The sound of her name on his lips, soft and graveled, unlocked her, and she began to tremble there in the darkness, on that grimy London street. He was by her side in seconds, reaching out, his hand hesitating in the space between them, hovering scant inches from her. Less. Not touching her. Not wanting to scare her, she imagined. Not wanting to impose.
The movement was so gentle, so kind, that it was hard to believe that he was anything but a friend.
You came, she wished to say. Thank you.
She couldn’t find any of the words. And she did not have to, because he was swearing softly and pulling her into his enormous embrace.
And she felt safe for the first time in years.
Perhaps ever.
She leaned into him, reveling in his warmth, his strength, his size. His arms came around her, pulling her tight against him, and his head bowed over hers, his whole body encircling her, protecting her.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered to the top of her head. “You’re safe.” He rocked her back and forth. “They shan’t be back.” His lips grazed her temple as he spoke to her.
She believed him.
She believed the way he spoke with care, the way his hands, instruments of her attackers’ retribution, now stroked softly along her back and down her legs, tucking her skirts carefully around her, spreading warmth through the parts of her that had gone cold with fear.
“You bested them. There were two. And you are one.”
“I told you, I do not lose.” There was lightness in the tone, one she could tell he did not entirely feel.
She smiled at the words, nonetheless. “Such arrogance.”
“Not arrogance. Truth.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she decided on: “You are not wearing a coat.”
He hesitated at that, barely, then said, “There wasn’t time. I had to find you.”
And he had.
“Thank you,” she said, the words strange and strangled and unfamiliar.
He pulled her closer. “Don’t thank me,” he whispered. “I was quite angry.”
She smiled into his topcoat. “I imagine you were.”
“I might still be angry, but you’ll have to wait until I am through being terrified.”
Her head snapped up, and she cursed the darkness in the alleyway, wishing that she could see his eyes. “Terrified?”
He turned away from her. “It doesn’t matter. You’re safe now.”
And she was. Because he was here.
Remarkably.
“How did you—”
He gave her a little smile. “I also told you I would find you if you ran.”
She shook her head, tears threatening. He’d passed. She’d heard him.
And still, he had found her.
He brushed her hair back from his face. “I doubled back.”
“If you hadn’t—”
He shook his head and pressed her tight against him again. “I did,” he said firmly.
And he had. She was safe.
“Thank you,” she said to his chest, one hand falling to his arm, causing him to stiffen and hiss in pain.
She sat up immediately, her hand dropping to his thigh. “Your arm.”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” There was a deep slice in the fabric of his topcoat, and she pulled at the fabric to find a similar cut in the lawn shirt beneath, and in his skin.
“He hurt you.” The buttons of his coat had burst in the fight, no doubt scattered somewhere on the dark cobblestones, and she pulled one lapel aside. “Take it off,” she said, as she started to unravel his cravat, to get at the collar of his shirt. “You need treatment.”
He caught her hand in his. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” she protested, guilt threading through her. “I shouldn’t have run.”
He stilled, his gaze finding hers. “What?”
“If I hadn’t run . . .” She’d hurt him.
As ever.
“No.” She ignored him, pulling her hands free, working at his cravat once more.
He stopped her again, one hand coming up to catch her cheek, his hands warm and sure. “Don’t say it. Don’t think it. This wasn’t your fault.”
She met his black gaze. “You’re hurt.”
One side of his mouth kicked up. “I was itching for a fight.”
She shook her head. “That wasn’t what this was.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain,” he teased before growing serious. “Those men were beasts. And you—” He stopped, but not before the words reminded them both of who he was.
Of who they were, together.
But now, it was her turn to care for him. “We must get you inside,” she said, standing, reaching down to help him up.
He ignored her hand, coming to his feet in a single, smooth motion. Once at his full height, he paused for a moment, and she imagined that he was weak from the pain of the wound. She moved to tuck herself under his good arm.
“Lean on me.”
He barked a laugh in the darkness. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Aside from the possibility of my crushing you?”
She smiled. “I am stronger than I seem.”
He looked down at her. “I think that is first truth you’ve told me.”
The words sent a thread of something indefinable through her. Something exciting and unsettling and half a dozen other things. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
No. She did not wish to like him.
Too late.
“Then why not lean on me?”