Page 46 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
Bracing her hands on her bony hips, the older woman stepped onto the landing. Gavin met her assessing gaze with a smile. “Good evening, Mrs.—”
“O’Brien.” She gestured to the sign on the door beneath the gaslight.Mrs. O’Brien’s Home for Quality Women.“And who might you be?”
He approached the steps. “Gavin Stanwyck at your service, madam.” He offered his most insincere smile. “I assure you, the pleasure is mine.”
“Stanwyck?” Mrs. O’Brien’s eyes glimmered with recognition, and she patted her hair as if she might smooth its disarray. She failed to succeed.
“Professor Stanwyck was about to be on his way.” Sophie said, her eyes narrowing at him with unmistakable meaning.
Mrs. O’Brien kept her focus on Gavin. A cagey smile pulled at her mouth. “My, my, it’s a rare thing to find a man of your caliber gracing my humble doorstep.” The matron shifted her gaze to Sophie. “We must have a talk, my dear. A long talk.”
“I assure you I am far too tired tonight, Mrs. O’Brien. If you’ll excuse me, I will be on my way to my room.” Sophie started up the stairs to the entrance. Her expression didn’t change as she peered down at him. “Good night, Professor Stanwyck. Thank you for your trouble.”
“It was my pleasure. Until I see you again.”
“Good evenin’ to ye, sir.” Mrs. O’Brien’s words drifted to the street. Her voice went lower as she turned to Sophie. “A Stanwyck, girlie. A bloomin’ gentleman with tin t’spare.For goodness’ sake, would it kill ye to at least offer the fellow a smile?”
Whether the matron didn’t realize he could hear her or didn’t care that the admonishment had made its way to his ears, Gavin couldn’t be sure. The door swung shut behind Mrs. O’Brien’s skirts. He didn’t hear Sophie’s reply, but he chuckled to himself, picturing the rosy flush on Sophie’s cheeks as she likely considered how much more they’d shared than a blasted smile.
…
Dashing up the stairs to her third-floor room, Sophie pushed aside the curtain and slipped between the window and the worn fabric. Peering down to the street below, her gaze trailed Stanwyck’s carriage as it rattled over the pavement.
Dratted man. So very arrogant.
She turned away, settling onto a small chair in the corner of the room. A long, calming breath escaped her as she picked at a loose thread on the frayed upholstery. Allowing her attention to linger on the long-faded cloth for another few breaths, she stared idly at what remained of the fabric’s tapestry print. She pulled another stray thread from the arm of the chair. Odd, how the childish action seemed soothing.
Of all the people in London who might come to my rescue, it had to be him.
The circumstances of Stanwyck’s unexpected appearance did seem a bit suspect, especially now that she’d had a chance to ponder his arrival without a brute’s arm cutting off her air. Had his presence at the scene been more than a coincidence?
Devil take it, could Stanwyck have arranged the entire episode? A few shillings in the hands of the men who’d accosted her would have bought their vile services for the night. Perhaps he’d even added an extra coin or two to induce the blighters to show fear after Stanwyck charged to her rescue.
But why? Why would he go to such lengths to play the hero?
And the coach that had sped into the night—surely that wasn’t mere chance. The elegant carriage had been in the vicinity with a purpose, possibly quite a sinister one. Surely, Stanwyck had not engineered its sudden appearance. The incident would have served no purpose. And instinct told her Gavin Stanwyck was not a man who acted without reason.
Her shoulders sagged. By Athena’s spear, had her attackers been genuinely intent on abduction?
But why? The question taunted her. Who would go to such lengths? Had the truth of her identity become known?
Of course, if those men had wanted her dead, they would not have bothered with an abduction. She would not have been the first unfortunate woman to meet her end on the London streets, simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The ruffian who’d held her could have broken her neck before she’d had a chance to make a sound, much less fight back.
She raised her fingers to her cheek, gritting her teeth against a wince. No, that ogre of a man had not intended to kill her. At least, not at that moment. He’d said he’d been sent to collect her. The thought provided only scant comfort. Did the person who’d gone to such lengths for an audience believe her to be a true medium? How very odd.
Rubbing her temples, her lids drifted shut. A vision of Stanwyck fluttered through her thoughts, shattering the momentary calm she’d enjoyed. She really should be grateful he’d come to her assistance. Not that she’d needed him to rescue her. She would have found a way to put her knife to use and take the hulk by surprise. It wasn’t as if she’d never found herself in a muddle. She’d have found her way out of it.
Nonsense.Logic contradicted her pride. The man who’d accosted her had the benefit of a wiry strength as well as nearly a foot of height. She could’ve defended herself. Perhaps she could have escaped. But the cost would’ve been far greater than the superficial bruises the man had inflicted.
Opening her eyes, she spotted another thread sticking out from the overworn chair. She plucked the fiber from the upholstery. How it rankled her that Stanwyck had been the one to play the white knight. If only some dutiful constable had stumbled upon the scene. She’d be safe and sound and warm in her room, and she wouldn’t have to face the no-doubt-smug expression on the professor’s dangerously handsome face.
Rising from her comfortable corner, Sophie paced the length of the room. She had no reason for regret. It wasn’t as though she’d kissed him. No, he’d taken that bold initiative. She’d had no reason to anticipate he’d do such a thing, no way to take evasive action until it had been too late, until his sensuous mouth had claimed hers.
Pity she hadn’t thought to prepare herself for such a scenario. If she’d steeled herself, she might’ve resisted the improper caress.
If only his touch hadn’t swept away all reason. And that scent of his—crisp, and clean, and spicy, a blend of shaving soap and an essence she couldn’t quite place—she could have lingered in his arms, drinking in the subtle masculine aroma.
Even now, tingles raced along her spine at the thought of his possessive caress. She’d gone utterly shameless. Of that, she had no doubt.
