Page 5 of The Hellion is Tamed
She blinked, her face sliding into a brooding countenance Simon would have loved to capture on paper if he’d the skill, which he did not. He could only speak to the dead and steal. “How long do I have? If I stay?”
The uproar from the tavern intensified, and Simon glanced over his shoulder to see another set of combatants tumble out the door. Turning without comment, he hauled Emma down the alley and onto Wapping Wall Street. They could lose themselves in the warehouses leaning like beaten guardsmen along the river if need be.
Until he could convince her to go to 1882 with him.
A fine mist had begun to fall, coating them in the slick, stinking moisture only London could bring. Crossing the congested lane, Simon dodged carts, sedan chairs and hackneys, stepping over excrement and discarded rubbish, the night pitch without the gas lamps he was used to, the cobblestones greasy beneath his boot.
“I’m just down on Milk Yard,” she panted, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride. “Headin’ into the docks at midnight ain’t wise for—”
“Isn’t wise,” Simon whispered and pulled her into a concealed nook next to a freight warehouse’s open doors. Men swarmed in and out of the structure like ants, shouldering scuffed crates and dripping barrels of ale, tossing the couple lingering in the shadowed alcove nary a glance as they passed them.
Giving Simon a weak shove when he released her, Emma glared at him, her eyes matching the cobalt shimmering through the darkness and making his heart stutter. “Headin’ into the docks at nightisn’twise. Not for a posh man like you. The shabby clothes ain’t enough to prove you belong here. They know, these tough rookery blokes, the minute they lay sight on you that you don’t. The accent, too, polished like the queen’s silver, it is.”
The man came out of nowhere, his silver blade slashing through the corner of Simon’s vision.
Simon hurdled into a mindless protective mode, insanely thankful the Duke of Ashcroft had forced lessons in self-defense upon him since he was in short pants. Shoving Emma behind his back, he kicked low, connecting with the assailant’s shin and sending him to his belly on the cobblestones. Going down on his knee, Simon wrenched the knife from the man’s hand and twisted his arm until one more rotation would have it breaking. When the ruffian looked over his shoulder, gaze wide with fear, Simon spun the weapon on his palm like a card he was sharping. “The package isn’t always what it appears, my friend. A lesson for you, free of charge.”
“Oh, for the love a’ God, let me handle this if you’re only goin’ to tease him,” Emma muttered and was suddenly down there with him, her ragged skirt crumpled about her ankles. She grabbed the knife from Simon’s hand and pressed the glittering blade against the man’s neck without another breath passing from her gorgeous lips. “Jonesy, you know better than ta’ welcome a visitor to our fine neighborhood in such a manner. And a friend of mine, too. A real good one, for all ya’ know.” Hooking the blade until a dribble of blood oozed into the tattered collar of Jonesy’s shirt, she laughed. “You are one right fool. After we had a discussion the last time you snuck up on me. Dicked in the nob, you are.”
Simon frowned, bracing his hand on the slick stone. “Dicked in thewhat?”
“You don’t speak our language, posh man,” Emma whispered with a smile that broke through London’s haze to light him up inside. “Crazy. He’s crazy ta’ chase me down again like this. Not the first time I’ve forced a cutting edge to his throat.”
Simon rocked back on his heels in horrific comprehension. Jealous, possessive certitude. “Is there more to this story than I’m seeing laid out before me, my dark queen?”
“As if you’d know what life be like down here, you toady toff,” Jonesy mumbled from his twist on the cobblestones.
Simon jerked the knife from Emma’s grip, tossed it aside and yanked Jonesy to his feet as if he weighed less than a sack of grain.Another grateful nod to the duke’s training, Simon thought with a torrent of unsolicited fury. Shoving the man two steps away, he straightened his cuffs in an effort to gather his wits. So like his brother Finn, he almost,almost, smiled. “I should point out, I grew up in St Giles, so you can keep your bloody opinions to yourself, friend. I’d find another couple to brutalize if you understand my meaning.”
Emma edged behind Simon as Jonesy stumbled away, her gaze burning into his back. Hell, he’d surprised her and himself by admitting where he’d grown up.What was he doing?
“I can’t leave here.”
Losing his fabled control, Simon turned, grabbing her by shoulders. “Is there anything holding you in this time? A family? A child?” His voice dropped to the far reaches. “A lover?”
Her cheeks shown pale in the moonlit shimmer a drifting cloud cast over them. The sounds from the warehouse, clanks and shouts and cranks, rolled over them like a wave. Simon didn’t think the shine of tears in her glorious eyes was a play on his emotions. Instead, they seemed a play on hers.
Stumbling out of his hold, she glanced around, her throat clicking as she swallowed. She tucked her hair behind her ears, shifted from one worn boot to the other, delaying the decision. Finally, after a silence that he thought included her heartbeat in its rhythm, she shook her head.No. Nothing holding her in 1802. “What am I going to do? Learn to live another way? Like one of your society women? Fancy me up like a doll.”
He snorted, imagining that. However…his mind spun as he took Emmaline Breslin in. A thorough inspection that sent a flush shooting across her face—but an inspection she allowed. Her body was magnificent, even in rags. Her face spectacular, even with dirt smudges and hollows chalked all over it from lack of food, lack of sleep. Her accent was trash, her expression criminal. Her attitude…he sighed.Rotten. But he’d been no better, worse maybe, and look where he’d ended up?
It wasn’t the craziest plan he’d ever had.
He knocked the toe of his boot against stone, giving her time to accept her decision. Accept his. “Do you have a portal? To get us there?”
She chewed her lip, gaze shifting from the ground to the wall to the sky before returning to his. He checked her pinkie for a sign she was lying, but it remained still. No twitches. His heart tilted in his chest, and he knew he was still much too vulnerable to her, which made him unaccountably angry.
She held out her hand, her smile frank, mixing tartly with her rotten expression. “With the swish stone, I don’t need one.”
Slipping the Soul Catcher from his waistcoat pocket, Simon gave it a quick spin and tumble, in and out, around and over his fingers. Partly to impress. Partly because he could.
She might be decent at sleight of hand…but he was alegend.
“Showy,” she said with a scowl, but a rosy flush relit her cheeks, her dazzling eyes tracking his performance. Maybe she wasn’t completely immune to him, after all. “So, you goin’ to tell me where we need to go or play with the swish stone until dawn?”
He dropped the gem into her palm, hoping this wasn’t the last he’d ever see of it. “1882. London. Or Oxfordshire, where you showed up before. April, if you can manage it.”
She took his hand, her touch storming his senses. The Soul Catcher flared, golden light glowing against their skin. “Easier if I drop us in this very spot. An exact day, I can’t guarantee. My travel isn’t that…accurate.”