Quite suddenly he was dragged back. The resounding crack of splintering bone filled the air just before he was tossed aside like so much rubbish. Smallest ran off, leaving her gasping for breath as she realized it was over.
Then someone was standing before her, reaching out, touching her cheek. “Vivi.”
That single word contained such concern she was thrown back eight years when she’d believed her days and nights would be filled with the sound of that voice. “Finn.”
Without thought or care, she sagged against him as he bent over her, holding her close, so she was able to bury her nose in the soft skin at his neck, inhale the comforting scent of leather and horses, of him. He smelled the same as he had all those years before. It made her glad and angry at the same time, that something about him should remain the same.
He rubbed his jaw along her temple and she was acutely aware of the thick stubble prickling her face, catching her hair. He had a man’s whiskers now, no longer soft and reminiscent of peach fuzz. During the years they’d been apart, he’d changed, and she was grateful that little of the boy he’d been remained, because it allowed her to think of the boy without seeing the man. She could separate the two, could reflect on the sweet memories, have abeforehe’d abandoned her and anafter.
Theafterwas now, even though he’d come to her aid twice now. She pushed her way out of his embrace. “Thank you, thank you for your assistance.”
She made to walk by him and her knees nearly buckled, drat the weak things for suddenly turning to jam. His hand snaked out, grabbed her arm, held her aloft. How could he be so calm, so put together?
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No, I’m fine.” Rattled, shaking like a damned leaf in the wind, but otherwise perfectly fine. Gently, she worked her way out of his grasp. “I have to go. Someone is waiting on me.”
After stopping to retrieve her walking stick, she headed back to the street, grateful when she reached it, grateful as well that he had followed her. She was not going to be deterred from her task, but it was incredibly tempting to return to the foundling home.
“Vivi, this is madness, what you’re doing.”
“You caught me on two bad nights. I’ve never been bothered before.”
“Yet you carry weapons because you know it’s a possibility.”
“Yes, it’s a possibility, it’s always a possibility, but I’m prepared. I know how to fight, Finn.”
His sigh was so strong that if she hadn’t pulled the hood of her pelisse back up, she might have felt it stirring the tendrils of her hair, sending delicious shivers down her back as it once had. She was not going to think about that. “You don’t have to follow me.”
“I’ve got nothing else to do at the moment.”
Having memorized the path she needed to take, she continued along the circuitous route. She’d traversed it earlier in the day, searching for any areas that might bring danger, but she hadn’t considered this time of night might fill the streets with the dregs of society. She’d never been in this section of Whitechapel before, wasn’t that familiar with it, which was the reason she’d scoped it out earlier. The farther she went, the deeper she was in warrens of poverty. The rookeries. Her mother would be appalled to find her here. “Did you grow up in an area such as this?”
“Not this bad.”
With a nod, she carried on until she reached the designated alleyway. Tardy in arriving, she was disappointed to not find a woman waiting for her. Beginning to pace the opening that led into darkness, she could only hope the baby farmer was late as well.
“You should have brought a lamp,” he said.
“It would not only illuminate the dark corners but illuminate me. Believe it or not, I strive not to bring attention to myself. While I think it unlikely anyone from my previous life will run across me here, the men my brother hired did post some handbills with my likeness etched on them. I’d rather not risk being recognized. As you mentioned the other night, five hundred quid is a lot of blunt.”
“Perhaps you should tell your brother to bugger off.”
She almost smiled. “I have. Not in those words exactly, but I write him every week assuring him I am well and asking him to leave off. But as always from the moment I was born, my wishes are hardly given any credence.”
Leaning against the wall, with the glow from the streetlamp limning one side of him, with one foot crossed over the other and his arms folded over his chest, he appeared incredibly masculine. “What is the purpose in all this that you’re doing?”
“I told you. I can’t stand the thought of these children being murdered.”
“Not all baby farmers kill the children placed in their care. My mum didn’t.”
“But many do, and those who don’t—how many of them truly love them? You saw the women the other night. Hardly sterling examples of motherhood.”
“They seemed to be fighting for what was theirs.”
She scoffed. “They were fighting for the coins to be made, not the children to be cared for. They measure the worth of a babe based on how many shillings it’ll place in their palms, not the joy it’ll bring to their lives.”
“You have a cynical view.”
