Chapter Eighteen

“Perhaps we should hire a cab.”

Dora Sinclair stood on the street corner, still within the circle of Hare’s arm, looking wonderfully disheveled. He’d kissed her outside Dooley’s with the lightskirts hooting in approval, kissed her on the curb while they waited for a cart to lumber past, and again when they reached the other side of the street. Now her hat sat askew on her head and her hair—that glorious mane through which his hands had plowed—tumbled down her neck.

And what the hell had come over him, planting kisses on Dorothea Sinclair? He’d worked so hard to resist the temptation she represented, if only for her sake. Why fall victim now?

Maybe it was due to how injured he’d felt at parting with her in anger, last time they met. Maybe it was her sweetness, the innocence mixed with sheer strength he tasted in her kisses. Maybe it was the way she looked at him, enough to warm his soul.

He tossed her a glance of amusement. “No one hires a cab in this neighborhood, sweetheart. Where do you think we are?”

“Sweetheart?” She pressed closer to him. “Say that again.”

“Sweetheart.” He accompanied the word with still another kiss, and she sagged against him.

He slid his hands around her waist and, greatly daring, still lower. She pressed a pertinent area of her body against a pertinent part of his.

“Behave yourself, Miss Sinclair.”

“I don’t feel like behaving myself.” To prove it she slid her tongue into his mouth, testing the waters, so to speak, and melting his bones in the process. How could such an innocent stoke such a fire?

“Hey! Irishman!”

The call came from down the street and spun Hare’s head around. He saw three shadowy figures—no, four—surrounded by the mist that swirled over the cobbles. Ah, damnation. Only see where being distracted had got him.

“Who’s that?” Dora breathed.

“Trouble.”

“Who—”

“Thugs. Irish head-bashers. Come on.”

“But I…”

“Irishman! Want to share your doxy? Or should we just take what we want?”

“Run.”

Putting his own word into action, he took to his heels, Dora’s hand caught in his.

He ran the way a fox does from the hounds. A similar result would be forthcoming, he knew, if they caught him; hounds tore the fox—or in his case the hare—to pieces. What would then happen to Dora, he shuddered to think.

They thought her his doxy and him impatient for a kiss and cuddle on the street corner. They’d beat him to a pulp—oh, he’d fight, but there were four of them, doubtless with coshes, and he’d been there before. They’d use her harshly, and Dora, as he knew full well, a tender, untried maiden.

He’d die first. But before that they’d have to catch him. He knew the area—as interlopers, they probably didn’t. He’d seen their ilk many times, upper-class young bloods out on a bender turned nasty. That made an advantage; the fact that Dora couldn’t run very fast in her long skirts made a disadvantage.

Though he must admit, as they rounded a corner and plunged into a dark alley, she didn’t do badly for herself. With her free hand she’d hiked up her skirts, and her neat little boots flashed in the gloom.

“What—?” She tried to speak again when they gained the relative shelter of the alley.

“Quiet. Sound carries. Come on.”

Not allowing her to rest, he exited the alley at the other end and pelted off down another street, nearly deserted. A district of humble businesses and storage buildings, the area offered no acquaintance he might knock up for refuge, and few places to hide. He tried wildly to think. Most sanctuary lay too far away, all but one.

He heard the echoing pound of footsteps behind him, and the thugs appeared from the alley. They called again, their voices taunts that made Dora catch her breath.

“Hare? What will they do to us?”

“Don’t ask.”

Round yet another corner and down the street. He didn’t want to get trapped, and his thoughts ran ahead, trying to probe the darkness. Was there a way to double back to the light, the sound—the Irishness of Dooley’s? Not without getting intercepted.

The thugs called again—they sounded no closer. Dora began to flag, her breath coming ragged and her hand dragging at his.

“Just a bit farther,” he promised and pulled her between two buildings. Had they been seen? He hoped not; shadows lay deep on this side of the street. Their pursuers might think they’d gone straight on.

Not waiting to find out, he drew Dora through the narrow, malodorous passage and into a yard littered with trash, where he drew her against a wall and shielded her body with his.

“Hush now,” he breathed into her ear, “like a mouse.”

Bless her, she complied, caught her breath, and tried to silence it. The night grew quiet around them, only a slight breeze sighing around the stones of the buildings. Something moved close beside them, and Dora tensed; Hare could feel her heart beating against his chest, so close were they.

