Renard swore she did it to hide a smirk.
He kicked at the warehouse door, the resounding echo of boot on metal loud enough to rouse the sleeping sailors aboard the nearest ship.
He winced.
“Could you be more conspicuous?” she hissed.
“I could,” he said, knowing the superior tone would irk her. “But my arms appear full at the moment.”
“Then put me down! No one asked you to carry me.”
His arms tightened around her and the fullness of her backside against his forearm felt delicious. “As you were about to collapse in a dark alley, injured and helpless, a simple ‘Thank you’ wouldn’t be remiss.”
“That was my problem, not yours.”
For some reason, her words tripped his own, usually contained, anger. “Seeing as how I’d just saved you, leaving you undefended would have defeated the point.”
“I neveraskedto be saved!”
His gaze narrowed. “And here we come to it. How it must needle you to know a man—no, agentleman—saved you. I’veknown you less than an hour, Miss Forthright, but I can say with certainty, pride like that will get you killed.”
To think this woman, this damn, fearless dragon was out in the world, strong and sharp and all kinds of wrong—in so many ways—and if he’d decided on another tavern, another drink, one single blasted alley over, she would most likely have died alone, in the dark. The idea was deplorable, unforgivable.
“Despicable.”
Seeming to think his mumbling was directed at her, she struggled in his arms.
He caught her to him and heard her gasp in pain. His gut dropped. If she kept up this incessant flailing, her arm may fracture beyond repair.
She pushed at his chest, her wrist giving a gratingpop.
“Stop.” He pressed a kiss to her temple.
She froze.
Her skin was sweet and smelled of sweat and flowery soap, an agreeable scent in comparison to the acid-tainted smell of the streets. A low heat filled his belly, like the slow burn of good brandy down his throat. When he pulled back, he found her cold eyes filled with shock.
“Now,” he said, his voice unsteady, “if you would desist, we may both avoid further injury.”
She blinked, and some logical thought seemed to grab hold. She leaned back in his arms and said with venom, “I won’t thank you for acting like some reckless hero. I never will.”
A stab of regret cut the muscle in his chest before he patched it up with dark acceptance. Even if he wanted to reenact some boyish fantasy of good and evil, which he did not, he knew his role wouldn’t resemble anything close to heroism.
Hearing the lumbering steps of Gregori on the other side of the door, he turned to her and made himself perfectly clear. “That’s where you’re mistaken, Miss Forthright.” He faced thedoor and let his expression, and heart, turn to stone before his own words cut him too deep to repair. “I’m no one’s hero.”
Chapter Three
The warehouse dooropened, flooding the dark street with warm and bright light and revealing a young man in a wrinkled shirt and dark hair sticking heavenward around the strange contraption attached to his head.
The man squinted at the sky, then focused on Renard and, finally, her. “It’s night,” he said.
Camille frowned.Thiswas the doctor; a young man with an oil-stained shirt, his sleeves rolled up around his elbows, and a week’s worth of stubble on his chin? Her luck continued to be poor. She shook her head. “I’ll take my chances with the tavern.”
Renard grinned. “Good evening, Gregori.”
“What do you want?”
“The lady here needs a bone set.”
