The handkerchief smelled like her. Flowers warmed by sunshine.
She handed him a paper packet filled with white powder. “This is willow bark. It tastes dreadful, I’m afraid, but the doctor said it would ease the pain.”
Cull downed the contents, which did indeed taste like shit.
She gave him more water and smiled at him. “Feeling better?”
He was, but he didn’t think it was on account of the medicine. Her eyes…up close, they were mesmerizing. Rare and unique. Golden suns surrounded her pupils, illuminating her blue irises, and though he was no poet—hell, he could barely write his own name—her eyes were the exact shade he imagined heaven would be.
Time halted as he lost himself in her gaze. He saw only her; her eyes held only him. The rest of the world vanished as he leaned closer, drawing her scent into his lungs. Breathing her in. Her mink-colored lashes swept up, but she didn’t move away. Her lips, which were the shiny pink of a boiled sweet, parted ever so slightly…
“Tim, oh Tim!” Maisie’s voice shattered the spell. “You’re awake!”
Cull jerked his gaze to his sister, who came running toward the bed, her brown plaits bouncing against her thin shoulders. She looked scared, her freckles pronounced against her pale cheeks. Knowing she needed reassurance, he braced himself and held his arms open. With a sob, she ran into his embrace.
The hug hurt like the devil, but he managed not to grimace.
She took a step back, studying him with anxious eyes. “Are you badly hurt, Tim?”
“Nah, been clobbered worse.” He chucked her beneath the chin. “Nothing to worry your pretty li’l noggin o’er.”
“Patrick brung…brought me to you,” Maisie whispered. “He said Crooke had his men beat the stuffing out of you after you refused to let the mudlarks be sold to a bawd.”
Cull hated that his sister knew about such things. Although their departed mam had made her living on her back and drowned her sorrows in blue ruin, he had tried to protect Maisie against the harsher realities of life. It was why he’d taken her to the Hunts—to get her away from the filth of the streets. Even though he knew Patrick, a fellow mudlark and his best friend, had only wanted to help, he wished the other hadn’t involved Maisie.
“Patrick should’ve left you out o’ it,” he muttered.
“If it weren’t for Patrick, you might be dead,” Maisie said, her voice hitching. “We were trying to get you free when Mr. Hunt and the Earl of Revelstoke arrived. They took care of that nasty old Crooke and brung…brought you here.”
Cull added Hunt and Revelstoke to his mental tally. A mudlark never forgot a favor or a wrong. He would be paying his debt when he could.
“You’ll stay, won’t you? You won’t leave me again?” Maisie’s pleading look twisted his insides with guilt. “There’s plenty of room at the academy.”
As much as Cull wanted to reassure his sister, he wouldn’t lie to her. It was just a matter of time before another bastard like Crooke made a move. The mudlarks needed Cull—needed someone older and stronger, in truth. But he was all they had; he couldn’t let them down.
His temples throbbed. “I’ll stay for as long as I can,” he said.
“How long?” Maisie persisted.
“Your brother looks like he could use some refreshment,” Miss Hunt cut in gently. “Perhaps you could fetch some of Cook’s beef tea, Maisie?”
Maisie hesitated, then said, “All right. I’ll get some beef tea for you, Tim. You’ll like it.”
His sister scampered off, leaving him with Miss Hunt.
“Thank you,” he muttered. “For looking after Maisie.”
“She is a dear.” Miss Hunt studied him. “I think, however, that she would prefer that you be the one watching out for her, Mr. Cullen.”
He knew that. And Miss Hunt’s well-intentioned words plunged the blade of guilt deeper.
“I do wot I can,” he said gruffly. “And it’s Cull.”
“Pardon?”
“Cull. That’s wot me friends call me.”
“Oh.” Her silky lashes fanned upward. “Well, my friends call me Pippa.”
