Page 4 of If You Were the Only Girl in the World
But Nate picked up his pace. His handmade boots were tailor made for him. A leather so fine,a sole so supple, noise never revealed his approach. He reached to his left and withdrew his pistol from his holster. Cocking it, he hoped to God he didn’t have to use it. But when the two men nodded to each other, Nate knew that was not to be.
The woman was ten or so paces ahead of the two. And then the two sprang toward her.
Nate was on their heels.
He heard her cry, her shock a plea in the shroud of fog.
They were on her, one grabbing her by the lapel of her overcoat, the other laughing like a loon as he tugged at her purse. They struggled. But she was a banshee, kicking and hitting out until one of them slugged her in the face and she lunged for him. But he put out his leg and she stumbled, yelling when she staggered.
They never saw him coming.
He grabbed the one who held her by the coat, spun him around and hit him in the jaw with his gun. The man went down like a sack of flour. Nate grabbed the woman by the waist and hauled her back to the stone wall of a townhouse. She was petite, fragile. In his embrace, she crumpled like a rag doll.
Then he pointed his pistolat the shocked and ugly face of her attacker.
Hands up, he crouched in terror of Nate.
“If you would like me to rearrange the features of your face, I can oblige. Now drop the lady’s purse. Try to run with it and you will find your legs have a few bullet holes.”
The creature backed away. His eyes, small and feral, taking in Nate’s military hat and insignia.
“Run now,” Nate told him. “I’ve no patience for any man not in uniform. Especially one who set upon a lady alone under cover of night.”
Her attacker turned tail and ran.
The one on the pavement before them stirred but did not rise.
The woman in Nate’s arms whimpered, her whole body shaking. He’d embraced many women in his thirty-seven years, but never one who’d been attacked in the dark of night. This one caught her breath and swallowed a sob.
“There now,” he said in that same tone he would use with his three-year-old son if he’d skinned his knee. “You’re safe. You’re well.”
And he turned her very gently in his hold.
In the dim light, he saw at once she was beautiful. Blonde with expressive dark eyes, and pale from shock, even in the gas light, she had a health and vibrance to her that belied the night, the year, the war, the terror of her attack.
“I’m…I’m not—” She tried to stand on her own and fell back toward him.
Two hands to her shoulders, he caught her up. Struck by her loveliness on such a dismal night, he stared at her and tried to be rational. In his arms, she was a luscious burden, voluptuous. She was…familiar. He tried to think beyond how he’d like to keep her in his embrace. He chastised himself. Bugger. Who was she? But her name and the moment when he’d met her escaped him.
“My—my foot.” She tried to stand again and failed, a grimace turning down her plush lips. “My ankle. I don’t know if it’s sprained or broken.”
“Where were you going?” He asked, his question sharper than it should have been.
“My hotel.”
She didn’t say which one, but whatever it was it would not do. Not in her condition. “Too far away.”
“What?” She jerked backward in his arms, fear staining the lights in her eyes. “I’m grateful. Thank you. But I must go.”
She tried to pull away but she couldn’t find secure footing. And then she paused, tipped her head and gazed at him with a dawning recognition. “You are…Oh, my.”
“We know each other, don’t we?” He smiled, a wealth of happiness filling him. He grew warm with it, giddy in fact. For a man who dealt with the realities of acquiring bandages and cots and forceps, to see her here in the midst of a dreary night and save her and find her in need of him was the finest boon he’d had from fate in years.
She continued to examine him as if he had two heads. “Carbury.”
No question but a statement.
He grinned at her. He could not quite remember the details but he did know one thing. He’d found the second woman in the world who had changed his life.
