Chapter 9
Bull didn’t even bother to maintain a polite fiction as he wrenched Rosie’s coat from the butler, scowling at the older man as he helped bundle her up—but the servant was obviously used to such rudeness, and merely held out Bull’s overcoat and hat.
“Give that to me,” Rosie commanded softly, taking the briefcase so Bull could shove his arms through his sleeves with abrupt movements. “Perhaps we can convince Lord Tittle-Tattle to tell us—”
“He’s only interested in yer father, sweetheart,” Bull growled, ramming his hat onto his head. “Well, fook him. Ye’re the one he ought to be flattering for patronage; ye’re the one with the talent and the skill.”
When he offered Rosie his arm, it was to see her staring up at him with something in her green eyes he didn’t recognize. Something like…a sad sort of appreciation.
Huh.
He patted her hand, where it rested on his arm…but instead of the movement being a brisk reassurance for the benefit of the role they were playing, he found his fingers curling over hers. Gently. Apologetically. Comfortingly.
Her lips twisted wryly, and she exhaled.
Was this part of the role she played, or was he seeing Rosie’s real emotions?
And what were his true reactions?
“Come on, love,” he murmured as he led her out the front door. “I should no’ have sent away that hired hack.”
It had dropped a few degrees as the sun set, and he felt her shiver on the front step. “We are going to have to walk to the road,” she warned him, “to find a cab.”
“Aye, but at least the scenery will be lovely.”
Rosie looked at the river they were striding beside, then nodded. “You are right.” But when she glanced back up at him, Bull was still staring down at her. Only then did she realize she was the lovely scenery he’d meant.
Her cheeks bloomed a lovely pink, as pink as the roses in her mother’s garden for which she was named.
For some reason, her reaction made him feel…better. The Lord Tittle-Tattle lead had been a bust, but all was not lost. They would take Allie’s painting to Endymion, avoid being torn apart by Rosie’s father, and Rosie’s mother could help them identify the subject. They weren’t done yet.
Bull tucked her arm closer, pulling it against the warmth of his body, and nodded firmly. “It’ll be all right, lass. I promise.”
Her inhale was shaky, but she managed a smile. Rosie was just opening her mouth to respond…when a new voice interrupted them.
“Stop right there.”
Cursing himself for his distraction—really, they were walking down a deserted lane, for fook’s sake!—Bull was already moving into a defensive pose when he looked up to see the masked man who’d just stepped out from behind a tree near the river. The bastard was holding a gun.
Robbery? Here?
A sense of calm settled over him as Bull instinctively stepped in front of Rosie, releasing her arm so both of his were free, shaking out his fingers to be ready for a fight.
His gaze darted about, checking angles and options.
He didn’t carry a gun, never had, but he had two blades on him, and past experience had taught him he could make the throw from this distance if need be…
“Come over here,” the man growled, gesturing toward the shadows with the gun. “Now.”
Right. Well. Here we go.
With a mocking sort of grin, Bull used his arm to push Rosie behind him as he moved cautiously toward the man. “Highwaymen are choosing strange sorts of places for an ambush these days.”
To his surprise, it was Rosie who quipped, “This is more like a quaint small-town lane.”
Bull snorted. “Lane-robbery doesnae really work, love. Highway robbery. Highwayman.” He eyed the bastard. “Quaint-small-town-lane-man doesnae have the same ring, unless he’s going to rob us of only a few crowns. Which he’ll be lucky to get.”
But the other man hadn’t been distracted by their banter, turning slightly to keep Bull covered with his gun. “I’m not after your money,” he growled. “Give me the painting.”
Ah.
Come to think of it, this arsehole matched the build of the masked man who’d robbed the National Gallery of Art. Bull slowly straightened, his hands falling to his side, wondering if he’d be able to pull a knife in time.
Meanwhile, he needed to keep the thief distracted. “I dinnae have it.”
“Bullshit,” the man growled.
But Bull interrupted with a nod. “Aye, that’s what they call me.”
Behind him, Rosie made a little noise which might’ve been a huff of laughter. Apparently she’d also heard where he’d earned his lifelong nickname. Bull was just pleased she wasn’t panicking, or gripping onto him or some other way restricting his movements.
He needed to keep his attention on the gunman, who now commanded, “Give me the painting.” The revolver didn’t waver.
Bull shifted again, making sure he was covering more of Rosie, trying to hide the fact she was still holding the briefcase containing the painting—which was why he wanted to curse when she drew the man’s attention by speaking.
