Her mind raced. Desperate for what? “I think they escaped.”
“No, they didn’t.” The gloating satisfaction in the Guardian’s voice was palpable.
Lenore recalled one of the thieves crowing triumphantly when she fell, its abrupt end followed by a brittle snap. She didn’t ask her rescuer to expound on his statement.
He took up the fallen threads of conversation. “Who is your companion?”
Lenore glanced at the dog from the corner of her eye. It held sentry duty not far from the table, tail thumping when she met its gaze. “Some poor stray. It tried to protect me when the resurrectionists gave chase.”
“Cleaned up and fed, she’d make a fine companion.”
Lenore tried to straighten and regretted the action. “Ouch!”
The Guardian’s voice held a touch of amusement. “Patience, Miss Kenward. I’m almost finished.”
“The dog’s a girl?” Not that Lenore had looked closely, but for some reason she had assumed her canine friend was male.
“It’s hard to tell, as emaciated as she is, but I believe she’s still a pup, not yet whelped a litter. If her paws are anything to judge by, she’ll be a large bitch hound. A good hunter or guard dog.”
This mysterious, deathless being possessed more layers than Lenore imagined, and similarities to someone else that made her reel. They at least explained why she was so drawn to him. “I once knew a man with a keen eye for a good dog. He would have liked this one.”
The Guardian dropped the last bloody towel into the emptied basin. His hand on her shoulder prompted her to straighten. The stoic mask he wore hadn’t altered, but something flickered across his face—a yearning. “Then I suspect he also had a keen eye for dauntless women.” He gestured toward her forehead. “I’ve cleaned the gash and washed away the blood in your hair. I don’t think you need stitches, but once you’re home, I implore you to call out a physician. Let me see your hand.”
She offered him her scraped hand, squeezing his fingers when he instructed. Her two fingers ached, but were far less painful now.
“Nothing broken or sprained,” he announced. “That hand will be good as new by tomorrow.”
Lenore reached up to touch the laceration on her scalp, halting when the Guardian shook his head. “Resist the temptation,” he said. “And you may wish to forego both hair pins and bonnet for now, improper though it may be.”
She shrugged. “I’ve often thought the rules of society to be both inconvenient and illogical at times.”
A wide smile curved his pale lips. “Why does this not surprise me?”
He stood and retrieved her cloak from where it lay on the floor. “It’s still damp, but I have no coal for a fire to dry it or warm you. Not even a kettle for tea. But I have wine if you wish to partake.”
She accepted the cloak and his offer of wine. He gathered up pitcher, basin and towels and left her alone with the dog to disappear into the dark hallway from which he emerged earlier. No longer muzzy-headed and huddled in her damp cloak, Lenore abandoned her seat to travel a circuit around the room—a parlor once, from the look of the paneled wall on one side and the remnants of faded wall paper on the other three. Grime hid much of the decorative plaster work that edged the ceiling and filled the medallion from which a chandelier or gasolier once hung. The window, cloudy with dirt, looked onto a garden choked with dead weeds and surrounded by a low stone wall in tumbled disrepair.
The Guardian returned, this time bearing two goblets and a decanter of wine the red of faceted garnets. He placed them on the table. “Enjoying the view?” he asked as he poured the wine.
Lenore joined him at the table. “This was once a lovely home. With a little repair and a lot of scrubbing, not to mention a few more sticks of furniture, it could be that way again.” She accepted the glass he passed to her. “Do you live here?”
He shrugged. “I take sanctuary in here from the elements when needed.” Again that fleeting smile that so charmed her. “And minister to injured ladies.”
There was nothing suggestive in his remark, yet Lenore felt her face heat yet again as if with fever. The Guardian’s smile melted away, and she rushed to coax it back once more. “Then you are a very busy man,” she said. “Consorting with the departed, chasing off resurrectionists, rescuing women with clumsy feet. When do you find the time to socialize?”
Her teasing worked its magic, and his smile returned. “I’m doing so now, Miss Kenward.” He raised his glass in toast. “Not a rare vintage. A home brew made by the neighboring rector’s wife. I hope you like pomegranate.”
His features turned serious again, though not from awkwardness this time. “I don’t want to compromise your reputation. I’ve left a note with the rector’s housekeeper. Both he and his wife are currently out but will return soon. Due to my position and my appearance, I can’t accompany you home, but I won’t allow you to return alone, not with that head injury. Mr. and Mrs. Morris will see you safely home.”
Lenore shook her head, prepared to protest, until the room’s axis tilted a little. She stumbled and reached for the Guardian who steadied her with a hand at her waist. A scowl darkened his pale visage. “I must agree that yours is a proper plan,” she said.
His hand, pressed against her ribs, no longer chilly but scorching. She felt the heat all the way through layers of black wool, corset and shift. Neither wine nor wound made the blood surge through her body like this or made her so exquisitely aware of each breath this man took, each subtle slide of his coat against her skirts or the way the lamplight carved out the deep hollows beneath his cheekbones and made his long fall of hair shimmer in the gloom.
His fingers tightened before sliding to spread across her back and urge her closer. A glass fell to the floor. Hers or his, she didn’t know, nor did she care. Propriety be damned. For five years, she had lived a half life, numb to all but the darkest emotions. Now, in the arms of a man no longer considered one, she came alive. A gift of Mercy or Fate, she had no intention of squandering it.
Corded muscle tightened under her touch as she slid a hand from his elbow to his shoulder. “We’ve shared conversation and now wine,” she said softly. “And you’ve played both rescuer and nurse to me, yet still I don’t know your name.”
A smear of wine darkened his lower lip like blood on an Alba rose petal.
“Colin” he replied in equally subdued tones. “Colin Whitley.”
She startled, and his hand fell away.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Are you dizzy? Do you need to lie down again?”