Chapter Eight #2
Bernard’s gaze took in the scene. There were two men crumpled at his feet. And he was holding an iron bar.
He dropped the bar with a clatter as he smiled weakly at Lucy. “Look, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.”
“Why on earth did those four men attack you?” Lucy demanded, not bothering to keep her voice down as the two Frenchmen groaned at her feet. “What the hell is going on?”
Bernard swallowed.
He had never intended her to see—he had never intended anyone to see, but Lucy especially…
This was a part of his life he was proud of, yes, when one understood the full context. To fight for one’s country, to defend her and her honor, it was a duty that weighed upon him like a badge of honor. Bernard was proud of all he had done and would take none of it back.
But one had to know the context to understand it. Why, without the knowledge that he was a spy for Her Majesty’s government and was doing all he could to protect and serve his country…
Well. He was just a ruffian with an iron bar.
Bernard glanced down at the iron bar, saw one of the Frenchmen was lying near it, and picked it up hastily. The last thing he needed was for them to procure the weapon.
When he looked up, it was to see Lucy glaring.
“Explain,” she said curtly. “Now.”
His mind whirled, flickering through all the undercover stories he had been given during his years of service. Which would suit the best, in this situation?
The trouble was, lying to random people he would never see again was a darn sight easier than lying to Lucy, and not just because he currently lived in her house on her father’s beneficence.
Lying to Lucy felt…wrong. Like he would be lying to a part of himself.
Damned nonsense, Bernard knew. But it was true.
“Look,” Bernard said heavily, utterly unsure what he was going to say next. “I… They—You see… And why are you here, unchaperoned? Didn’t you say walking could be dangerous?”
“I was right. And don’t deflect the question back to me. I snuck out the side door, if you must know. I—” Lucy gasped and backed away, horror in her eyes, and Bernard’s chest ripped apart to see it. Was she truly so repulsed by violence of any sort—could she not see he had been defending himself?
“Lucy—”
“If you’re going to explain by waving your hands about,” she said faintly, “maybe—maybe put the iron bar down?”
Bernard blinked. Then he looked at his left hand. Then he dropped the iron bar. “Whoops.”
When he looked back at Lucy, she was blowing out a laugh. “You seem altogether very comfortable with weapons, Dixon.”
“It was their weapon. I disarmed them; I barely used it,” Bernard said swiftly.
Well, that was true. He’d only whacked that one with it once. That was hardly using it at all.
But there was still fear in Lucy’s eyes, and it was only now that he looked at her closely that he realized that it was not fear of him, but something else. Something he could not quite understand.
“You are a very dangerous man, Dixon,” whispered Lucy, having stepped away from him so much, her back was against the alley wall. “Aren’t you?”
Bernard’s stomach lurched.
A dangerous man? Yes, he supposed he was—for the right people to fear. Or rather, the wrong people.
But he would never want a woman to look at him with fear in her eyes, never want anyone to think he could hurt them at a moment’s notice.
He was not an iron bar, a blunt instrument waved about by Hovell—wherever he was, damn him—but a blade, a well-sharpened knife that could cut through situations and solve them like unravelable knots.
Which was the sort of thing he could explain to someone who knew his secret. Blast it all, the woman didn’t even know his true name.
He had been Bernard Dixon so long, he even considered himself that way in his own damned head.
So how was he supposed to tell Lucy, a woman who clearly abhorred violence and did everything she could to keep people out of prisons, out of harm…that sometimes one had to fight injustice not with petitions and loud speeches, but with a fist?
“Look,” Bernard said aloud, conscious that the longer his silence went on for, the greater her fear might grow. “These men are French, and so were the two you scared off.”
“Me? I think it was you who scared them,” Lucy said breathlessly, her eyes widening at the knowledge that they were French. “And I’ll get into so much trouble with Mama and Beachem for slipping out without them, but I just… I had a feeling. What were they doing here?”
Looking for me, Bernard could have said.
Which was worrying in and of itself. Why look for him? If they were looking for Hovell, that would suggest that the man was here, in Brighton—but then why hadn’t the rogue been in touch with Bernard?
That was something he could worry about later. Right now, he had to worry about Lucy.
All Bernard wanted to do was pull her into his arms and embrace her, show her that he was safe and that he was safe to be around.
But he forced down that particular instinct. Suddenly rushing at the woman probably wasn’t going to reassure her.
“They were looking for someone—something they thought I knew,” Bernard said heavily, as though he were exhausted.
Which, now that he came to think of it, he was a little.
That knock on the head really hurt. “I don’t know where this man of theirs was, but they didn’t believe me and clearly thought that… Well. Some convincing would help.”
He gestured to the iron bar on the ground.
Lucy’s eyes flickered to it but swiftly returned to him. “And so they attacked you?”
“Honestly, they attacked first and asked questions afterward,” Bernard gave with a shrug—and a wince. Dear Lord, that hurt.
“You’re injured.”
“I’m fine,” he said reflexively. Never admit weakness. Never admit injury.
But Lucy was stepping toward him now, hands outstretched, and it was so exactly what he had wanted that for a moment, Bernard lost his head and outstretched his arms…
Lucy batted away his hands and placed one of her own on his shoulder. “Does it hurt? They didn’t—didn’t knife you in the back, or anything, the rogues?”
Bernard stifled a laugh. Of course, for Lucy, this was all very storybook. It was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. For him… Well. He’d enjoyed the quiet at the Lindow townhouse for more than one reason.
“No, no knives,” he said quietly. “A few fists, an iron bar, but that was it.”
“You’re bleeding,” Lucy said matter-of-factly as she stepped around him.
Bernard turned instinctively, which was nonsensical. He couldn’t see on the back of his head. “Where?”
“You dolt, hold still—there. You feel it?”
He could feel it now. That was, he could feel where Lucy’s gentle fingers were slightly pressing on the back of his head on the right.
Damn the man. That iron bar had clearly cut the skin. That was another scar to add to the ever-expanding list.
“Come on, let’s get you home,” Lucy said decidedly, slipping her hand around his arm and tugging him forward. “We need to get you cleaned up. That looks nasty.”
It did not hurt, or perhaps Bernard could no longer feel pain. Not with Lucy pressed up against his side, her hand in his arm, her presence a balm he had never reveled in before.
Perhaps he was delirious. Perhaps he had been hit on the head harder than he had thought, for before he could stop himself, words were pouring from his lips.
“You’re lovely, you know?”
“Yes,” said Lucy, her cheeks pinking as they left the alleyway and turned onto the street.