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Those perfect rosebud lips formed a little moue, a bow like a cherub in a painting he’d plucked from the sewers and should have sold, and yet had retained for some reason. Malcom released the appendage, and the suspicious hellcat touched her nostrils. “It stopped.”

“I put pressure on the part of your nose that was bleeding and stopped the flow.”

“Thank you.” Those words came almost grudgingly, as if it cost her a pound of flesh to deliver them.

Another smile tugged.

“What do you want with me?” she asked quietly.

Not bothering with assurances about his previous promise, which meant nothing to her, he folded his arms at his chest. “You were going to land both of us in trouble.”

Those thin, arched brows slid back into their proper place, and then a smidgeon lower. “And I’m supposed to trust that you’re some chivalrous figure rescuing a woman who’d become lost in the sewers?” Suspicion swirled in her eyes. “That you’ve brought me here to clean me up and care for my nose?”

Actually, he had. The sight of her, bedraggled and dazed and her eyes brimming with terror, had reached into a place inside where a softness dwelled, a weakness that he’d believed himself incapable of.

“I never proclaimed to be chivalrous. Only practical.” And ruthless in his determination to protect that which was his, and to bring down those who’d infringe upon it. But then, something she’d said penetrated those uneasy thoughts.Lost in the sewers ...Malcom mentally tucked away that unwitting admission. Malcom crossed his arms at his chest. “Have your bath, change your dress, and then we will speak.”

She darted her tongue out, the pink flesh trailing a nervous path along a rosebud seam he’d failed to note ... or properly appreciate ... until this moment. Until that action. “Speak about what?”

He’d be the one asking questions. Not this minx. Not allowing her the opportunity to pepper him, Malcom started for the door.

Of course, the impudent spitfire stole another query before he could exit the rooms. “What is your name?”

“North.”

With that he left, and found his way to the kitchens.

Seated at the table, with his broken foot resting on one of the small kitchen chairs, Fowler frowned. “Giles is doing a sweep outside. Water’s ready for you.” He nodded his balding head toward the wood bathtub. “Wot in ’ell are ya doing, bringing a fancy piece back?”

“She’s not a fancy piece,” Malcom muttered. With the polished speech of a lady and a blustery pride and spirit, she was nothing like the hardened women he’d kept company with through the years.

The other ancient tosher limped over to the table, his lame left leg dragging as he walked. “Oi went ahead and assumed ya wanted the porcelain one for yar number.”

“She’s not—” He caught the glimmer in those ancient eyes. “Oh, go to hell,” he muttered. “Both of you,” he said for the pair of them. “I should turn you both out.”

“Aye,” Fowler agreed, a dimple marring his sunken, wrinkled cheeks. “But you won’t.”

Nay, he wouldn’t. And they knew it. Malcom removed his shirt and tossed it aside. Shucking out of his damp garments, he submerged his frame in the steaming water, slid under, and hurriedly scraped his hands through his hair.

He was greeted with a flask under his nose. Malcom took a long swallow, then handed it over.

“Ya ’ave to admit. This ’as been a bit of a surprise,” Bram noted, tenacious as a starved St. Giles pup with a bone tossed to the cobblestones.

“What?” Malcom asked between tight lips.

Fowler shrugged. “Well, it’s just it ain’t every day that ya bring back a foine one loike her and her foine talk ... and let her into your rooms.”

A fine one like her ... and her fine talk ...

Malcom scrubbed the water from his eyes.

“I’ve questions to put to her,” he said, unable to keep a defensive edge from creeping in.

The other man snorted. “Ya’ve put questions to lots of women ... lots of people before. Never done it in yar private suites.”

Malcom washed the filth from his body. “This one is ...” He clamped his lips closed. Different. She was—

“Different?” Fowler drawled, taking another sip.