Page 32 of In Bed with the Earl

Verity remained where he’d left her, wringing out the front of her dress, her gently rounded features pale. Good God ... he really should leave her to her fate. So why couldn’t he? Why was he determined to make this woman’s problems his own? It went against all he was and believed in. Cursing blackly, Malcom marched over to her. “What now?” he snapped.

The young woman sank even white teeth into a plump lower lip. “I left him for dead.”

“Weleft him for dead. Now, let’s go.”

Wholly uncaring about that distinction, Verity remained rooted to the pavement.

“Whatnow?”

“Should we send someone for—”

“He was going to rape you,” he said bluntly. Color rushed to her cheeks, even as the matter-of-fact reminder of the fate that had awaited her sent a primal rage pumping through him. “Do you really care what happens to him?”

“I ... shouldn’t,” she agreed.

“Precisel—”

“And yet, I’d still not have someone’s death on my hands.” She glanced down at the cobblestones.

He opened his mouth to chide her for that nonsensical logic, but then something made him call those words back. “You’ve never done this?”

She bit her lip and shook her head. “No.” Hers was a whisper.

Swiping at the rain that ran down his face and into his eyes, Malcom took in the soggy creature before him: her soaking skirts were matted to her frame. Her hair hung in a tangle of thick, albeit limp strands around her shoulders.

And then there were her bare feet peeking out from under the frayed hem of her skirts. Blood-soaked toes that she’d not complained about.

Bloody hell ...

Malcom swept the slip of a woman up; even soaked through to the bone as she was, her frame was light against his.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Verity Lovelace’s voice pitched.

Ignoring her, Malcom loped over the barren cobblestones. At this hour, this end of London generally brimmed with seedy life and danger. But then, even in the sewers, water sent the rats scurrying off to hide.

The woman struggled against him. “Where are y-you taking me?” she demanded in an impressive display of strength and fury.

Malcom tightened his hold, quelling her attempts at freedom. He’d have his answers as to why a woman who spoke like a lady, and wore her indignation like one, too, had been in his tunnels. “Somewhere that isn’t here,” he muttered. The woman went limp in his arms, effectively silenced. Was it silence that checked her questions? Fear?

Fear was safer. When he had her in his residence, her fear would give him answers to the questions he—

Verity Lovelace slammed her fists into his chest with a startling force for one her size; the unexpectedness, along with several uneven cobbles, brought Malcom crashing to his knees, loosening his hold on the termagant.

He cursed, ignoring the pain that shot along his legs.

The woman punched him in the temple, bringing his head whipping sideways. Malcom relinquished his hold, and Verity Lovelace took off running.

Her skirts, along with her bare feet, hampered her flight, slowing her progress.

As Malcom set out in quick pursuit, she shot a glance over her shoulder. A streak of lightning lit the night sky, illuminating her face and deepening the terror that spilled from her gaze.

Another man, a weaker one, might have been affected by the paroxysm of dread that contorted her features. She hefted her skirts higher, and—

All his muscles coiled. “Watch out,” he bellowed.

The young woman ran face-first into a lamppost. Her entire body jolted as the force of her collision sent her flying backward into a puddle.

His heart hammering in his chest, Malcom cursed and quickened his stride.

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