“Holy shite...” Not-Mr.-Erasmus-Monroe froze. His face went slack with shock.
And then a shadow detached from the depths of the alley and proved to be another man. Who also appeared to be holding a pistol.
Aurelie sucked in a scream when Hawkes pivoted a half turn and from the sound of things—the sound of things being a loud grunt—landed a boot hard and squarely in the second man’s gut, then turned and jammed an elbow down on the other man’s back.
They both hit the ground with shocking thuds.
“The good news is that I have two pistols, and both are loaded, both are to hand, and I practiced foryearshow to shoot in the dark,” Hawkes said. “I can smell fear and evil, and I aim at that. So neither of you need go to hell alone tonight.”
He cocked the gun. “That’s the first gun,” he said cheerily. “I’ll count to three. Run now or it’ll be the last time you ever run. One... two...”
There was a great rustling scramble of limbs, much cursing, and then they tore away.
She peered out from behind Hawkes and in silence they watched the men vanish into the street.
“There’s never only one,” he said, sounding more irritated than anything else.
He locked his gun, tucked it away.
Then he turned, and without preamble gathered her into his arms.
“SweetChrist,” he muttered. One of his hands hovered, then lightly cradled her head.
The other slid from her shoulder blades, gently, gently, and came to a rest on the small of her back. Itsjourney left a breath-stealing trail of sparks over her skin.
She realized she was trembling. She curled her hands into his shirt and reflexively clung, and tipped her head against him, careful not to press against his poor sore side. She felt the cold button of his waistcoat and the swift, hard thump of his heart against her cheek.
His arms at once tightened around her and when he pulled in a long slow breath, then released it at length, his body moved against hers, like a tide rolling out again. He’d sighed like a man who had waited a lifetime for precisely this moment.
Here she was enclosed in a man’s arms. And yet this one was safety. She knew if she wanted him to let her go, he would.
She never, never wanted him to release her.
He stroked her hair, once, twice, softly. Then stopped abruptly, as he seemed to realize what he was doing. He loosened his arms, until she was held in the circle of them as delicately as an egg. As if she were breakable and precious and he feared hurting her.
She uncurled her fingers from his shirt. “That’s a very distinctive sound,” she said with a sniff. “The sound of a gun being cocked.”
“If you’re impressed by that, you’d be simply amazed by the sound they make when they fire.” His voice was taut.
He took another what felt like a steadying breath. Then lifted his arms and released her and stood back.
His face had gone carefully expressionless.
“I have heard the sound,” she said.
He said nothing for a moment. He was looking away from her. She had the strangest sense that he was gathering composure.
Two attacking men hadn’t rattled Mr. Hawkes. But she’d felt the rapid thud of his heart against her cheek for a moment, and she knew, with a sort of terror and fierce joy and a painful tenderness, that holding her had indeed done it.
“You’re not an ordinary gentleman, are you, Mr. Hawkes?”
“Are there truly any ordinary gentlemen?” he asked rhetorically. Somewhat remotely.
She said nothing.
He turned again and was regarding her thoughtfully. In repose, when he was not attempting to charm, his face was fierce. His very spirit must be terribly fierce.
She was beginning to understand that hers was, too.
