Chapter Eight
How Rafe was not exploding with the rage within him was a complete mystery.
Well, perhaps not, as he suspected it had everything to do with the delectable woman in his arms, but even he was impressed with the control he was managing, and he was almost never impressed with himself.
It was entirely too arrogant.
But now he very much wished that he had been far more brutal with those louts he had thrashed in the alley. Before he’d thought they were merely some lowlife scoundrels trying to make trouble for a poor girl in a sorry state, but he fully expected her to be a prostitute, or at the very least, some fool’s wandering mistress.
Not his Margaret.
Not her.
He should have killed them.
He hadn’t killed anybody in a long time, and only then had done so with good reason, and this seemed like a damned good reason to do it again. He would have been out of practice, but entirely justified.
He hadn’t managed to ask her if she had actually been harmed, or if they had touched her, but he wasn’t sure he could bear it. The haunted, terrified look in her eyes had shaken him, and his only thought had been to let her know she was safe, to chase the shadows away and bring back her smile.
That had been challenge enough.
Now that she was curled against him so trustingly, he was two seconds away from beaming like a fool. She fit perfectly in his arms, and despite her injuries, he was beyond delighted to hold her thus.
He did feel the slight twinge of guilt at the rather base recollection of how she had looked before, and he had done his utmost to remain respectful and polite, but…
He sent up a silent prayer for forgiveness, but she had been the most alluring sight he had ever seen, and every one of his more wicked fantasies had suddenly sprung to mind. He took no pleasure in the extremes she had been forced into, or the pain they had caused her, but her already lush figure on such display had triggered some impulses he’d had to fight hard to tamp down. Her hair had long fallen out of its hold and was tousled and tumbling all around her narrow shoulders, looking for all the world like a woman roused from her bed.
And that was a place he absolutely could not let his thoughts wander.
He’d distracted himself with reciting various philosophical musings in Latin in his mind, but the most perfect distraction of all, what had wrenched those thoughts almost completely away, had been her eyes.
Wide, translucent eyes of an almost violet shade, weary and worried and pleading.
He could have happily drowned in those eyes, and wanted, more than anything, for them to look at him with the trusting, teasing light from before. Those eyes would have driven him to ends of the earth on only the whisper of promise from her, and he would have thanked her for the privilege. He had to help her, fix her, save her from anything and everything.
No primal surge of masculine attention was going to let him do anything less. And he absolutely would not leave her exposed like that for more predatory eyes.
She was his, no matter what state she was in. His to protect, his to avenge, his to cherish.
He’d have her in any and all states, if only he could.
And she didn’t even know his name.
Rafe found himself twisting his mouth a little, wondering if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
And blast it all if he didn’t have the answer.
He rounded another corner, the streets more narrow and dank than before, and Margaret seemed to curl against him more.
He bit back the urge to smile and only patted her a little. “Steady on, pet. I’ve got you, you’re safe.”
“I know,” she replied quietly, keeping her eyes averted.
Well, now, how was he to respond to that? He swallowed with difficulty and picked up his step, pretending that his heart wasn’t racing just a little bit faster.
He sidestepped into a smaller street and stopped when he reached the thick, well-worn door with ancient hinges. He kicked it three times with his boot, and stepped back, glancing up and down the empty, cramped street.
“I could have knocked,” Margaret offered in a very soft voice.
He looked down at her, letting one finger toy with a strand of hair near it, safely out of her sight. “And have you loosen your death grip on the coat shielding you? I think not, pet.” He shook his head and set his mouth firmly. “Pritchard will already think he’s died and gone to heaven when he sees you, best not to actually send him off to rapture before his time.”
Margaret choked out a burst of surprised laughter, then covered her mouth with the hand that had been holding his heart in his chest for the last several minutes.
He grinned at the sound. He’d not heard her full laughter yet, but the hints of it were positively divine. He vowed to himself right then and there that he would make her laugh with enthusiasm and joy, naturally and completely.
“Are you trying to make me blush?” she asked, raising her eyes to his.
He shrugged, enjoying the brush of her body against his as he did so. “I might be.”
Those eyes flickered with life and so did his heart. “I thought you were a gentleman,” she replied, narrowing her eyes even as her mouth quirked.
He smiled and let himself look at her, long and hard. “I am,” he told her, keeping his voice low. “But sometimes I like to pretend otherwise.”
He saw her delicate throat work for a swallow and thought she might lower her eyes once more, as her cheeks flushed, but she surprised him by keeping her gaze on his. Her breathing grew unsettled, but her eyes were steady and clear.
And her lips…
Lord have mercy, those full lips would torment a saint.
