“Leave me be,” Julia said and took a step toward the woman and—dear God—the knife.
“Stand still or I’ll slit yer throat and then take yer ’air.” The woman advanced, but Julia didn’t cower. She had no room to back away. Instead, she made a grab for the knife. The woman slashed down, and bright pain flared in her arm. But Julia grabbed the woman’s wrist anyway, pushing her assailant’s arm back. A quick glance showed her the pain in her arm was accompanied by a stream of blood.
“Now look what ye done,” the woman said, struggling to wrench free of Julia’s hold.
“What I’ve done?” Julia used her momentum to push the woman a step back. “Who knows what sorts of filth you have on that blade?” She would probably die of some horrible as-yet-undiscovered disease. She forced the woman back another step, but it was a hard-won victory. The woman was tall and Julia was barely medium height. Both women were breathing hard, and Julia was grateful the struggle had forced the woman to stop speaking.
Her muscles burned and blood ran down her arm, but she refused to give in to fatigue. This was life and death. If she failed, Mostyn would find her lifeless body when and if he returned. Her bald, lifeless body.
With a growl, the woman pushed back, and Julia stumbled. Her feet scrambled for purchase, and she regained her balance and fought back. She might be small, but she had spent the last few months carrying small children, laundry, and heavy pots. She was strong.
The woman bared her teeth and pushed Julia back again, lowering her knife hand a fraction of an inch. Julia tried to raise the knife, but gravity was not on her side. She was tiring.
The woman pushed her back again, and this time Julia lost ground, her feet sliding backward. She concentrated all her strength on keeping the knife high and away from her face. But as she watched, the knife came closer and closer. The dull blade, red with her blood and black with God knew what, dipped lower and lower.
Julia tried to muster the strength to make one last push, but all she could manage was to keep the knife from plunging into her forehead.
Dear God, she would die this day. She had survived the Ox and Bull, survived Slag, and made it out of a raging fire, only to be killed on the street by a hair thief.
She closed her eyes as the knife moved closer, infinitesimally nearer to her skin. She did not want this woman’s face to be the last thing she saw.
And then suddenly, the woman’s wrist sprang free of Julia’s grip, and the knife clattered to the ground. Julia opened her eyes in time to watch the woman’s feet leave the ground as she flew backward. A dark-skinned man had the woman about the waist and shoved her at a pale man streaked with soot.
Julia’s gaze flew to the man who’d saved her. It was Neil, his skin covered with soot and ash. Only his sea-blue eyes were recognizable to her. He was alive!
“Mr. Wraxall,” she gasped.
“Good God, but can no one leave you alone for even a moment?”
She wanted to tell him if he insisted on being so surly, he could go straight back into the fire, but just then her legs gave way, and she wobbled. His arms caught her around the waist even as she caught herself. But he swept her up anyway, bringing her closer to his chest and the overpowering smell of smoke and fire.
“I can walk,” she insisted.
“And step into the middle of a dice game or a street brawl? I think I had better carry you for your own good.”
“You are acting like an arse,” she said, too tired to care that she’d used language unbecoming a lady.
“Yes, well, watching you almost stabbed through the eye brings out the worst in me.”
She looked up at him, hoping to discern something from his face. Was his statement an admission that he cared for her or was he simply angry that she might die and he be blamed for not meeting his responsibilities? But she could not see his features through the black grime. And then she remembered Mostyn. And Billy.
She struggled to look behind her. “Where is Billy? Did you find him?”
“I’m here, my lady,” came a voice from somewhere nearby. Wraxall was moving quickly through the dark streets of Spitalfields, and she could not pinpoint the voice. But she knew it.
“Billy.” She reached out a hand, and the boy took it. His hand was the same size as hers but rougher. He squeezed it.
“Major found me, he did. Got me out just in time.”
“Thank God. I will scold you later for all the trouble you caused, but now I am so thankful to have you alive.”
“Could we save the speeches for when we’re safely indoors?” Wraxall muttered. “The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better.”
“What about Mr. Mostyn?” she asked, ignoring Neil’s injunction. “I thought I saw him—”
“Here, my lady.” He moved from behind Neil so she could see him and then back again. He truly did seem to always be at Neil’s back.
“Thank you,” she said to him. He gave a curt nod and went back to his position. They were all accounted for and safe, or nearly safe, at any rate. Slag was gone. His alehouse was gone. She did not know if Goring had survived or not, but she did not think he would dare show his face again.
But most importantly, Billy and the other boys were safe. She hadn’t lost one. She could rest now.
Leaning her head on Neil’s chest, she closed her eyes and dreamed of fire.
*
Neil had felt fear. He had known dread and profound loss, but nothing could compare to the terror he’d felt when he caught sight of Juliana and the street wench struggling with the knife. In that moment, the rank, muddy street in Spitalfields became a battlefield once again, and he was racing against time to save Christopher.
He raced to save Juliana, but in his mind, they had become one and the same. He hadn’t been able to reach Christopher in time, and he would not be able to reach Juliana. He would live the rest of his life with the image of her death imprinted in his brainbox—the way he stored the images of the deaths of so many of those who’d trusted their lives to him.
Neil knew if she died, he would not live long. This was one death he could not survive.
He’d begun to run, pushing through the crowd still heading for the Ox and Bull and the spectacle of the fire. When he’d reached the wench with the knife, he was certain he’d been too late. He’d pulled her off Juliana, prepared to rip her to shreds with his bare hands, when he’d heard Juliana’s voice.
The woman had been forgotten, and in that moment, there was only Julia.
He held her close and stood in the entryway of the orphanage. When they’d come in—just the three of them, as Mostyn had melted away once they’d reached the building—Jackson had bustled the older boys off to their beds, taking Billy by the shoulders and threatening a bath. Rafe had only glared at him, taking in his soot-stained face and clothing.
“I get all the worst missions,” he complained before leaving in a huff. Neil rolled his eyes.
The cook’s brows lifted and then she retreated to the kitchen to prepare something soothing, but Mrs. Dunwitty had seemed unperturbed. “She always was a trial, this one. I told her father on many occasions her life—and mine—would have been a great deal easier had she been born male.”
Neil supposed that would have made his life easier too, but he couldn’t wish for it. Not when he held her soft body in his arms, loving the way her curves pressed against him.
“Don’t just stand there, Mr. Wraxall; carry her to her chamber. I don’t suppose there’s a maid about,” she said as she ascended the stairs in front of him. “I imagine I will have to see to that as well. Ah, Jackson, there you are.”
Jackson had been shepherding the boys into their room, but he took a few steps into the corridor. “May I be of service, Mrs. Dunwitty?”