Page 27 of Dark Embrace
Again, Killian looked to the street. She followed his gaze. The night was dark, save for the twinkling stars and a thin sliver of moon. The shadows were darker still. Only the one lamp shone, casting its glow in a circle some ten feet across, then fading away to nothing at theperiphery.
Yet Killian perused the dark street as though he could see things that were veiled from hersight.
“He is not there now,” he said. From a distance, a faded cacophony of laughter and shrieks carried to them through thecoldair.
“But he was. Has been. In the mornings. At night. He is always there. My shadow.” She did not doubt her own perceptionofthat.
Killian tipped his head toward her. “Ibelieveyou.”
His simple assertion summoned a flood of relief, vindication, though it should not matter if he believed her or not. Nonplussed, she waved a hand toward his dark spectacles. “I cannot imagine that you can discern anything wearing those. The street is dark as Hades, and your spectacles make itmoreso.”
“I see as well with them as without. Better, in fact.” He offered a one-shouldered shrug, the casual gesture out of keeping with his normally reserved manner. “My eyes are sensitive tolight.”
She stared at him, thinking his comment a jest. But his expression showed him to be in earnest. “But it is night. There is littlelight.”
“I see what others do not.” He studied the street a moment longer, and then he turned toward her and smiled. Despite everything—her breathless run, her fear, her disorientation—that smile touched a place inside her, making it crackle and flare like a spark roused toflame.
“Hades,”hesaid.
“I beg yourpardon?”
“You said the street is dark as Hades. Do you refer to the Greek god of the Underworld or the shadowy placeitself?”
She blinked. “Theplace.”
Killian clasped his hands behind his back and tipped his face to the sky. “How do you know Hades is dark? I always imagined it belching tongues of fire which would make it quite bright, I shouldthink.”
“You are attempting to distract me from mydistress.”
“I am. And I appear to be doing a poor jobofit.”
His gaze dropped to her hands, and she realized then that she was turning the thick stick she carried over and over in nervous inattention. He eased it from her cold and numbed fingers, then tested the weight of it on hisopenpalm.
“Why not a pistol?” heasked.
“You do not seem surprised to discover that I carry aweapon.”
“I am not surprised. You are a most intelligent and resourceful woman, MissLowell.”
He thought her intelligent, resourceful. She found his words more appealing than any poetic praise of her eyes or lipsorhair.
He handed the stick back to her, and she sucked in a breath as their fingers touched, hers gloved, his bare. Even through the wool of her gloves, she felt the warmth of his skin. She frowned, stared at his naked hands. They should be cold,notwarm.
“So why not a pistol?” heprodded.
“I would need to learn to shoot it with accuracy, and such knowledge comes only with a great deal of practice,” she said. “Besides, pistols arecostly.”
“Why not a knife, then?” heasked.
She could see that he asked the question out of genuine interest, that he expected areply.
“I am small. My assailant might be large. It would be too easy for him to twist a knife from my hand and turn it upon me. Besides, carrying a knife is more complicated. I would need some sort of sheath to protect me from the blade. And then there is the cost of acquiring both knife andsheath…”
His straight brows rose above the limits of his spectacles. “But you feel confident to wield yourstick?”
“Cudgel,” she said. “Confident enough. No one would expect me to have it, and I have a good chance at landing a solid blow to the underside of a man’s chin or his privates or across his shins or kneecaps before an attacker could know myintent.”
“Wise and brave,” hemurmured.