Page 7

“The next street over might have a cab. You’re almost there,” he said, taking more of her weight and lengthening his stride.

She wondered what mistakes kept the good doctor awake at night, for they did not allow him rest even in the daylight.

They emerged onto a wider street where gas lamps cast pools of yellow light at regular intervals. The buildings here looked marginally more respectable, though still a far cry from Mayfair’s elegant facades. The stench of the river and rotting fish gave way to the milder odors of coal smoke and horse dung. Voices called from tavern doorways, less desperate than those in the alley but still rough with drink and hard living.

Abigail felt a measure of tension ease from her shoulders. They weren’t safe yet, but at least here there were witnesses, light, the possibility of help.

“No cabs,” Dr. Redchester said as he looked up and down the street.

“Just my luck,” she muttered and doggedly kept limping along.“You fight rather well for a doctor,” she said, making conversation to keep her mind off the pain.

His expression darkened, a muscle tightening along his jaw. “I served in the Peninsula.” His hand flexed at his side, an unconscious gesture that spoke of memories too vivid to fully suppress. “One acquires certain skills when surrounded by both the enemy and the dying.”

Abigail tried to imagine it—the blood and chaos of a battlefield, the screams of wounded men, the constant threat of death. She thought of the clinical detachment with which he had subdued her attacker, the cold precision in his eyes. How many horrors did man have to witness to develop such control?

“It is a good thing you are able to adjust your bedside manner accordingly,” she murmured, attempting to match his dry tone.

A passing cart rattled over the cobblestones, its wheels striking a loose stone with a sharp crack. Dr. Redchester tensed beside her. His free hand twitched toward his hip where no weapon hung. The movement was so quick Abigail might have missed it had she not been pressed against his side.

His eyes took on a far away look as his gaze darted around, searching for the threat. She’d seen soldiers down on the docks during her time at Beacon House. Returned in body, but fractured in mind and spirit.

The war isn’t over for him.

“I never noticed how loud London can be at night,” she said. “Are you always so watchful?” she asked, trying to draw him back from whatever far off battlefield lingered in his mind.

He blinked, focus returning. “Only when escorting injured ladies through questionable neighborhoods.” His voice was controlled again, though strain edged his words. “And you? Are you always this determined to court danger?”

“I’m typically quite dull, actually,” she replied, grimacing as they navigated around a puddle. Her ankle protested each movement, and she found herself leaning more heavily against him with every step. “I spend my days counting linens and teaching women to read. Hardly a heroine in an adventure novel.”

I’m the character readers forget.

“Yet here you are.”

“An aberration, I assure you.”

He made a noncommittal sound. “I’ve found most people reveal their true character in moments of crisis, not in their carefully planned days.”

“Then you must think me a complete fool,” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

“I think you’re someone who values independence enough to take ill-advised risks.” His gaze remained fixed ahead, but his words carried a weight that suggested he understood more than she had given him credit for. “There are worse qualities.”

“And you?” she asked. “Do you value independence or avoid entanglements?”

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t look at her. “I value control.”

“Over what?”

“Everything.”

There was no heat in the word—just weariness, as if control were something he pursued out of necessity, not pride. Abigail said nothing, sensing he wouldn’t answer if she pushed.

They reached the main thoroughfare when Abigail caught the heel of her boot on an uneven stone. She pitched forward with a small cry, her heart leaping into her throat as she braced for the impact of stone against her already battered body. Instead, she found herself caught against Dr. Redchester’s chest, his arms encircling her with surprising gentleness for a man of his size.

For a moment, they stood frozen in the unexpected embrace. His breath, warm on her cheek, the steady pressure of his hands at her waist. Each detail stood out as she looked up into his face—so close now that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the small scar that bisected his left eyebrow, the shadowed hollow beneath his cheekbone.

Not handsome—not in the conventional sense.There’s something compelling in that face—something carved by experience rather than blessed by nature.

“My apologies,” she gasped, pressing her hands against the solid wall of his chest. Beneath her palms, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath layers of wool and linen. The intimacy of the contact sent a flutter of awareness through her that had nothing to do with pain or fear.