I flew at him like a feral cat, aiming for the eyes, trying to do what worked before, refusing to be taken again. The collision sent him stumbling back a step, but as I attacked with all my momentum to throw him off balance, that unmistakable sensation surged through my body, and I felt myself being whirled around and pushed into a pool of light. The world stopped spinning to settle on Mr. Braddock’s eyes, glaring into mine as waves of energy passed between his hands to my arms, where he clutched me.
The scuffle of footsteps snapped his attention to the alley. He pivoted back and swung his fist at the man in front, catching him straight on his nose and sending him stumbling and slamming into the other. But they didn’t fall. With a newfound rage, the two staggered forward.
“Lucky one that was,” one of them said, wiping his bloody face.
The other pointed his knife at Mr. Braddock and smirked.“We’ll be the lucky ones. I get his coat.”
“Long as I get the bitch first.”
And the one in front charged with his knife, thrusting at Mr. Braddock’s head to avoid bloodying the coat. Mr. Braddock gracefully sidestepped the lunge and grabbed the unbalanced drunkard’s wrist. Impossibly fast and forceful, he contorted the wailing man’s arm and twisted him around. I heard the snap of bones. With a yell, the second attacker launched a hard, clumsy kick at Mr. Braddock’s side but found his foot lodged in his friend’s stomach. Mr. Braddock’s human shield crumpled to the floor. As the second drunkard realized his mistake, his eyes widened, and his crooked jaw would have dropped, had a skyward fist not collided with it first and sent him sailing backward onto the hard pavement.
That should have ended it, but the first attacker clambered back into the fray, broken arm held in tightly, and tackled Mr. Braddock from behind before I could shout a word of warning. Surprised but still upright, Mr. Braddock hurriedly spun around, attempting to dislodge the desperate attacker, who was futilely trying to drag him to the ground. After a few punches from Mr. Braddock, the drunkard’s tight hold with his good hand finally loosened, and he collapsed to the ground between us, while Mr. Braddock stood over him watching, his brow furrowed.
I could do nothing but gape at the sight. My knees buckled, and I sat down hard on the street, my skirts fanning out along the dirty pavement. My thoughts would not stop. They seemed to weigh down on me, every single awful thing that had almost happened. I did my best to push them away, to think on what really had happened. My heavy breath, held for entirely too long, escaped in a loud gasp and turned Mr. Braddock’s attention to me.
“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly, slipping a pair of kid gloves over his blood-speckled hands.
I wasn’t. I wasn’t hurt.
Somehow, I managed to stand, and he scanned me for injuries until his eyes reached my torn neckline and his blinking grew excessive. He stared at the ground as I groaned, my hands flying up reflexively, doing little to cover the damage. Looking pointedly away from my bare skin, he slipped off his jacket and handed it to me without a word. The wool itched, and the sleeves awkwardly hung too long past my arms, but it sufficed. Something earthy and spicily familiar drifted from the fabric. Much better than the stink of smoke and alcohol, at least. I stopped myself before I took another long inhalation, realizing what I was doing.
“Miss Wyndham, are you all right?” His words came condescendingly slow and overly enunciated, as if he thought I no longer understood English.
I blinked. Anger, fear, astonishment, helplessness—a maelstrom of emotions still coursed through me. I grasped at one of the many questions flashing through my head. “How did you find me?”
“I was on my way to call on you at the Kents’ when I saw you leave the Egyptian, clearly lost and frightened.”
“I was chilled,” I snapped. Strange, my hands continued to shake, no matter how I told them not to. “And so you followed me but decided to wait until my life was in danger, so you could jump in heroically, yes? No normal ‘Hello, Miss Wyndham, perhaps I might escort you home?’ A marvelous plan, Mr. Braddock. You’re quite ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know,’ congratulations.”
Mr. Braddock prowled around me in half circles as if a trap lay hidden in the space between us. Then he stopped and gestured down the street. “Fine. Perhaps I might escort you home now. If you can stop the rudely unsubtle Lord Byron comments.”
“As long as you don’t walk with his limp.”
“Do you do this to every man who helps you?”
“I—well—do you behave like this for every woman you help?” was my intelligent reply.
“No, you alone seem to inspire it,” he said, leading the way. “I thought you might still be in shock, but this sounds like your usual incivility.”
“Well, I thought I was abundantly clear in our last conversation that it would be our last conversation. But here you are.”
He opened his mouth but stopped after an angry “You,” clenching furiously at air, arms stuck at his sides. He looked like he was mentally counting to ten. I think I even heard a soft “Nine.”