"Don't be shocked. It's not uncommon for a lord to see after those entrusted to his care. The old gent requested that I see after them, and so I do."

"Out of guilt?"

"Why can it not be out of kindness?"

"Are you a kind man then?"

He laughed. "Hardly. You know what I am, Catherine. Or more importantly, what I am not. I'm not the rightful heir. I'm not the true grandson to the previous Earl of Claybourne. But he entrusted his t.i.tles and his estates to my keeping, and keep them I shall."

"Do you not worry that I'll go to the courts and speak on Mr. Langdon's behalf?"

"I don't worry in the least. We're partners in crime now, Catherine, you and I. Seek to drag me down, and you shall fall with me. You'll have to explain when I told you. And when it comes out that you've been in my company all these many nights..."

He let his voice trail off into the velvety darkness, with the unspoken promise of retribution. One he'd never carry out. He was not in the habit of harming women-in any fashion. Not that she'd know that. She'd expect the worst of him. Even though there were moments when he thought she was different, he knew that deep down she saw him as everyone else did: a cad, a scoundrel, a man whose life was built on the foundation of deception-and sooner or later, the facade would crumble.

And he saw her as...a lady. High-born. Elegant. Her rose scent had begun to invade his clothes, take up permanent residence in his nostrils. Throughout the day, he'd discover times when he thought he could smell her. He'd find himself looking around, wondering if she were near, if she'd somehow managed to sneak up on him. When he was walking the crowded streets, he'd sometimes think he heard her voice. He wanted to keep as much distance as possible between them, and yet, she was somehow managing to weave her way into his life.

He wanted to ask her how her day was. What she'd talked to her friends about. He wanted to know which one of d.i.c.kens's works was her favorite. Who else did she read? What did she do that Jim wasn't able to spy on? What made her happiest? What made her sad?

A horse suddenly whinnied, the coach jostled then stopped.

"What the devil?"

"What's going on?" she asked.

Luke reached for the cane sword he kept beneath the seat, because he never knew when he might be required to walk through the London streets. "Stay here."

He leapt out of the coach and closed the door firmly behind him. It was so very late and the street was empty.

Save for the six ruffians who now stood before him. One man held a knife to his footman's throat, another did the same with his driver. He imagined they'd come out of the shadows, leaping onto the coach, taking both men by surprise-even though Luke had trained them better.

It was very easy to become complacent.

"Is this a robbery, gentlemen?" he asked calmly. He could see other knives, as well as wooden instruments that could be used for bludgeoning.

"It will be, m'lord, once we've sent ye to the devil."

Catherine's heart was pounding so hard that she could scarcely breathe. She moved the curtain aside only a fraction. There was more shadow than light but she could see Claybourne was surrounded. His only weapon was his walking stick.

Then in a lightning-quick movement, he pulled it apart to reveal a rather nasty-looking swordlike instrument.

"I believe, gentlemen, you'll be breaking fast with the devil this morning, not I."

He lunged toward the man who held his footman and the footman somehow managed to break free of the hold and send the ruffian to the ground.

Claybourne's move was a feint, Catherine realized, a ploy to simply distract that man so the footman would be at an advantage, because no sooner had Claybourne made a motion to go one way, he reversed direction, making a jabbing motion toward the man who held his coachman. But the coachman had already elbowed his captor and was skillfully avoiding the knife.

While both his servants were now doing their best to fend off the men attacking them, Claybourne was left to deal with the other four-who were taking unfair advantage of the situation. But then she supposed that was what these sorts of cads were accustomed to doing.

Claybourne had somehow managed to kick one of the men in the stomach. Doubled over, he'd dropped his weapon-a large wooden stick. Catherine thought if she could retrieve it, she could give him a few good whacks on the head and even the odds a bit. Before she could think it through clearly, she'd opened the door and stepped out- Claybourne's back was to her and a man with a wicked-looking knife was coming up behind him.

"Nooo!" she screamed.

She felt the agonizing fire erupt across her palm, and only then did she realize she'd put her hand up to stop the knife from slicing Claybourne. The man wielding the weapon seemed to be in shock that he'd attacked a lady.

Catherine looked at the crimson flow invading her glove and staggered back.

"Let's go, mates!" someone yelled.

She was vaguely aware of someone grunting, the echo of pounding footsteps.

"Catherine?"

She blinked. Claybourne was kneeling beside her. What was she doing on the ground? When had she fallen? Why was it suddenly so very dark?

"He was going to kill you," she murmured. Or thought she did. The words seem to come from a great distance.

"That's no excuse to put yourself in harm's way."

The insufferable ingrate lifted her into his arms and carried her to the coach. He'd barely gotten her inside before following after her, sitting beside her. "Here," he said, and she felt him wrapping something around her hand as the coach lurched forward.

"Your servants-"

"They're fine."

"What's that?"

"My handkerchief."

"It'll be ruined."

"Good Lord, Catherine, your hand is likely ruined. I don't give a d.a.m.n about a bit of cloth."

"Your language is vulgar, sir."

"I believe the occasion warrants it."

"Indeed it does."

He chuckled, a soothing sound that made her want to reach out and comb her fingers through his hair, a.s.sure herself that he was indeed unharmed.

"Who were they?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said quietly.

"They wanted to kill you."

He said nothing.

"Why?" she asked.

