Page 83 of Heartbreaker

So she did the only thing she could think to do. She released the pressure on his wound, then reapplied it, hard. Fast. Enough to wake him with the pain. He groanedat the sting, reaching for it, his hand covering hers. He looked to her, confusion clearing almost instantly . . . almost. Slower than it should in a mind as quick as his.

“We must get you inside,” she whispered, unable to keep the plea and the worry from her voice. Maybe when they got inside he would slumber again. If he was unconscious when she packed and stitched his wound, it would be better for them both.

He peered around the darkness. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Are there others here?”

“No.”

He didn’t like that. “Then you aren’t safe. Not if I can’t fight.” He tried to stand, but hissed in pain, one hand going straight to his side.

“I can hold my own. And Danny is taken care of.”

Anger flooded his gaze. “Stop calling him that.”

“That’s his name.”

“I hate that you know it.”

Of course he did. Adelaide Frampton was not an aristocrat—everyone knew that—but the idea that she might be acquainted with actual criminals... It was the first brick of her reputation to fall. How many more would there be? “I’m afraid I am bound to disappoint you, then, Duke.” She injected the words with false bravado as she caught him under the arm. “You need to focus on staying alive; everything else can wait until you’re sewn up.”

He looked down at her. “Who will do that?”

She tossed him a bright, false smile. “It’s all part of the service I provide.”

“Can you sew?”

“You don’t believe I have been properly trained in the domestic arts?”

“I have trouble believing that you made time for needlepoint while you were training to be the world’s best pickpocket.”

She’d learned on knife wounds much like his, as a matter of fact, but she refrained from telling him that. Instead, she said, “I’m afraid, Duke, that pickingyourpocket does not require much training.”

He shook his head. “I’m not talking about mine. I saw you pick Havistock’s pocket at the Beaufetheringstone ball.”

Surprise coursed through her. “You did?”

“I did,” he said, wincing as she pointed to the wide slab of wood at the center of the kitchen. “I hope it was a great deal of money.”

It had been a list of factories the marquess owned and in which he was attempting to entice others’ investment, despite the places being filled with children who worked for scraps and too often didn’t survive the harsh conditions. Adelaide had plans for the factories.

She shook her head, her mind spinning, which was likely why she told him, “It wasn’t money, and you weren’t supposed to notice me. He didn’t. I must not have been fast enough.”

“You were like lightning,” he said, wincing again as he leaned back onto the table. “I simply have practice noticing you.”

She ignored the warmth that spread through her at the confession.

But it was difficult to ignore the words that chased it. The words that spilled out of her mouth. “Don’t die.”

“I won’t.” He lifted a hand to her cheek, but his fingers barely grazed her skin before they fell back to the table. His eyes slid closed as he added, “You promised me answers to all my questions.”

Of course he’d heard her in the carriage. Dammit.

She started to turn away, to fetch the things she would need to work on his wound. But he used the last of his strength to grab her hand and meet her eyes, his gaze clear and firm. “Adelaide.”

“Yes?”

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