“Tomcat,” he breathed.

She sagged, and her arms stole around him; her head came to rest on his shoulder.

His world shifted; all at once nothing remained the same. Danger transformed to tenderness and even the nature of the darkness seemed different, a haven where they might be together. Any place became bliss, with Dorothea Sinclair in his arms.

And that frightened him more than the thugs chasing them down; a deep, primal terror started. He’d striven his whole life to keep from needing anyone—not his ma, certainly not Gene, who made a poor excuse for a pa. Not his non-existent family. He might care for his friends, yes, but their lives didn’t affect his.

Now, though, he held his well-being in his arms. Perilous!

“Are they gone?”

She barely breathed the words into his ear, but they jogged him back to reality.

“Must be. You all right?”

“Yes. What—?”

“Come along. Carefully now.”

They went over a fence at the rear of the property, with Hare lifting her before swinging himself across. They traversed another network of streets before she asked, “Are we safe now?”

“They’ll be watching for us yet. We’ll have to wait it out till they tire and go for another drink. Here.”

He paused at the door of a dark building and fumbled with the lock. When the door opened, they stumbled in.

“Where are we?”

“I used to work here. Ran errands for the man who operated the shop. He lived upstairs.” As he spoke he drew her up a narrow flight of wooden steps and through another door at the top—to safety, he hoped.

There, at last, he let go of her hand.

“What happened to him?”

“Dead. The shop’s been abandoned. We can rest here, I hope.”

“Who were those men? Assassins?”

“Assassins! No, just young bloods out on a lark.”

“A lark! They wanted to beat you up.”

“Yes.”

He could feel her contemplating that. Very little light penetrated the dirt on the windows, but he didn’t need light to read what went on in her quick mind.

Yet she surprised him when she said, “I lost my hat somewhere back there. I don’t think you can rescue this one.”

All at once she wept, both hands raised to her cheeks—a reaction to the terror. He took her in his arms and drew her close against him once more, where she belonged.

“Ah, lass, don’t cry. I’ll buy you another hat.”

“That would be f-foolish, spending good money on a hat when there are families like the Gallaghers who need so much help. Only, that makes two hats. Jo made them both for me, and I loved them.”

What could he say to such beautiful logic and illogic at once? He didn’t try to find words, just slid his lips over her temple to the corner of her eye and down her cheek, gathering the tears.

Her mouth found his, and passion flared bright enough to sear him. Damn, if time didn’t stop again, performing that trick he found so terrifying.

He no longer knew where her mouth began and his ended; their bodies had become one, and their hearts—but no, he couldn’t give her his heart even though it starved for what she held out to him.

The kiss ended at last, and she told him, “I want you, Hare O’Hare.”

“What?”

“Want you the way a woman wants a man. Do I have to put it any more clearly?”

She did not. Her lips spoke clearly enough as she brushed them across his, as did her body trembling in his arms.

He drew a shuddering breath. “I need to take you home.”

“Not yet. It won’t be safe.” She kissed him long and lingeringly.

It wasn’t safe here. Every instinct told him so. Gently, he cradled her between his hands and eased away, just a breath. “You think I’d ruin you? You suppose I care so little as that?”

“Hmm, a man of honor.”

She tried to kiss him again, but he held her off.

“What is it, Hare O’Hare? Do you not fancy me?”

Was that a wicked gleam he caught in her eyes? Maybe not so innocent as she seemed. Surely, pressed so close against him, she could feel his desire.

“I will tell you the truth, Dora Sinclair. I want you; I’m fair aflame with it. But I want to protect you even more. Which is why we’ll wait another ten minutes till those hounds tire—and then I’ll take you home.”

“Can’t,” she whispered.

“Beg pardon?”

“I’ve missed my curfew.”

“Knock at the door; sure the old woman will let you in.”

“She won’t. Once Mrs. Bennett locks the door, she absolutely will not open it again.”

“Fine, that. What does she expect you to do?”

“Fortunately, I’m in the arms of a gentleman who will look after me till morning. Take me to your room.”

“There? I hardly think so—the place is not fit. And a gentleman would do no such thing.”

She sighed with what sounded suspiciously like contentment. “We’ll have to stay here then.”

“Eh?”

She leaned still closer, seduction in a prim, proper package. “Here. Together. Till morning.”