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Before she could take umbrage, he finished with, “Wait here until I can get things swept up and the floor wiped clear.”

So he wasn’t intent on casting her back outside? Into the raging rain?

The cat bumped her fingers again, making Luce realize she’d stopped petting, had thought he’d gone to sleep. Evidently not. She renewed the scratching beneath his chin and along his jaw; kitty renewed his loud purring.

Now that she was starting to thaw, silent and still for the first time in hours… Now that the terror of being attacked and mayhap eaten or killed was fading, aches and pains, bruises and scrapes started poking at her from everywhere: a pounding upon her forehead; a twinge in one ankle; a dull throbbing along her face; a dreadfulack!in her sit-upon, showing how very hard she’d landed earlier. Needles pricked her fingers and palms as they lost the rest of their frosty numbness.

Then the man was back, with a damp cloth, wiping the floor, gathering any smaller pieces his prior efforts had missed. “I regret your irreplaceable memory was destroyed,” she told him. “You won’t rout Barnabas over the mishap, will you?”

Should you not be more worried about yourself?

The man snorted. “That lazy ingrate? Who would I converse with if I tossed his useless arse out on the cobbles?”

The task finished, he walked past the counter, made a few noises in the nether regions of the shop disposing of the rubbish, she supposed. Then he returned—and surprised a silent squeak out of Lucinda when he extended his hand to her.

“Come now,” he encouraged in that deep husk that warmed her every bit as much as the cat. “If I won’t toss his pitiful carcass out, neither will I launch you back into the storm.”

Not tonight, she sensed though it remained unsaid.

She hugged Barnabas to her middle and lifted her hand, swallowing down a moan when his warmly wrapped around it.

“Steady now?” He hauled her to her feet and didn’t release her until she gave a nod. “Shall we get you dry and warm? Possibly something to eat?”

Andthenhe would cast her out? His conscience assuaged?

No matter. She would take every second of safety he might be willing to grant, and not worry about anything beyond until she had to.

“Please. I would be ever so grateful.”

Shouldn’t have touched her.

Brier fisted his hand at his side, and only just barely avoided wiping his palm across the thigh of his trousers in a hopeless effort to rid himself of the strange, lingeringsenseof her upon his skin. Instead, he confirmed the door was locked and bolted—at her begged behest—and at her urging also checked the one in the back. The plain door that led to the alley where he received deliveries.

Unwilling to open his upstairs lodgings to a stranger, no matter how alluring she smelled—he made a mental note to catalog her scent and share the constituents with his sister; Rose was forever playing with perfumes and scents, had quite the knack for it actually. His eyes glancing over to the selection of hand-painted attar bottles adorning one shelf, he led his visitor toward the storeroom in the back.

An eight-foot windowless square with naught but a long curtain bunched at one end of an elevated pole to shield it from sight when drawn, the room functioned as his catch-all, one wall populated with half-filled crates of merchandise, the opposite lined by a cot, currently piled with sundry items of his trade (things he had not the time nor inclination to find true homes for, or to return to the shelf or basket from whence they came). His desk resided in the middle, an oil lamp he’d lit earlier gave off sufficient light.

Once he had her seated at the desk he used for accounting and grabbing a quick bite during shop hours, he unwrapped the meal he’d brought down earlier, but hadn’t stopped to eat, and laid it out before her: two thick slices of bread, three slimmer slices of roast and a chunk of cheese. “It’s not fancy, but filling.”

She started to reach for it, then stopped. “My hands.” She flipped one over and then the other, studying the abrasions upon her palms. Fingered a broken nail. Then she lifted tired eyes to him. “I need to wash them first.”

“Certainly. One moment.” Feeling the burn of her gaze upon his back, he charged from the storeroom and up the narrow staircase, quickly retrieved a wash-basin, cloth, several towels for she was soaked clear through, and a clean chamber pot. (What good proprietor only had one?) At the last moment, he thought to add a tool to smooth her nails. Then he stomped down the steps back to her.

It wasn’t eagerness that fired haste into his feet, not eagerness to see her, certainly. Nay, never that. ’Twas only the—slight—fear that she had already filled her pockets and escaped.

But nay, she slumped back in the chair, head resting upon the wall behind her, no bonnet, simply straggling hair, slowly drying around the edges, strewn down her shoulders and one arm, eyes closed, hand resting heavily upon a curled Barnabas who glared up at Brier as though to chide his master for how long he’d been gone.

As he came in, she blinked open weary eyes.

“I’ll leave this here for you.” He knelt and placed the chamber pot within sight but out of the way, near a corner. Rising, he placed the nail board, cloth and water upon the desk. The three towels he stacked beside, wishing one of his sisters had left clothing behind, or that he’d retained something of Alice’s. “You’ll no doubt want to”—did one saystripto a stranger?—“remove your sodden things and dry off. I’ll retrieve a shirt—”

“No! Nay.” Vigor returned to her tired gaze, nettlesome awaredom creeping in as well. “That is not necessary. The towels will do nicely and the food smells heavenly. Thank you.”

So perhaps he would not forage his wardrobe upstairs for something she could wear. Not until he had time to discern her character.

But she smells divine.

As if that determined morals. Or mitigated potential thievery.