Page 34 of When We Touch

Her eyes widened. Their blue was as deep as the night. “Such things as tonight? They have to be stopped! There are far too many people thinking to make their fortunes off the tragedy in the lives of others. What they do is cruel, terrible!”

“Maggie, many people purport themselves to be spiritualists. They sit in dark houses and imagine that they commune with ghosts. Most of them are harmless. And at worst—usually—they do a little fleecing. The problem is, of course, that you can come across those who are intending to acquire real riches from the wealthy, such as tonight. People who wouldn’t wink at murder in the pursuit of their own gain. Tonight could have turned into an absolute tragedy, with poor Lady Marian being a victim as well.”

Maggie gasped. “You do think she’s all right?”

“She’ll be more than all right. She’ll delight in all the attention that she’ll get. She’ll tell wonderful tales about the mysterious men and woman who saved her, and she’ll be in all the papers, even in America. She’ll love it. But you, my lady. You apparently weren’t at all aware that you were risking your life.”

“I admit, I’ve not come across frauds with guns before,” she said stiffly.

“Would you consider swearing that you wouldn’t entertain such a venture again?” he asked.

He was startled when a touch of tears created a glitter in her eyes, making them crystalline. “You don’t understand. What they do to people is . . . horrible.”

He sighed deeply. “Maggie, I can only assume from what you’re not saying that one of these people managed to draw you in after your husband died. That you were in such a state of grief that you were desperate, and willing to believe anything, and that you then discovered you were being taken.”

“Does that make me truly pathetic?” she asked him.

He shook his head, barely aware that he had reached out to move some of the veil from her face, moving it back over the length of her hair. “It just makes you human,” he told her. “And still, you can’t go around risking bullets or knives or other danger all the time. And . . . you shouldn’t risk your life in the East End. The danger there is not just a desperate cutthroat, but the disease that can run so rampant in those horribly crowded and squalid conditions. And what is happening now goes beyond all that we have heard before. Maggie, did you listen—really listen—to Father Vickers? A woman was not just murdered, but disemboweled.”

“I heard Father Vickers. My husband was killed there, Sir James. I am very aware of the dangers to be found. You’ll note, however, that it is a particularly sad kind of woman who is being killed. I hardly fit the description. Though my brother might have accrued some debts, my type of female is not the one being slain.”

“Your ‘type of female,’ as you label yourself, is not usually to be found walking the streets of the East End. The point is, your carelessness can make you a victim.”

“I can’t turn into a hothouse flower,” she said.

“Perhaps for just a while. Besides the obvious, as I said, typhoid and other fevers plague the area as well. Think of it this way. You could return to the house with a wretched flu that might not do too much to you, but would kill Charles.”

Her lashes fell. He realized that she had not considered such a possibility.

“I must hail a cab,” she said. Her chin rose and she met his gaze again. “I am grateful that you were there. You did save our lives.”

“That was certainly my pleasure. We don’t need a cab. We’ve Newton.”

She glanced at the horse, flushing. “Riding astride in a dress is hardly very proper.”

“A little late to think of that now, eh? Look, I can’t leave the horse, and I don’t wish to leave you until I see you safely home. I’ve already had quite a fantastic view of petticoats and ruffles.”

She swallowed silently, not looking away.

“Turn about.”

She did so. He spanned his hands around her waist once again, wincing as he felt the temptation to hold tight, and just remain as he was. He lifted her, and her skirts swung once again. He leapt up behind her. His chest to her back. The warmth . . . the vibrance. . .

The veil in his nose.

“This has to go!” he said, and pulling the hat and wig from her head, he tossed both to the breeze.

“Wait!” she cried. “I need—”

“In light of this evening, I think you owe me at least the pretense that you’ll not be about such business again!” he said.

The veil was gone. Now all that teased his face was a whisper of her own glimmering hair, the scent of it, sweet and clean. And once again, his arms around her, he felt it the most natural thing in the world, and it would be more natural still to pull her back into his embrace, run his hands down the length of her arms . . .

“Time to move on, Newton!” he said, nudging the horse.

The ride took perhaps ten minutes. He kept to the back roads as they headed for Mayfair. He was anxious that they should get there quickly, yet everything in him wanted the ride to go on forever. She angered him, infuriated him, and played at being a fool. Dangerously so. But he was aware now as to just why he so often felt such wrath rising in her direction. He had wanted her, yes. Few living, breathing men could not look at such a stunning woman and not feel a rise of desire. But there was more—that fire he had known from the beginning, and now, the fierce pride in her heart, the passion for what she believed in, the conviction of purpose that would make her so determined on a marriage with a man three times her age.

At her house, he dismounted quickly. “You should go in. Your brother will be home soon.” He reached up for her, glad to span her waist with his hands once again, and certainly not so pure of heart and mind that he didn’t relish the moment when she slid against his body to reach the ground.