Page 2 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
He heard their thundering feet fading away in the distance as they raced off. Another sound followed, softer footsteps but more hurried. He became vaguely aware of a presence, someone kneeling beside him, gentle hands touching him with care.
“Ah, hell, you’re a bloody mess.”
An angel’s voice. He didn’t think she was swearing, but making a truthful statement regarding his blood-soaked clothes. Where had she come from? A companion to the fellow named Gil? Had he gone after the footpads? He wished he could see her more clearly but the darkness was closing in on him. “My... watch.”
She leaned nearer and brought with her the scent of... beer? “Pardon?”
“Watch.” The blackguard had dropped it. He’d heard it fall. In desperation, he patted the ground at his side. He needed to find it.
Then she took his hand, cradled it within hers, long slender fingers closing around him. “There’s no timepiece, pet. Nothing here.”
There had to be. He was supposed to pass it on to his son someday. But there would be no son now. No heir. No spare. No wife.
Only death. In a rotten-smelling, mucked-up alleyway that had suddenly turned frigid, causing ice to form in his veins, to leak through to his bones. The only warmth offered was where she touched him. He tightened his hold, hoping her heat would spread through him, would give him strength. He couldn’t die, not like this, not without a fight.
He couldn’t give up. Not until he found Lavinia.
Gillian Trewlove worked her arm around the man’s shoulders, tried to leverage him up, and swore softly. “You’re bloody heavy.”
Stretched out as he was, it was difficult to tell precisely, but she’d place him at a couple of inches taller than she was, which put him on the higher side of six feet. She patted his bristly cheek until he stirred from the depths of oblivion into which he’d fallen. “Come on now, pet. Up with you.”
He nodded, struggled to push himself up to a sitting position, while she did what she could to assist him, tugging here, pushing there, and ignoring his groans of pain. The coppery stench of blood scented the air. His clothes were wet, and it wasn’t from the dampness of the heavy fog settling in and wrapping around them like a wispy shroud.
“Look, I can’t carry you on my own. I know the darkness is calling to you, and she’s a tempting mistress, but you have to resist. You’ve got to fight her and help me here.”
Another nod. A grunt. Labored breathing. She slid in against him, slipped beneath his arm, giving him her shoulder to use as a crutch while she snaked her arm around his back, closed her hand against his side—he released another groan muffled by clenched teeth—and felt the liquid warmth pour over her fingers. Not good. Not good at all.
Leaning on her, using the brick wall for support, he pushed, she pulled, until he was on his feet. Ah, yes, well over six feet.
“All right now. My place is just up here. Not far.” As usual she’d closed up her tavern at midnight, her employees had all headed home after setting the place to rights, and she’d worked on her books for a while. She’d finished up at half past one and had been taking out the rubbish when she heard the commotion, not at all pleased to find nefarious deeds occurring behind her establishment. She didn’t allow for shenanigans inside; she certainly wasn’t going to allow them to occur on the other side of her walls. Her tolerance for misdeeds was a low threshold that went even lower when it came to causing injury to people.
Their pace was slow, his breathing harsh and uneven, and more than once he stumbled, staggered, righted himself. Cooing gently, she encouraged him with words of praise for each step taken when he didn’t falter or fall. She considered hauling him into the tavern, but it would be bad luck if he died there. Better option was her flat, although the stairs would be a challenge. Finally they reached them. “Grab the banister, pull yourself up. Lift your feet a little bit higher.”
“Right.” The word came out low but determined.
“You’re going to make it.”
“Better. Have some scores to settle.”
A man with a purpose could survive a hell of a lot. Her brothers had taught her that. “Save your breath and your strength for the climb.”
It was long and arduous, but she had to give him credit for never faltering, even though he’d begun to shiver, and that concerned her. It was a cool night, but not so much that one needed much of a wrap, and their efforts were keeping her far too warm. But then she had a great deal more blood rushing through her, while his was leaking out, leaving a trail marking his progress. He dropped to his knees three steps shy of the landing, and she nearly tumbled on top of him. Catching her balance, she knelt beside him. “Almost there.”
Crawling, he laboriously took one step, then another. She hopped to her feet, located her key, unlocked the door, and swung it open. “When you get inside, you can collapse on the floor.”
He did just that.
She rushed out, down the stairs, and back into the tavern. “Robin!”
The little urchin who slept on a small bed near the fireplace, in spite of her best efforts to move him into a proper home—he simply wouldn’t have it—sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Aye?”
“Fetch Dr. Graves to my flat immediately.” She slapped some coins into his hand. “Take a hansom if you can find one. You need to be quick. Tell him there’s a man dying on my floor.”
“Did ye try to kill ’im, Gillie?”
“Him,” she repeated automatically, emphasizing theh, always striving to improve his pronunciation of words because she’d learned early on that speech affected people’s perceptions of a person. “If it’d been me, there wouldn’t have been atry, now would there? He’d be dead.”
“Wot ’appened then?”
