She considered sending the man in search of a barrel.
“Two...”
Her palms were wet inside her gloves. Nerves robbed her limbs of sensation. Her teeth clacked from terror. She considered whether it mattered at all whether he murdered her. For a mad instant death sounded like blessed respite from the relentless, capricious buffeting of her life.
“Three...”
“God help me,” she whispered and leaped into the dark.
He caught her first by the shoulders, then she collided with a chest like a wall of bricks. Huge arms snapped around her and he staggered backward two steps. He regained his balance swiftly.
And then neatly, gently, he placed her feet on the ground.
He hadn’t even grunted. One would have thought he spent his days catching flying women.
He didn’t release her at once. Which was all to the good, because her knees were like water.
She remained motionless within the confines of his arms. Winded, weak with mingled terror and outrageous elation, mindless with relief. Whoever this was represented shelter and safety.
He smelled of woodsmoke and cheroot smoke and damp wool.
When she felt his chest move with a breath she was mortified to realize her hands had reflexively curled into the wet wool of his coat like a cat’s claws. Her forehead was pressed against his waistcoat button.
Mortification scorched away elation, then sanity swept in. She was instantly wildly terrified to be in the grip of a strange man.
He sensed it. He released her at once and stepped back.
“There now. Are you sound?” His voice was more efficient than kind. But it was a little of both.
“Y-yes. Thank you.” Her voice was frayed.
“Nothing I wouldn’t also do for a drowning cat,” he said amiably. “After that, it’s up to the cat to survive another day, if it can manage it. Godspeed, madam.”
Lorcan touched his hat, pivoted, and strode three steps away from her.
Impulsively, he glanced back.
She remained rooted to where she was, statue still, it seemed, staring blankly at the wall in front of her.
He took two more, slower, steps.
Then stopped.
He pivoted.
He debated with himself over whether to ask the question. He did not have to care. He frankly didn’twantto care.
But she looked so stunned. And very alone.
“What are your plans?” he said evenly.
She gave a start and staggered backward, away from him.
“My plans are not your concern, sir.” She said it politely but firmly.
But her voice trembled.
Well, he thought. Truer words were seldom spoken.