And he was no saint.
He heard the faint rush of air pass through those parted lips and almost ducked his head to taste them when the door opened and he jerked like a guilty schoolboy.
Pritchard himself stood in the doorway, scratching his almost hairless head and peering up at him as though the sun shone directly into his eyes. His bushy greying brows shot up in surprise. “Gent? What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”
Rafe grinned at the wiry old man and ducked his head a little, hefting his precious bundle slightly. “It’s not me, Suds. A damsel in distress this time.”
Pritchard wheezed a chuckle even as he rolled his eyes. “Lord above, they’re all damsels in distress, my boy.” He cast a bawdy wink at Margaret. “No offense, milady.”
“None taken,” Margaret replied with a warm smile. “And I’m no milady, nor any sort of damsel in distress. Simply a bit unlucky, and out of sorts.”
Now Pritchard grinned, his yellowing teeth on full display. “Fair maiden with real manners and no need of flattery? Oh, Gent, you shouldn’t have!” He cackled another laugh and waved them in. “Come in, come in, and let’s see what we have here.”
Rafe ducked through the small door, taking care with Margaret in his arms, and followed Pritchard through the cramped apartments. Though the house should have been large enough for him, with his daughters having moved on in life, he seemed to collect odds and ends to such an extent that one could barely sit down on the faded furniture. The windows were smeared with dirt, as though someone tried to clean them and found the task too daunting, but light still managed to stream through, however tainted it was.
Rafe shook his head and bit back a smile. Suds had always been a bit bizarre, and his retirement hadn’t changed that at all.
Towards the back of the house, things opened up quite a bit and there was space and light and air, in complete contrast to the front. It seemed that Suds wasn’t quite so eccentric as he appeared.
As if he heard his thoughts, Pritchard turned to look at him over his shoulder. “I can’t let people know what I do back here. Nobody bothers a man who hoards junk in his rooms, and only those who know me see beyond the front.”
Rafe smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. “I should have known you had your faculties still, Suds.”
Margaret tilted her head at them both. “Suds?” she repeated curiously. “I thought your name was Mr. Pritchard.”
Pritchard wheezed a laugh. “I’m both, love. Suds was my name when I was a much younger man, able to do many more things.”
“That was last year,” Rafe snorted, taking care to duck under a low beam of a doorframe without infringing on Margaret’s personal space. Much.
Pritchard ignored him and kept his gaze fixed on the young woman. “Pritchard is my correct and proper name, miss. And the only one that really suits me now. I am far too ancient to be anything else.”
“It’s only been a year,” Rafe protested with a laugh.
The older man raised a brow. “You wait until your turn, Gent, and see how well retirement sits with you.” He waved a hand at a cloth-covered table in the center of the surprisingly clean room, and set about working with an old and faded screen in the corner.
Rafe set Margaret down gently, and reluctantly, on the table, noting the faint blush on her cheeks as his arms slid out from her, brushing rather innocently against her as they did so. Well, well, this was an interesting development. His touch was stirring something, was it? That was most excellent to know. She looked even more fetching when she blushed, and the way she determinedly averted her eyes from him was quite charming.
A rather interesting development indeed.
“Retirement?” she asked softly, looking over at Pritchard even as she clutched that deuced coat more tightly across her. “From what?”
The men shared a sharp look, then Pritchard hefted the screen towards her. “Street life, my dear. Dangerous and dastardly and far too inappropriate to share with a sweet gel like you.” He winked rather boldly at her.
Margaret cracked a smile and shrugged one shoulder. “I am not that sweet, Mr. Pritchard. Trust me.”
He tossed his head back with a laugh and Rafe had to smile at her quip. After the day she’d had, she was tossing out wit like that? Remarkable creature.
“Sweet and spice are my favorite flavors, Miss,” Pritchard told her, still laughing. “Especially when brought together.”
Margaret giggled, then hissed a wince and grabbed at her left side, letting the coat gape a little.
Instantly, the amusement was gone, and Suds was back into play. “Ah, poor mouse. Let me have a look, shall we?”
She clamped down on her lip and nodded, her eyes casting over to Rafe, but not quite meeting his eyes.
Suds caught it, though, and grunted. “Gent, pull the screen. Pretend you are all that your name claims and give us privacy.”
Rafe’s fist formed a tight ball, but he saw the tension in Margaret, and the pain in her expression. He bit back a sharp retort and nodded firmly. But first… “Pet?”
She finally met his eyes and he saw the lingering fear there.
He kept his gaze steady. “I will be right here, if you need. Understand?”
Her lips wobbled and she nodded. “Thank you.”
