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The damned fool. What was she thinking?

He skidded to a halt and leaned over her prone form.

Verity Lovelace lay motionless on her back, her thick, dark lashes closed with moisture clinging to them. Blood poured from her nose, blending with the rain slapping down at her, turning the crimson pink.

“You are a damned fool, do you know that?” he snapped, going to a knee beside her. And stubbornly resistant. And damned if his admiration didn’t grow tenfold. Grown men, even taller than his six foot four inches, had backed down before challenging him.

Leaning over her, Malcom lightly tapped her cheek. “Wake up, now,” he murmured, unable to explain the panic knocking around inside his chest.

She groaned. “I’m awake.”

And a wave of relief swept over him.

His response merely stemmed from the fact that the woman was a spirited adversary. One who, despite the fear that had cloaked her slender person, had challenged him at every turn, and as such, it was nigh impossible to be anything but vexed by such a woman.

“Verity Lovelace,” he repeated more insistently, giving her opposite cheek another little tap. Mud stained her skin but did nothing to conceal the satiny-smooth texture. Like the finest fabrics he’d unearthed in the unlikeliest of places.

At last, the young woman’s lashes fluttered. She struggled to open her eyes, and then she did ... and out of the sewers, with the lamppost illuminating her face, Malcom found himself leveled by those eyes. A shade not quite blue and not quite purple, but a melding of both, held him spellbound.

“Wh-who?” She closed her eyes once more, and that dangerous spell was thankfully shattered. When she opened them again, pain glinted in their depths, along with a return of her earlier fear. “You.”

He forced his lips up into the requisite sinister smile he’d donned over the years—the one he’d made himself wear in the name of survival. “Aye, me.”

A lone wind gusted down Great Russell Street, carrying away with it the softest sigh that had slipped from her lips, one of resignation. Except, with a show of strength he was hard-pressed not to appreciate, the minx struggled to her feet. “Do you intend to kill me?”

“I don’t kill women.”

Her eyes worked over his face. “Do you hurt them?”

“Only the ones in need of hurting.”

Verity’s cheeks went several shades whiter. She shivered in a likely blend of fear and cold. And then with that same impressive boldness, her nose still bleeding, she went up on tiptoe and studied his face.

Making some indistinct murmur, Verity fell back on her heels. “I don’t believe you.”

And she’d be right. He’d dealt with any manner of men and women and children in East London, some women who’d been as ruthless and cold as Malcom himself. Malcom damned the nearby lamppost that cast a light about him and his mottled cheeks. He didn’t know whether to be outraged at the minx for calling him out as a liar, or himself for having been unable to deceive this chit before him. “I don’t care what you believe.”

Did she seek to reassure herself? Or him? Either way, his appreciation grew all the more. “Of course you don’t. I’m not going with you,” she said tightly when he reached for her a second time. She stiffened. Like one of those London blackbirds ready to take flight.

“You there!”

The shout went up, and as one they looked to the swift approach of the burly stranger who’d been determined to drag her off—the very-much-alive stranger. A flash of silver sparked in the inky-black London night. In his lifetime living in these streets, Malcom had found himself cornered and approached by any number of adversaries. As such, with the man’s swift approach came the rush of blood in preparation of fighting his foes.

The previously recalcitrant virago slid closer to Malcom.

“I trust he’s not a friend of yours?” he drawled, even as he drew a pistol.

“This isn’t funny,” she whispered, her cheeks pale. “Help me.”

Malcom caught the young woman and propelled her ahead of him. “Go,” he bit out.

She took off flying with an impressive speed for one of her shorter height and bare feet.

The steady footfalls echoed behind them, increasing, and gaining.

Malcom directed a glance over his shoulder and cursed at the pistol pointed at his back. “Bloody hell,” he clipped out. Pausing, he stopped, turned, and, drawing back his hammer, he let a shot fly.

A cry went up as his shot found its mark in one of the assailant’s hands, effectively knocking the gun from his fingers and bringing their pursuer to a halt.