Keeping light on her feet, Fi evaded him while sizing up his fighting style: slow, heavy, and predictable. Dodging one ham-sized fist, she went in on his weak side, landing two blows to his gut before stomping on his foot. As he gasped, she kneed him in the groin.
He crumpled to the ground, whimpering.
“Watch out!”
At Livy’s warning, Fi spun around. A brute came at her, his fist aimed at her head. When she ducked, his hand caught on her wig; pain shot through her scalp as he yanked it off. He shoved her into a wall, her cheek smacking against brick. On instinct, she dropped into a crouch and grabbed her second dagger, slashing it upward as she came up. Her opponent screamed as the steel sliced through flesh. Grabbing his bleeding arm, he ran from the alley.
Livy was beside her in an instant. “Are you—?”
“I’m fine,” Fi panted. “The blighters—”
“They’re done for tonight.” Livy had her pistol out, aiming it at their remaining foe.
Bloodied and beaten, the men limped past them.
Fi’s gaze flew to the other end of the alley. Hawksmoor’s shoulders-back posture was that of a warrior who’d defended his keep, his fierce scowl promising retribution to any enemy who dared to return. His gaze remained trained on the ruffians as they scurried off into the shadows. Only then did he let down his guard, bracing one hand against the wall.
Livy picked Fi’s wig up from the ground; it looked like a trampled animal.
“This won’t be of much use,” Livy muttered.
“Hawksmoor’s drugged,” Fi said. “Perhaps he won’t recognize me.”
“Good luck. While you tend to him, I’ll get a hackney to take him home.”
As her friend rushed off, Fiona went to the earl.
Using her best trollop’s voice, she said, “’Ow are you, guv?”
Hawksmoor stared at her. “Miss…Miss Garrity? What’re you doing here?”
So much for him not recognizing me.
Despite his dilated pupils and slurred speech, Hawksmoor apparently retained his intellectual powers. That he’d stayed on his feet and given a splendid accounting of himself against four brutes was a miracle. His eyes were glazed, closing; he was unlikely to remember much come tomorrow. Which was a good thing, where Fiona was concerned. Before he gave into oblivion, however, she had to assess the damage.
“Are you hurt?” she said. “Is anything broken?”
His eyelids shut, his legs giving out. He slumped, unconscious, his back against the wall.
Crouching next to him, she checked for injuries. As her palms brushed over hard, bulging muscles, she felt a warm flutter. Clearly, Hawksmoor did not spend all his time behind a desk. She continued her inspection, finding no critical wounds. When she saw the state of his damaged knuckles, however, she blew out a breath.
“We’ll need something to bind your hands,” she murmured.
She unwound his cravat.
“Are you undressing me, Miss Garrity?”
She jerked her gaze up to his. Although his words were slurred, he was watching her with a smoldering intensity that quickened her breath.
“I need your cravat to bind your hands,” she said. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”
“Like you…undressing me.” His gaze grew unfocused again. “Wish you’d do it more often.”
She felt her cheeks flame. Was Hawksmoorflirtingwith her? After he’d made his disinterest in her abundantly clear?
He’s drugged,she reminded herself.He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
“As I recall, I am thelast womanyou’d be interested in.” She tore the cloth into makeshift bandages. “It must be the drink talking.”