Struck by the sweetness of such a simple phrase, he found he could only nod in response, and pulled the screen out, shielding her from his view.
Silently, he exhaled, and sank into a rickety chair nearby, waiting.
“Does it hurt when I press here?”
Margaret gasped and nodded frantically, her eyes squeezing shut.
Pritchard made a noncommittal sound and shifted his hands a little lower on her left. “Here?”
“Not as much,” she managed, shaking her head.
He chuckled softly. “But it still hurts.”
She nodded, biting her lip.
Pritchard sighed a little. “I need to examine you more closely. It will not be pleasant, but it will not last long. Would you mind terribly if I…?” He gestured at her clothing and Margaret shook her head at once.
“If you must,” she replied, removing the coat and revealing the remains of horrible dress beneath, trying to straighten up to remove the pins and sleeves.
“Allow me, miss,” Pritchard said kindly, moving around her. “Three daughters and a wife gave me some skill with female dress, I believe I have seen and done it all.”
Margaret laughed a little and felt more at ease. “I doubt you’ve seen anything quite like this monstrosity,” she quipped, wheezing with the laugh.
Pritchard caught it but his fingers only briefly stilled. “No, I can’t say that I have. Forgive the presumption, but your modiste ought to find a new line of work.”
Now Margaret barked a laugh, which hurt a great deal, and grabbed at her side, still smiling. “Not my modiste, I can assure you.”
He hummed a laugh behind her. “I thought not. It hurts to laugh, does it?”
She nodded and pulled her arms out of the tiny cap sleeves of the dress, letting the rest pool around her waist. “It hurts to do everything, Mr. Pritchard.”
He clucked his tongue and came around to the front. “You can call me Suds, miss. Or Pritchard. I’m not about to stand on ceremony under the circumstances.”
She offered him a shy smile, oddly comfortable despite being only in her chemise before him. “Then you may call me Margaret. Ceremony bores me.”
She heard a low laugh from the other side of the screen and felt her cheeks heat. She’d almost forgotten he was there, that he could hear everything she said.
Suddenly she felt far more exposed than she was.
She looked up at Pritchard, who had noticed, and was now smiling at her. But he said nothing except, “Now, can you lift your chemise just enough for me to see your ribs, Margaret? Keep yourself covered, by all means, but I really must see the skin.”
She managed a snort. “I don’t know how covered I am in this poor excuse for undergarments, but as you say.”
It was painful, wriggling her hips and torso to tug her chemise up through the skirts, but she managed without making too much noise. And with the added fabric of the chemise at hand, she could cover her décolletage without any trouble. It might have been the most comfortable she had felt all day.
Pritchard eyed her sides with a knowing expression. “Slight bruising, but not bad,” he muttered, laying his hands on her left side, fingers splaying the ribs as he pressed firmly, making her squeak. He did the same to the right side, with similar results. He laid one hand on each side and leaned back a little to get a better view. “Can you take a deep breath in, Margaret? And hold it?”
She did so, wincing and forcing herself not to exhale through her nose at the pain.
He frowned a little. “All right, you can release it.”
She did so, in a harsh burst, which made him smile a little.
He pressed on both sides equally and she whimpered.
“What happened?” Gent called from the other side of the screen, his voice rising in pitch. “Are you all right?”
“She is perfectly well, Gent,” Pritchard called, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be a Mother Hen.”
Gent muttered some very dark things that Margaret probably wasn’t supposed to hear, but did, and she had to fight an insane desire to giggle madly at it.
“He’s always been impertinent,” Pritchard whispered with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve known him for years, and he has never grown up.”
Margaret clamped down on her lips, a slight laugh barely escaping.
Pritchard winked, then gave each of her sides another look. He moved around to the back of her and pressed against her lower back. “Pain there?”
“No,” she replied. “Only stiff.”
He moved up to her ribs along her back, but nothing elicited a response from her. “All right, love, you can pull that back down, and replace the coat if you like. Time to see to your ankles.”
Margaret did so, tilting her head at a harsh mutter from the other side of the screen that sounded suspiciously like “Lucky,” but she doubted that.
He was much quicker with her ankles, removing the stockings and pressing against the bones, moving her ankles in every direction and asking her the same sort of brisk questions. She felt a twinge in each ankle, and they were puffy, but they felt much better than they had before. She could probably walk on them, but she would certainly not be dancing.
She almost snorted. Dancing. Where in the world would she be dancing?
She was in some unknown corner of London with veritable strangers without a stitch of clothing and no idea what she was going to do. She ought to send a note to Helen, as Miss Ritson would probably inform them of her behavior, and while her aunt Dalton was more proper than her mother, she had no fondness for Miss Ritson.
