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Verity skidded to a stop and spun back. “Did youshoothim?” she cried.

“I grazed him.” He’d always been an expert shot.

“It’s all the same,” she rasped. “A shot is a—”

The wounded stranger was already moving toward them—albeit slower, but still with the same dogged determination.

“Would you care to remain here, debating the point and waiting for your company to return, or continue as we were?” This time, he didn’t allow her a say. Malcom scooped her into his arms and took off running. And miracle of miracles, the minx made herself silent. She clung to him, and with her face pressed against his shoulder, her still-bleeding nose soaked the fabric of his shirt.

“You are losing him,” she whispered.

Of course he was. Malcom knew these streets better than the gangs that roamed them.

She peeked her head up. “I think it is safe for you to set me down. I don’t see—”

“Shh,”he warned. “He’s there.”

“How do you ... ?” And blessedly, self-preservation won out over the chit’s infernal curiosity.

Adjusting her in his arms, Malcom lengthened his stride and took an abrupt shortcut along a narrow alley between two abandoned structures. The remainder of the way, Miss Verity Lovelace, a proverbial magnet of trouble, remained quiet in his arms.

Even with the mud of London’s sewers clinging to her garments, a whispery hint of lavender filled his senses. Fragrant blooms, crisp, sweet, and ... clean, unlike the women who dwelled in these parts. Or the whores whom he’d taken to his bed over the years.

And unbidden, like a moth to that damned flame, he leaned closer and breathed deep of that scent of purity.

Why did his heart thump funnily at the feel of her against him? Aside from the worry about his place in East London, she wasn’t his concern.

They went the remainder of the way to his residence in silence. Winding them through the alleys that led to the back of his lodgings, Malcom reached the kitchen doors. He kicked the panel with the heel of his boot.

“You can set me down,” she said, struggling against his chest.

He snorted. “And have you run off? I don’t think so, minx.” He’d not make the mistake of underestimating her again. And he’d certainly not risk losing her before he had answers to his questions. Failure to properly size up one’s opponents and their capabilities marked the difference between a slit throat and another night’s sleep. And God help the weakness, admiration for the spitfire swept through him.

When nothing more than the gusting winds greeted him, he kicked again, this time harder.

There was another moment of silence.

And then Bram drew the panel open a fraction and stuck his shaggy white head through. His eyes bloodshot, the man peered out. He squinted. “Why ain’t ya use the front door?” he asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

Malcom adjusted his hold on Verity Lovelace, bringing her closer to his chest. “Next time, I’ll have a care to bring any guest I return with through the front door for all the world to see,” he drawled.

The door at the opposite end of the kitchen burst in, and Fowler limped through. “Why didn’t you say the lad was home?”

The lad.

Good God.

He felt Verity Lovelace’s wide-eyed stare taking in everything.

Bram’s gaze landed on the stranger Malcom cradled, and all vestiges of sleep lifted. The older man instantly yanked the panel open. Pushing past the old tosher who’d trained him, Malcom did not break stride. “Have a bath prepared and brought up,” he called out.

“Where?”

“My rooms.”

“But ... ,” Fowler sputtered. “But ...”

Aye, the old codger was entitled to his shock. As a rule, Malcom allowed no one in those suites. “And towels.”