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This time, Olivia was indignant. “I told you, I would never harm him!”

The barkeep smirked. “So ye’re admitting he’s yer husband, lass?”

Wisely, she pressed her lips together as Alistair’s arm tightened around her middle.

Auld Gus cackled. “Good luck with yer poison, Mister The Dark Knight. I’ll leave ye to explaining to yer lady why it’s a bad idea to come poking around places like this, eh?”

With a wave of his rapidly emptying gin bottle, the man scuttled off to serve another customer.

Taking a deep breath, Olivia squirmed around to face Alistair. Of course he didn’t loosen his hold on her, which meant now she was plastered against his chest, tight enough she could feel his heart pounding against her shoulder.

“I’m sorry—” she began, but had the breath squeezed out of her by his hold.

He lowered his chin so his silver-gray eyes could stare into hers, and she flinched at the anger she saw there. “No’…another…word.”

Well, he’d certainly found his voice, hadn’t he?

“Al—” When she saw his nostrils flare, she saw she couldn’t say his name, not here. So she lowered her voice and put her placatory hand on his chest. “Perhaps this isn’t the time or place for this conversation.”

“Or ye.”

Olivia frowned. This wasn’t her first time to this tavern and it might not be her last. She was a newspaper writer, and needed to go where the stories were. If that meant this part of London, then so be it…

Right?

The sour taste in the back of her throat reminded her of her earlier guilt.

It’s because you know he’s right.

Sometimes she wished her brain would just stay out of things.

Still, she patted his chest and tried to smile, but it came out rather sickly. “We can discuss that as well. But first, I need to find some belladonna. I heard it was being sold—”

Her explanation was cut off with a shriek as Alistair abruptly hoisted her over his shoulder. She flopped against his back and got a mouthful of dusty wool when she tried to object.

“How dare—” she began, pushing her upper body away from his back, but he silenced her with a swat on her rear end which got a cheer from the crowd.

Alistair turned toward the door as Auld Gus called out, “Good luck wif yer wife, Mister The Dark Knight!”

And Olivia could swear she heard her husband hiss, “Fook,” under his breath.

So much of The Dark Knight’s reputation had relied on secrecy. If all of the East End knew he was married—to her—he could be in danger. For that matter, just having her with him right now could put him in danger.

Botheration. She tried to push herself upright once more. “I can—”

Alistair swatted her arse again, this time hard enough to cause her to gasp, eyes widening. As this caused another appreciative whoop from their audience, she squirmed against his shoulder, uncertain if she liked the spike of desire which had just sped through her.

Her husband pushed through the door, ducking so she wouldn’t smack her head on the doorframe. As he stepped into the alley, she saw him pull a wickedly long knife from under his coat, and hold it at his side.

Where had that come from?

And why did he need it? They were alone in the alley, weren’t they?

Yes, but now he has to get across London, with you.

“Alist—” she began once more.

But he bounced her, cutting off the word as she lost her breath.