Page 70 of Let Me Be Your Hero
“I insist,” Izzie said.
“Get in,” one of the other men said, shoving him from behind. “Yer wasting time.”
A few men climbed into the carriage, and two more climbed up on the back. Izzie pressed her handkerchief against Jack’s shoulder. “Where are we going?”
“Nettlethorpe Iron,” Jack said. “It’s naught but a quarter mile from here.”
Surely enough, within minutes, they pulled up to a hulking brick building. Izzie thought the bricks might have once been red, but they had been stained black by years of smoke. At ashout from the coachman, two huge wooden doors were pulled open, and the carriage drove right inside.
Disembarking from the carriage, Izzie stepped down onto a packed dirt floor. The warehouse was huge, probably fifty yards long and half again as wide. There was a metallic grinding sound coming from the far end of the factory, deafening even over a distance, but it stopped after a few seconds. Light so bright it was almost blinding poured out of what she supposed must be a furnace, and a thin stream of molten metal flowed through a carefully carved trench into bar-shaped molds. Men in heavy leather aprons stood around with rakes and shovels, carefully minding the liquid metal’s progress.
Most of the ironworkers were peering at them, curious to see the reason for this interruption. At last, she spotted Archibald in the crowd. He looked… different. He was wearing a coarse linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, topped by a waistcoat of plain grey wool. She supposed that made sense. Of course, he wouldn’t wear the same clothes he wore to attend a ball on the floor of a forge. He was… She blinked, certain her eyes were deceiving her, but no, he was holding acannon, which he appeared to be inspecting. To be sure, it wasn’t aparticularly largecannon. But still, it was acannon! It had to be tremendously heavy, yet he handled it as easily as if it were a child’s toy.
Someone said something to him, and he looked up. At first, his expression was merely confused, as if he could not understand why she was here. But she marked the moment he noticed some combination of her ruined hair, crushed hat, and torn dress. His face went white, and his eyes filled with distress.
“Izzie!” he cried. Without looking, he handed the cannon to the man standing next to him, who staggered and would’ve fallen had two of his fellows not rushed up to help him bearthe weight. Oblivious, Archibald hurried across the packed dirt floor. “What’s going on? Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right,” she hastened to say. “Really, I’m—” She promptly ruined her attempt to reassure him by bursting into tears.
He scooped her up in his arms as he turned to one of the men who accompanied her. “What happened?”
“Ambush on the carriages, boss. Five riders descended on us. They forced us into the curb, and the wheel broke.”
“The carriage with most of the guards got separated,” another man added. “A wagon pulled out in front of us in the middle of a junction. The driver claimed his horse wouldn’t move.” He laughed blackly. “I bet that wasn’t no accident. By the time we caught up, they’d pulled Lady Isabella out and were trying to get her into another carriage.”
Archibald’s arms turned to steel around her. “They almost took her?”
“They would’ve,” the first man said, “if it wasn’t for Rattigan. He went charging in after her.”
Izzie managed to find her voice. “Jack was injured. After he pulled me back, the man trying to abduct me pulled out a knife. Jack stepped in front of me and was stabbed in the shoulder.”
“Summon the surgeon,” Archibald said.
Jack waved this off. “It’s naught but a scratch.”
Archibald’s jaw clenched, his voice brooking no argument. “I want it looked at by a surgeon, and any other injuries that were sustained as well.” He caught Jack’s eyes and held them. “Thank you, Jack.”
“Eh.” Jack rolled his eyes. “There’d have been no living with you if I’d let them take her.”
Archibald grunted in response. He was already carrying Izzie toward the far end of the warehouse.
Most of Nettlethorpe Iron seemed to consist of a huge, open room with a ceiling three stories high. But she could see rooms with windows lining the far wall. She took it these were the offices.
Archibald carried her up a flight of stairs into an open room full of desks. A dozen clerks looked up at their entrance, their eyes full of concern. A man she recognized as his office manager, Mr. McPherson, hurried over. “I heard about the attack, sir. Is Lady Isabella all right?”
“I am,” Izzie said. “A little shaken is all.”
“She would’ve been kidnapped were it not for Jack Rattigan, who suffered a knife wound,” Archibald said. “He is to receive a reward of one thousand pounds.”
Mr. McPherson blanched. “One—did you say onethousand, sir?” At Archibald’s nod, Mr. McPherson laughed nervously. “Is that not a bit excessive?”
Archibald was already halfway across the room. “He stepped in front of a knife to save my wife. I don’t find it excessive at all. See that it’s done.”
He shifted Izzie to one arm so he could open a door, then closed it behind them. They were alone.
She expected him to hold her close, to offer her the comfort of his arms. Instead, he deposited her on top of the desk at the center of the room and hurried over to the washstand. Filling the basin with fresh water, he took up a bar of soap and began scrubbing his hands with furious intensity.
“Archibald?” she asked, peering at him. “Can that not wait?”