It occurred to Margaret to wonder why her parents had found her a chaperone rather than let her stay with her cousins for a time, but, as with everything, she expected they rather hadn’t thought of that. How fortunate she would be if they had thought a little more carefully about such things.
But there was no use in recriminations now. What was done was done, and she had run away.
Lord, but there would be much recompense to pay in the future.
Pritchard rose and put his hands on his hips. “Well, Miss Margaret, I think you will live.”
She giggled and folded her arms over the borrowed coat. “That is indeed a relief. And what is your diagnosis, good physician?”
He barked a laugh. “Lord, child, I am no physician. I was trained in field medicine for the war, and dabble in it enough to be skilled, but I would never aspire to the intelligence of a trained physician.”
She cocked her head with a teasing smile. “So I have been wasting my time with you and must find such a trained person to get the full measure of my state, is that it?”
He tapped her nose. “Cheeky. I like you.” He shook his head. “No, you will be sore and bruised, but I think you are well and whole. No broken ribs and no breaks in your ankles, either. For all the dramatics you’ve endured, and others have employed,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the screen, which made her cover her mouth to avoid laughing, “you are really not so badly off. Disappointed?”
She nodded soberly. “Terribly so. I was hoping for a grand story to tell with some dastardly injuries.” She heaved a sigh that hurt, but she did not care. “Alas, I am to be found lacking even in my attempts at adventures.”
Pritchard shook his head, smiling. “Oh, Miss Margaret, I don’t think a single person in this room finds you lacking in any respect at all.” He winked, which made her blush furiously, and then chuckled. “Well, let me fetch some fresh clothes for you from upstairs. My youngest gel is about your size, and she left enough things to start a shop in the front.” He glanced down at her ankles, and said, “And something for your feet, I should think.” He stepped outside and began conversing with Gent in tones too low for her to hear.
“Thank you, Pritchard,” Margaret murmured with real gratitude.
She had not expected to find some fresh garments. She rather thought she would have to go on like this until they could find a way to purchase more, though what money Gent had would have been a mystery, and Margaret had none on her person herself. And she dared not venture out into shops that knew her where she had accounts, that would put her in danger of seeing someone who might alert Miss Ritson, and she had absolutely no desire to see her again.
Margaret sighed a little and began pulling the pins out of her hair, which was quite ruined as it was, and ill-suited for the situation as it was. She would much rather just let her hair down naturally, without any of the refinement that ladies of her station were expected to portray. She was no fine lady now, and after her actions today, she doubted she ever would be again.
“Don’t sigh so, pet,” Gent said from his side of the screen. “It’s not so bad, is it?”
She closed her eyes and bit the inside of her lip. “I do not know. It might be.”
“Tell me.”
She swallowed with difficulty. “I have behaved foolishly. At the time, I was certain it was my only alternative, but acting on impulse only proved my downfall. I cannot say what will happen after this, but I feel certain that everything will be changed. I feel quite ruined, though I am nothing of the sort. I will never be the girl I was and I do not even know what to wish for anymore.”
He made a noise of disgruntlement, and she heard him shifting a little. “You sound so forlorn,” he murmured. “I don’t like it one bit.”
She smiled, loving the sound of his voice and the way it made her feel. Despite her situation, hearing his voice made everything seem rather wonderful. She hadn’t meant to sound so, nor to reveal so much, but it was so easy, too natural with him. “You don’t know me well enough to like or not like it,” she pointed out, smiling a little.
“I know you perfectly well enough,” he replied, the teasing tone back once more. “Don’t pretend that all of those days of seeing each other didn’t give us a certain knowledge.”
She bit her lip on a smile and looked up at the ceiling. “Well, I suppose it did enlighten me a little.”
“Really?” he mused. “Do tell.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“You should.”
“A lady would never.”
“So don’t be a lady for the moment.”
She laughed merrily and lay back on the table as though it were a bed. “You somehow blend in and stand out at the same time. I suspect that is part of your nature, and not only with me.”
“You suspect rightly,” he replied, sounding a bit surprised. “Very good.”
She nodded to herself, feeling rather pleased. “Your eyes are quite remarkable, you know. I felt that from the very beginning. You must notice quite a lot, and probably remember everything.”
He snorted. “Not everything, I leave that for Rook.”
She turned her head as if she could see him. “Rook?”
She could feel the sudden tension in the room. “Another colleague. And a bloody annoying one.” He hissed a little. “Apologies, a blasted annoying one.”
Margaret grinned. “No apology necessary. I find natural language rather refreshing. You may curse all you like, but I draw the line at blaspheming.”