“Lord Tittle-Tattle was not willing to sell it to us,” she said in the most innocent of voices. “Perhaps if you asked him, with your big scary revolver, he might sell it to you?”
Bull was furious she was drawing the thief’s attention, so why in the fook was he struggling to keep from smiling at her audacity?
By this time he’d moved the two of them to the side of the lane, a dozen feet from the bastard who was standing near the snowy bank of the river.
Vaguely, Bull noted the footprints in the snow, knowing he could return in the daylight and try to find some clues as to the man’s identity—as long as they weren’t in for more snow.
But the masked man shook his head and stepped closer. “I don’t care about his paintings. I want the one you’ve been carrying about.”
Huh. The blighter knew Lord Tittle-Tattle had more than one of the ruby-necklace paintings? Why the hell were these things suddenly so popular? Lord Tittle-Tattle’s had been purchased, so had Madam Desiree’s, and the one stolen from the museum, and Allie—
“Are ye the blackmailer, then?” Bull mused mildly, as if it weren’t that intriguing a quandary.
As if he weren’t standing here in the snow with his arms out, legs flexed, staring down the barrel of a gun to protect the woman he—the woman he was currently responsible for.
Fook. “Are ye the thief from the Gallery? Are ye the one who threatened Miss Hawthorne with social ruin?”
The man snorted. “She was never in real danger. Unlike you, if you don’t turn that painting over to me!”
“I told ye, I dinnae have it,” Bull said mildly, holding his arms out farther to prove the truth.
The thief stared at him a moment too long to be comfortable, then did something unexpected; he shifted his aim. Away from Bull. Toward Rosie.
“Then she must have it. Give me the portrait.”
And Bull saw red.
In that moment, he knew—he knew the bastard wouldn’t live through this. The bounder couldn’t threaten Bull’s woman and expect Bull to cooperate.
As the thief lifted the gun, shifting his aim so Rosie was more at risk, Bull acted without thinking.
Like his namesake he lowered his head, spread his arms, and lunged forward with a wordless roar of instinctive rage, expecting with every heartbeat to hear the loud retort of the gun, to feel the bullet carving into his flesh.
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, and it would be worth it to know that Rosie was safe.
But it never came. Time sped up again as Bull slammed into the other man. Only then, when they were both flying backward, did the man pull the trigger, and the gun clicked as the hammer slammed into an empty chamber.
It hadnae been loaded?
He had just enough time to wonder if the next chamber contained a round before the pair of them hit the snow hard, knocking all breath from Bull’s lungs.
Without consciously commanding them to do so, his fingers delved into the bastard’s pocket, the ancient skill instinctual in his quest to learn more about his enemy.
His gloves made the technique clumsy, but his fingers closed around a piece of paper.
Bull was already tensing to roll, to push himself upright so he could slam his fist into the other man’s throat and kick the gun from his hand—
When the ice of the frozen river gave way beneath them.
Fook.
Bull had just enough time to suck in a lungful of air, and crush the paper in his fist, as the pair of them plunged into the icy flow of water beneath.
The masked man fought him in the icy darkness and Bull did his best to grab for the man’s hands to prevent him from escaping underwater.
He rolled and thrust the bastard toward the ice above them, cracking it… before being swept downstream again.
By this time, the adrenaline was seeping from his system and the cold was seeping in.
Air—he needed air, but all around him was freezing death.
Bull could feel his movements turning sluggish, and in one last-ditch effort, he drew up his knees beneath the heavy overcoat and kicked the other man in the stomach, thrusting them apart.
The move unfortunately caused Bull to roll, and he spent a few frantic moments trying to determine which was up in the arctic blackness. Fooking hell, it was cold. His boots were too heavy, and the overcoat was now dragging at his limbs. Shite, even his gloves were making it difficult to swim…
Gloves.
He was wearing gloves. Gloves holding…paper?
Rosie was wearing gloves. Rosie, up there with the painting, probably worried about him. She was wearing gloves, and a ring. What ring? His ring? Why did the ring matter? Why did Rosie matter?
Nay, she matters.
Bull floated down the frigid river of nothingness, his limbs heavy and useless, his lungs screaming for air as he was battered by the bank and the shelf of ice above, and he thought of Rosie.
Rosie.
His rose.
She mattered. She mattered, and she was waiting for him.
Mustering the last of his strength, Bull curled his fingers into a tighter fist around the paper and slammed them upward into the ice.