"I'm a man with many enemies, Catherine." He tucked her up against his side, pressed his lips to the top of her head. "But never before have I had a lovely guardian angel."

Chapter 9.

"It's my hand, not my legs," Catherine said as Luke swept her into his arms as soon as she appeared in the doorway of the coach intending to step out.

Luke had instructed his driver to go to his residence straightaway, to the back, where none would witness who was coming inside.

"Yes, but the faster I get you indoors, the more quickly I can have a look."

"I'm quite capable of moving quickly."

"Stop complaining and just accept that on this matter you'll not win."

"Such a bully," she muttered, before nestling her head more securely against his shoulder.

Luke was smiling before he realized it. How was it that she managed to stir to life every emotion possible in him? First she irritated him like the devil, and then she had tried to protect him. He'd spun around in time to see her, to see the knife slashing-and his stomach had dropped to the ground. Fury had almost blinded him. At that precise moment, he'd thought he could have killed all six ruffians without breaking a sweat. They must have realized their mistake in turning on her, must have seen the murder glittering in his eyes-to have run off as they had. Luke couldn't bear the thought of losing her, and even as he thought that, he realized she wasn't his to lose.

They were merely partners. He should have felt a detachment where she was concerned, but what he was beginning to feel toward her was an appreciation. It bothered him that he was coming to care for her, that he thought of her far more than he should.

The footman darted ahead and opened the door that led into the kitchen. Luke shouldered his way through. "Go fetch my physician. Quickly now."

"Yes, m'lord."

Catherine stiffened in his arms. "No, no, we can't have anyone else aware that I'm here."

"It's all right. He's very discreet."

Gingerly he set her in the chair. Reaching out, he turned up the flame in the lamp that Cook left on the table every night. He liked the rooms in his house lit. He'd had too many nights in utter darkness.

Turning from her, he grabbed a knife. Then he pulled out a chair, settled it in front of her, sat down, and placed the knife on the table.

"What are you going to do with that? My hand is already sliced."

If she weren't so pale with a fine sheen of sweat across her brow, if she hadn't been so d.a.m.ned brave, he might have lashed out at her. Instead he just asked quietly, "Do you not trust me at all?"

She nodded, and he wasn't certain if she was nodding yes, she didn't trust him or yes, she did. It suddenly occurred to him that it really didn't matter. All that mattered was that he trusted her.

Very gently he took her hand. He could feel the small tremors traveling through it. "This is likely to hurt," he said as he began to remove the handkerchief.

"You say that as though it's not hurting now."

"Is it hurting very badly?"

Catherine tried not to look, tried so hard not to look, but there was so much blood, it was as though each drop were a magnet for her eyes. "It hurts like the very devil."

He chuckled low. "You're such a brave girl."

She didn't know why his words warmed her, why she cared that he had a good opinion of her. "There's so much blood."

"Yes," he said quietly, removing the last of the cloth, revealing the ghastly parted flesh with the river of crimson running through it. She wondered how much worse it might have been if the knife hadn't had to first slice through her glove.

"Oh, dear G.o.d." She turned her head away as though closing her eyes wasn't enough.

His hold on her hand tightened. "Don't swoon on me."

"I'm not going to swoon." She didn't bother to keep the irritation from her voice. "I hate that you think I'm such a ninny."

"I a.s.sure you, Catherine, that particular thought regarding you has never once crossed my mind."

She heard a sc.r.a.pe of metal over wood and opened her eyes in time to see him lifting the knife. Very gingerly, he used it to slice her glove further, to the end. Then he very carefully parted the cloth and slowly peeled back the material, gently tugging it off each finger. She was suddenly having a very difficult time drawing in a breath, the room had grown incredibly hot, and she feared she might be in danger of swooning-even though she'd a.s.sured him she wouldn't.

She imagined him in a bedroom, removing clothes from a woman-from her-with the same care. Revealing every inch of her flesh for his perusal. He was studying her hand as though he'd never before seen bare fingers. He slowly trailed his finger along the outline of her hand.

"I don't think it's too bad," he said quietly.

Swallowing, she nodded.

"If you ever put yourself in harm's way like that again, I'll put you over my knee."

"And do what?" she asked indignantly.

He lifted his gaze to hers, and she saw the worry in his eyes, before he smiled. "Kiss your bare bottom."

Her face must have shown shock at his words-she could only hope it revealed shock and not desire-because he shook his head. "My apologies. That was entirely inappropriate. I forget who you are."

"And who is that?"

"Not one of Jack's doxies."

She didn't want to contemplate him kissing a woman's bare bottom, kissing anything for that matter.

He held her gaze, held her hand. Looking into his eyes was so much more welcoming than looking at her raggedly torn palm. They drew her in, made her forget that he'd almost been killed. She reached up with her unwounded hand and brushed the hair back from his brow. She should ask him to slice off that glove as well so she could feel his skin against her fingertips. His eyes darkened, his gaze became more intense, grew closer as he leaned in- The door opened and they both jumped.

"What trouble have you gotten yourself into now, Luke?" the man asked, closing the door behind him. He reminded Catherine of an angel, with a halo of blond curls around his head. His eyes, as blue as the sky, widened. "What have we here?"

"A bit of a mishap," Claybourne said as he rose from the chair.

The man set his black bag on the table and took the chair Claybourne had vacated. "Who have we here?"