Chapter Twenty
Purring contentedly, Zigzag rubbed against Edward’s leg. He reached down and scratched between her ears as she nuzzled her nose into his calf. At least one of the females in his kitchen was happy.
Unfortunately, Franny sat across from him, staring at the plate of honey cakes, her skin so pale, she looked almost green. Truth be told, their evening had also soured his stomach.
Her teary, red-rimmed eyes were partially his fault. Franny was a bold woman trying to discover who was targeting her. He was a lawman who knew better than to ask about a criminal in a crowded tavern.
“You are safe here,” he promised. “The men chasing us didn’t seem to know who we were.
” Which begged the question, Why? Was this because these reprobates had nothing to do with the attacks on Franny’s gymnasium and loved ones, or because they hadn’t seen their faces in the dark?
Once they’d finally hailed a hackney, he’d studied their surroundings.
He was certain they were no longer being followed.
She swiped at her tears, instantly composing herself. “I’m sorry I behaved like a terrified ninny.”
“I thought you were quite courageous,” he sincerely said. “You outran those men, and I have no doubt you can outrun me.” Not to mention, she’d climbed upon those crates as if she had spider legs and then hurtled herself into an empty building as easily as a squirrel changing tree limbs.
She swished her wrist as if her athletic prowess meant nothing. “I was a fool. I’ve been fighting you every step of the way.” She chewed on that same lip he’d recently kissed. “Women are rarely taken seriously. So it makes me defensive. I can also be combative and impulsive.”
With a few honest sentences, he had a glimpse into Franny’s soul. If he were a woman, he would feel the same way. Hell, if he didn’t consciously fight his impulsivity, he was a combative arse of the first order. “Understandable,” he said.
“I made so many blunders today. You see, I didn’t know that by speaking against the younger Mrs. Brown’s husband that I was putting her in danger. I thought I was standing up to a perpetrator and protecting her. I feel like a daft fool.”
“You are not wrong,” Edward said. “She requires people to stand up for her. But first, we must get her far away from her husband if he is abusing her, which is easier said than done. There are not many places for an abused woman to go.” Edward fought the rush of rage he felt every time he thought about bullies.
However, Franny had suffered enough tonight. She didn’t need to witness one of his fits of temper. He called forth his rational lawman. “Men in positions of power must pave the way. We must make it known that abusing those who are vulnerable is unconscionable.”
Franny tilted her head, regarding him thoughtfully. “Men like you, Nicolas, and Lord Davenport. Even Lord Griffendale, who is the worst rake in all of rakedom, is outspoken about caring for his fellow humans.”
“Yes.” Edward didn’t have as much power as an aristocrat, but he did possess a certain amount of privilege that he never took for granted.
“And someone like the vicar could preach kindness and female equality in his sermons,” Franny said.
“True. He could do a lot. People tend to listen to their religious leaders.”
“ ’Tis a lot to think about,” she said. “When dealing with the underbelly of society, how do you stay positive?”
“I suppose this is my calling. And on the days I question humanity, Zigzag and Mrs. Benson are here for me.”
Franny’s nose wrinkled. “Does Mrs. Benson look like Lady Milton?”
Was she jealous of his motherly landlady? If so, it was rather flattering, and it might be fun to taunt her after everything she’d put him through.
Maybe another time, he decided. For now, she needed to feel safe. To relax. To sleep. Unfortunately, this meant he could not carry her from his kitchen, toss her onto his bed, and finish what they’d started in the middle of the street.
Thunderation, how was he to spend the night under the same roof with her and not touch her feminine curves?
Kiss her full lips? Taunt her nipples? Play in her decadent cunny curls?
Taste the sweet cream between her thighs?
Suddenly, his trousers were too tight. He shifted in his chair to relieve the pressure.
He needed to think about anything but Franny’s kisses and sensual voice whispering his name. Since her last question still hung in the air, his landlady made a perfect conversation topic.
“Mrs. Benson is a delightful woman in her middling years,” he said.
“She has kind blue eyes and cheeks that remind me of apples when she smiles, which is most of the time. When she cooks, she hums. Even though she wears a mobcap, her curls—they are gray in case you are wondering—hang below it and bounce when she moves.” Hopefully, his description had done justice to one of his favorite people.
