretense and allowed herself to lay her head against his broad shoulder, tucked against his very firm, very warm, very impressive chest, and let herself feel the strength in his arms along her back and beneath her legs. She rather hoped he would carry her quite a long way, as this was all rather perfect. “It will do well enough,” she replied, fighting the temptation to close her eyes.
The man of her dreams was carrying her through London and being a perfect gentleman about her horrid state. She was not going to miss a single second of staring at him or living in this moment, no matter how embarrassed she was.
He was so attractive it nearly hurt to look at him. Dark eyes that always seemed to laugh and could see everything a person might try to hide. The strong jaw that her fingers itched to touch and stroke. The scruff that she knew would scratch and tickle her skin, and she suspected even when he shaved the shadow of it remained. A profile that a sculptor would weep over.
She recalled his hands on her face, slightly calloused but somehow clean. Strong hands that held her tightly now, yet had been gentle enough to soothe her. Powerful legs that did not strain at lifting or carrying her, and, she had to admit, filled out his trousers sinfully well.
And if she did not stop recollecting every detail of his figure and appearance, she was going to become shamefully scandalous and her face would flush and he would know it.
If he did not already, the way her free hand had crept to rest on his chest, and would probably become permanently fixed there, as it was so perfect a place for it.
“So,” he suddenly said, breaking through her thoughts of him with ease, his voice rumbling through his chest and consequently through her, “these friends of yours who don’t like you and have no fashion sense… What exactly were they aiming for with this?”
Her hand on his chest stiffened and the rest of her followed. She closed her eyes and slowly inhaled through her nose, then exhaled much the same. “They wished me to be compromised and forced into marriage,” she told him, keeping her voice low as she echoed his earlier words back to him.
His step faltered for a moment, and his hold on her flexed. It hurt a little, but she would die before saying so. It felt impossibly good, and the way his jaw tightened and his throat worked made her heart sing, just a little. A brief, but rough tremor coursed through him and she bit her lip as she felt it.
He cleared his throat lightly and shook his head a little. “Not to worry, pet. There will be no compromising here, unless you are doing it. I am a perfect gentleman at all times.”
She snorted softly, but smiled.
He gave her an amused look. “I am,” he insisted. “That is why they call me the Gent.”
Margaret tilted her head back a little. “Who is ‘they’, exactly?”
He leaned closer and whispered, “Everyone. I am at once the best and worst kept secret in London.”
She bit back another smile and let herself lean on him more.
He most certainly was.
And he was her secret as well.
Reading her attention as weariness, he sighed a little. “Just a few more blocks, sweetheart. Then you’ll be set to rights.”
She nodded against him, but said nothing.
She was already feeling more to rights.
But that, too, was a secret.