“How are the girls?” he finally asked as he led her to the other side of Blackfriars Bridge.
“The younglings are fine enough. ’Tis Harriet what vexes me. She’s at that age between kit and cat, sometimes sharpening her claws, other times purring.”
Well. That was promising. He glanced sideways at Martha. “So it’s not just me she hisses at?”
“No.” She chuckled. “The girl wars with herself as much as any.”
That was a relief, somewhat, anyway. “I am happy to hear that for the most part all is well with your family. How goes it at the kitchen, then?”
“Busy.” She tucked away a loose piece of dark golden hair beneath her bonnet. “I think little Bella is cutting a tooth, which makes it all the harder to cook, what with a babe a-swingin’ on my hip.”
He pressed his lips tight, straining not to glance down at those hips.
“Or could be Bella just misses her mum,” she continued without missing a beat. “I suspect when Kit is with her, she’s not really present. Once that woman gets a puzzle in her head, ’tis hard for her to think of anythin’ else.” Martha heaved a sigh. “I daresay she doesn’t recognize how good she’s got it, with a lovely home and a faithful husband. I’d trade places with her in a heartbeat.”
Charles cut her a wicked grin. “Have a thing for Jackson, do you?”
“Pish!” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Ye know what I meant.”
He chuckled, admiring her spirit. But then as quickly, he sobered. She’d been serious about trading places with Kit, and it would be callous of him to laugh it off. He guided her to the side of the pavement and collected her hands in his. “Jesting aside, you deserve all that and more, and I hope someday your dream comes true. I can think of no woman who more deserves to have the comfort of a house and a man who loves you fiercely.”
Like I do.
He let go of her hands as if they seared his flesh. Where on God’s green earth had that wild thought come from?
Martha’s luminous eyes blinked at him. “Thank ye. I hope it comes true as well. In fact, Mr. Baggett, if I may be so bold, I hope that maybe ye might someday consider—”
She flew sideways, knocked by a boy too large to be running pell-mell down the pavement. Charles lunged, barely getting his arm beneath Martha before she hit the cobbles. He swung her up and held her close, yelling over her shoulder at the little blighter. “Hey! Mind your step! There are ladies present.”
The lad’s pace didn’t so much as hitch as he vanished into the throng of Borough Market. Scowling, Charles searched Martha’s face. “Are you hurt?”
“Hah! Not in the least. Yer strong arm kept me from quite the tumble, though I have lost my shawl.” Pulling away, she bent to sweep up the plaid wrap.
And that’s when he noticed the back of her neck, now bare. Red prints marred her porcelain flesh, almost as if someone had tried to choke her. A knife twisted in his chest, as sharp and real as if a bludger had planted a blade hilt-deep into his heart. When she straightened, he clasped her jaw gently and tipped her head to the side for a better look.
She jerked away and tugged her shawl tight at the neck.
“Who did that to you?” he bellowed.
“What?” She tipped her chin to a defiant angle.
“You know very well what. That mark on your neck. Someone tried to harm you.”
“Don’t be silly.” She grabbed her basket off his arm and tossed back her shoulders. “The market is just across the road. No need to see me any further. I’ll have yer supper ready at seven tonight, so for now, I bid you g’day, Mr. Baggett.” She whirled.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Tell me the truth. All of it.”
For a long while she said nothing, merely sized him up and down with a keen eye. That hurt. After the past year of looking out for her and expecting nothing in return, did she really think she couldn’t trust him?
“Very well,” she said at length. “If ye must know, though I hate to admit it, I burnt myself.”
Of all the flaming lies. He’d heard better clankers in the interrogation room down at the station. “There is no way a pot or pan could have seared you on the neck. Not even steam would land such a mark.” His brow sank with a fierce glower. “Who are you protecting?”
She merely rolled her eyes. “La, sir! Such imaginings. Ye ought to try yer hand at writing penny dreadfuls.”
“I am no author. What I am is a police inspector, one who knows all the possible ways of skirting the truth, and though you do it very prettily, I will have the facts of how you came about those marks now, madam.”
“But—”