“Oh, and her most delightful quality is that she smells like a bakery, not a brothel.”
Franny’s snort turned into a chuckle, and her cheeks flamed the same color as her hair. Although he should let her sleep, he didn’t want this intimate time with her to end, and he still needed to thank her for saving his life.
“Thank you for agreeing to fight for Bear,” he said. “I know it pained you to acquiesce. I could see it in your eyes.”
Franny’s gaze dropped to the table, and she frowned.
“Another of my foolish mistakes today. Telling a group of men with questionable ethics that you are employed by the magistrate’s court was unwise.
Obviously, I wasn’t thinking. I wanted to intimidate them.
It was my fault, so I couldn’t let them hurt you. ”
“I know this is not my concern, but seeing as how we seem to be in this muddle together, why don’t you compete anymore?”
Using her index finger, Franny drew circles on the table.
Her knuckles were roughened and a bit too large for her small hands.
Eventually, she looked at him, her expression one of untold grief.
“The last time I competed I knocked my opponent out and it took her so long to recover, I feared I had permanently injured her or mayhap even killed her. She did physically recover but I… well, I never fully healed. Mentally, that is. You see, I am fearful of suffering from a brain injury myself. Isn’t that cowardly?
I can’t fight because I’m afraid I will lose my ability to read, write, and think.
Those are skills my mother gave to me, and… well.”
Brain injuries were not unheard of in boxing.
Brutality went hand in hand with the sweet science.
It was both understandable and heartbreaking that Franny carried guilt and fear on her shoulders.
He wanted to reach for her. Comfort her.
But if he touched her, even innocently, his self-control would snap, and he would drag her to his bed.
“I love boxing. ’Tis part of me,” she said.
“But I think it is the physicality and the lifestyle I enjoy. Actual competition now terrifies me even though a part of me misses it. Josie, on the other hand, loves the glory of being a champion. Once she has a child or two, I suspect she will return to the ring and fight until her old bones insist she retire.”
Franny paused for a long while. Assuming she had more to say, Edward forced himself to exhibit patience as he waited for her to continue.
“Occasionally I miss the excitement and the pride I felt winning,” she finally said. “But I prefer to train others to fight. I believe my true calling is to empower other women and teach them to protect themselves.”
This bold, passionate woman stole his breath. “That is a very noble pursuit, and nothing to be ashamed of.”
“It has been so long since I have competed that I am no longer in peak physical shape. I suppose I must start preparing tomorrow because I have grown quite soft.”
Did she mean her body? Because it was perfect.
All hips and breasts and gentle curves with strong arms and shoulders thrown in for good measure.
He’d been too busy gawking at her cunny to notice her legs when she was flat on her back in her study.
But any woman who could dash across London like she recently had, had to have shapely thighs.
There went his misbehaving cock, smacking at his trousers like a snake flicking its tongue as it peeked out from its hiding place. He willed his uncooperative cobra to behave, which took every bit of discipline he possessed.
If she meant that her personality was soft, she was wrong on that account, too. She was a raging fire one moment, and a simmering flame the next. He wanted nothing more than for her to share his bed. But…
“You can sleep in my bed, I shall take the sofa,” he said.
She shook her head so emphatically that the last strands in her disheveled twist tumbled about her shoulder. “No. I can’t.”
God above, her hair was glorious and would soon be fanned over his pillow. Too bad he would not be there to witness the sight.
He held up his hand to halt her protest. “You are my guest. I insist, and I will not hear another word about it.”
She opened her mouth but then slammed her lips tightly. Her cheeks puffed up with whatever words she wasn’t saying.
“I need to run downstairs for a moment,” he said. “I shall be right back. Mrs. Benson always warms water for me to wash at night. There will be enough that we can both freshen ourselves before bed.”
He pushed his chair away from the table and sauntered from the kitchen.
“Bloody bollocks,” she whispered with a groan.
He suspected he wasn’t meant to hear her. However, her guttural utterance echoed in his mind, and he wholeheartedly agreed with her sentiment.
*