“He’s nearly as big as the man who came for Mrs. MacIntyre,” Daniel said, amazement in his tone.
He nearly was, but Temple was bigger.
“Aye! That one was big as a house!”
Bigger, and no doubt stronger. And handsomer. She stilled at the thought. She had no interest in his handsomeness. None whatsoever. She hadn’t even noticed it. Just as she hadn’t noticed the way his kisses made her weak.
He was infuriating. And impossible. And controlling in the very worst way.
And more handsome than the man across the street.
Not that she noticed.
“Do you think he’s here for one of us?”
The trepidation in little George’s voice brought her back to the matter at hand. “Gentlemen.”
The boys started, releasing curtains and unbalancing each other until their strangely crafted structure toppled, leaving half a dozen boys in a heap on the floor. Mara resisted the urge to laugh at the boys’ antics as they scurried to their feet, straightening sleeves and pushing hair from their eyes.
Daniel spoke first. “Mrs. MacIntyre! You are back!”
She forced a smile. “Of course I am.”
“You were not at supper last evening. We thought you’d left,” Henry said.
“For good,” George added.
Mara’s heart constricted at the words. Though they played at being fearless, the boys at the MacIntyre Home were terrified of being left. It was a vestige of being marked as orphans, no doubt, and Mara spent much of her time convincing them that she would not leave them. Indeed—that they would be the ones to leave her, eventually.
Except it was a lie now.
She would leave them. She would write her letter to the newspapers, and show her face to London, and then she would have no choice but to leave them. It was how she would protect them. How she would keep their lives on track. How she would ensure that funds continued into the orphanage, and they were never marked by her scandal.
Deep sadness coursed through her, and she crouched low, Lavender struggling for freedom, and pressed a kiss to George’s blond head before smiling at Henry. “Never.”
The boys believed her lies.
“Where did you go, then?” Daniel asked, always one to get to the heart of the matter.
She hesitated, turning over the answer in her mind. She couldn’t, after all, tell the boys that she’d been traipsing about London in the dead of night being fitted for clothes worthy of a prostitute and chased by villains. And kissed by them. “I had a bit of . . . business . . . to tend to.”
Henry turned back to the window. “There are two men out there now! And with a great black carriage, too! Cor! We could all fit into it! With room to spare!”
The pronouncement drew the attention of the rest of the boys, and—despite her attempt to resist—of Mara. She knew before she looked out the window, through a web of young, spindly limbs, who would be in the snowy street beyond.
Of course it was he.
Without thinking, she headed for the door of the orphanage, tearing it open and heading straight for the carriage. Temple’s back was to her as he and his man-at-arms were deep in conversation, but Mara had taken no more than a half-dozen steps before he turned to look over his shoulder at her. “Get back inside. You’ll catch your death.”
She would catch her death? She held her head high, not wavering. “What are you doing here?”
He looked back to his companion, saying something that made the other man smirk, then turned to face her. “This is a busy street, Mrs. MacIntyre,” he said. “I could have any number of reasons to be here.” He took a step toward her. “Now do as I tell you and get inside. Now.”
“I am quite warm,” she said, her gaze narrowing. “Unless you’re searching for a woman to warm your bed, Your Grace, you really couldn’t have any number of reasons to be here. And in your condition, I would think that effort would prove futile.”
He raised a brow. “Do you?”
“I stitched your arm closed not twelve hours ago.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I am quite well today. Well enough to carry you inside and stuff you into a cloak.”
She hesitated at the image that wrought, the way he simply oozed strength beneath his greatcoat, which made him look even wider and more unsettlingly large than ordinary.
He did look well. Wickedly, powerfully well.
She resisted the urge to identify the emotion that coursed through her at the look of him. Instead, she said, “You should not be cavorting about London with a fresh wound. It shall tear open.”
He tilted his head. “Is that concern you exhibit?”
“No,” she said quickly, the word coming on instinct.
“I think it is.”
“Perhaps the wound has addled your brain.” She huffed her irritation. “I simply don’t want to have to repeat my work.”
“Why not? You could fleece me out of another two pounds. I checked that price, by the way. Robbery. A surgeon would do it for a shilling, three.”