He laughed once. “Duly noted. Anything else enlighten you?”
She sighed a bit dreamily. “Oh, several things. Somehow you draw me out when I am naturally more inclined to reserve, and I’ve never minded it even once. It was quite exhilarating from the start, and you’re the only one that has ever truly managed that. My friends have some success, but nothing quite like you.” Her throat began to close up on emotion and she willed them all back with a nearly silent sigh. “And that is all I am going to say on the subject, for all other enlightenment is quite secret until I know you better.”
Gent was silent for a long time, so long that Margaret’s fingers began to itch and she had to ball them into fists to avoid drumming them on the table. “Gent?”
“You are the perfect English miss,” he began, his voice low and warm, “but only on the exterior. From the very first, I saw in your eyes a desire to fly, and I wondered why you did not. You must have had a degree of freedom in your youth, no doubt your parents encouraged it?”
She smiled fondly and folded her fingers on her stomach. “They did. I was never without discipline or completely wild, but I was not exactly restricted either.”
“I can see that,” he replied, and she could hear the smile he must have worn and imagined the glorious sight it must have been. He cleared his throat a little. “You see the world with a sort of wide-eyed innocence, as if everything is new and fresh, and yet something in your eyes tells me that you are not ignorant, nor surprised, about much of what you see. I should like to see the world as you do. To smile about it. To have such wonder.”
There was a note of longing in his voice and her heart clenched a little at the sound. “I do not deserve such inspirational thoughts,” she managed, smiling. “I can assure you, I am a very regular sort of girl with very regular sorts of thoughts.”
He seemed to laugh at that. “I highly doubt that. Don’t tell me more, I rather like my delusions of you.”
“Oh, well, if you insist,” Margaret said with a wave of her hand. “If you’d rather think me a superior creature, I’ll not naysay it. By all means, please go on.”
Now he laughed in earnest and she did with him, and it felt charming and delightful and so natural. It was remarkable how they could converse in this manner, though they truly knew little about each other. And yet she had known it would be like this. Exactly like this.
“You are the most refreshing woman I have ever known,” Gent said, still laughing. “Refreshing to the eyes, to the ears, and now to the mind as well. Truly, pet, you are beyond anything in this world.”
Well, how was she to respond to that?
She was prevented from having to do so by Pritchard reappearing around the screen. “So sorry to keep you waiting, love,” he said as he shook out a simple blue day dress. “My Annie had far more than I thought she did up there, and it took a moment to find everything.”
Margaret sat up, smiling. “Not at all, Pritchard. I am so very grateful.”
He winked and handed her the undergarments and stockings, laying the dress on the table behind her. “You go ahead and change, and let me know if you need me to play ladies’ maid.” He leaned close and whispered, “In my past, I may have actually played that role once or twice, as duty called.” He put a finger to his lips, which only made her giggle more.
He disappeared, and Margaret divested herself of the horrid clothing she currently wore. She tossed both the remains of the dress and the sorry excuse for a shift on top of the screen and called, “Gent?”
“Yes?” he replied at once, sounding a bit odd.
She grinned. “Burn those wretched things, will you? They will be far kinder as ashes than clothes.”
He barked a laugh and tugged the garments off the screen. “As you wish.”
She slid the new chemise and petticoats on, which were lesser quality than she was used to, but fit her well enough. The stockings were worn, but clean, and she was hardly going to complain about it. She managed the dress on her own, the buttons easy enough to reach and though it was a trifle large in the waist, but as it fit her perfectly elsewhere, she was rather content with it. Her waist and ribs needed a reprieve as it was.
She was rather desperate for a mirror, but ran her fingers through her now loose tresses, praying the curl from this morning’s styling would remain in place, and then, holding her breath, stepped out from behind the screen.
Gent and Pritchard turned to see her, both looking surprised. Pritchard smiled, and Gent simply stared, rather frankly, and seemed without thought.
Margaret smiled softly and, keeping her eyes on Gent, murmured, “Pritchard, would you introduce us properly, please?”
Pritchard chuckled and came to her side, patting her hand. “Miss Margaret, might I present my good friend, the Gent? Gent, this is Miss Margaret, who wishes to make your better acquaintance.”
“And I hers,” Gent finally managed, stepping forward. He took her free hand, bowed over it more perfectly than any gentlemen she’d ever met, and then brought it to his lips, his dark eyes searing hers with their intensity “A pleasure, Miss Margaret, and a long awaited one.”
He kissed her hand, and Margaret was rather pleased she didn’t swoon.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” she replied, too breathless.
He grinned at her in a slow, wicked way. “No, Miss Margaret, truly I believe it is all mine.”