“I could make you.”
In the shadows, he grinned. He could not account for the utter confidence in her, yet it made him...exhilarated. “An intriguing idea. Perhaps you ought to try.”
Had he been a normal man, her movement would have been a blur. Even so, it shocked him how quickly she was upon him, a knife in her hand shoved firmly against his ribs. He ought to teach her a lesson in taking on strange, large men in the night, but the sweet, grassy scent of her distracted him, and he was curious as to what she would do.
“Turn around.” Her voice was forged iron. “Your hands to the wall.”
When he simply stood there amused, she flushed. “I don't care who you are as long as you go. But I will check you for weapons before I send you on your way.”
Foolish girl. He really ought to set her straight. “Of course,” he said.
The damp on the bricks seeped through his gloves as she reached around to skim her hand over his chest. The moment she touched him his senses snapped to attention. A light shiver passed over him. He tapped it down, thought of the Queen, pickled eels, or...the fact that no woman had been this close to him in years. For a moment, he was dizzy.
“Quality clothing. Carrying the scent of the sea. The sea and...” she trailed off with a noise that made him wonder what she detected. Did the unnaturalness in him carry a scent?
“You're here to harass my father.”
His head snapped up, and she made a sound of annoyance.
“You are not the first to ooze from this alleyway in the dark of night, nor will you be the last.” Her hand slid over his belly. His gut grew twitchy, aching. “I assume he owes you money. Well, it is gone. There is nothing left. You cannot get blood from a stone, and I won't let you take his blood in payment.”
He winced at the hurt in her voice, at what she had to face for the deeds of her father. It changed nothing; save he wanted to keep her away from her father's inevitable demise. Tenderness warred with the deep, tight-chested anger that was his constant companion.
“How am I to respond?” he asked. “Deny it, and you accuse me of lying. Admit it, and you cut my throat.”
The tip of the knife dug in a little further as her soft voice rumbled at his ear. “I may do both yet.”
He could only chuckle. “I am honored. You had this pig sticker in your boot, and you saved it for me.”
“I hadn't the opportunity to use it on those fools. Not with you blundering in my way. But make no mistake, I would have done so.”
Brusque pats flanked his side. The touch was impersonal, and driving him mad all the same. His flesh tensed before each hit, waiting for the contact with taut anticipation.
“They might have taken your point to heart had you pulled out the knife from the first.”
He could feel her head shake. “Not those two.” A smile hid beneath the professional tone of her voice. “They would have leapt at the opening. They wanted the fight.”
Archer had to agree.
“Besides,” she said crisply as she ran a hand down his outstretched arm, before kneeling to check his boot. “I do not particularly like violence.”
Ha! “I'd say you excel at it.”
Her breath puffed warm against his thigh, making his quadriceps twitch. “Sweet talk won't save you.”
He affected a sigh. “My own folly for protecting a child.”
“Child,” she scoffed. “I am nineteen years old. Older than most Mayfair debutantes offered up for sale. Hardly a child.”
Ah, yes, and didn't he know it.
Cautiously, she felt along his right leg, before moving on to his left. Oddly, she didn't pick his pockets. She left his money purse alone.
“Pardon, madam.” He glanced down to watch the top of her head bobbing about like a copper globe by his upper thigh. Illicit thoughts flared hot at the sight. He struggled to keep his tone light. “Save when one has lived as long as I, nineteen years is little more than a flicker in time.”