Chapter 9
Lizzie paused in front of the alley and looked up and down the street.
It was extremely dangerous for her to be out so far past dark, and the little knife in her pocket didn’t seem as comforting to her as it did during the day.
The closest light seemed miles away, not a soul in sight, and the shadowy depths of the alley seemed to go on forever.
If she had to go down it, she decided she’d rather just go back to the house and await further instructions.
No information about getting home could lure her into that smelly passage.
She turned to leave, so spooked she was about to break into a run, when a skinny man stepped from the alley.
He stopped a respectful distance from her and nodded a greeting.
She took a step away. He wasn’t much taller than her, and he looked sickly, pale and angular in the moonlight.
One of his buggy eyes twitched at her and he swept his black knit hat off his head and clutched it to his chest. His clothes weren’t right at all, and against her better judgment she leaned in to get a closer look.
He wore an oversized tuxedo jacket over a ragged sweater, which was jammed bulkily under a striped waistcoat, the only thing that could have remotely been from this time.
On his lower half, it looked like he had on tight fitting jeans tucked into motorcycle boots.
All the air left her lungs in a shocked wheeze.
“Who are you?” she gasped.
He smiled and slapped his hat back on, then dug in his jacket pocket to produce a card. “Solomon Wodge,” he said, surprising her further by sounding like a posh Cambridge professor. “My calling card.”
She took the card, and unable to read it in the dark, tucked it into her sleeve. “When are you from?” she hissed.
“Whenever I want,” he said, staring at her disconcertingly.
Frustrated and feeling the edges of fear, she clenched her fists at her sides. “Why did you want me to meet you here? Is there a new message from Lord Ashford? Is he still going to be able to make it?”
Wodge’s hand snaked forward and grabbed her wrist, jerking her into the dark opening of the alley. “When is he coming?” he demanded. “Are you in league with the witches?”
She was good and scared now and shook her head. “What? Witches?”
A part of her wanted answers from this man who clearly came from another time, and a part of her wanted to kick him and run. Though he wasn’t much bigger than her, he was wiry and strong and his fingers dug painfully into her wrist.
“Tell me when Lord Ashford arrives,” he said slowly, narrowing one eye at her.
“I don’t know,” she lied.
He shook his head and her skin crawled as she realized he didn’t believe her. “In league with the witches,” he said sadly, pulling out a knife.
Almost blinded by her terror, positive she was about to be murdered in eighteenth century London, she wrenched her wrist out of his grasp and kneed him in the groin.
It knocked him back a half step, but because of her weighty skirts, didn’t damage him enough to keep him from advancing toward her again, knife extended.
Screaming wasn’t an option. She knew no one would come to her aid, not here.
A knife fight with this madman didn’t seem like a smart idea.
Really, why had she ever thought her tiny blade would keep her safe?
She turned to run and heard a crack and a thud, then was being smothered in a wall of… plaid?
“It’s me, lass. Ye’re safe now.”
She shoved away from Quinn and leaned over, trying to catch her breath and quaking with the adrenaline rush of nearly being killed. Wodge lay in a heap in the mouth of the alley, blood gushing out of his nose.
“Did you follow me?” she asked, turning to Quinn.
“Well, aye,” he said. “And a good thing, dinna ye think?” He took her arm and led her away at a brisk pace, not slowing until they were several blocks away from the scene of the crime.
“Did you kill him?” she asked, more curious than concerned for Wodge’s welfare.
“I dinna think so, just hit him in the face rather hard.”
“Er, thank you for that,” she said.
They walked on in silence and were close to the Amberly’s townhouse before her breathing returned to normal, her heart slowed its frantic beating.
Quinn had kept a light, reassuring hand on her arm the entire way and she swallowed hard and looked up at him.
His profile was stark in the moonlit night, his brow furrowed and lips set.
“I suppose you want to know what that was about,” she said awkwardly.
He glanced down at her. “Do ye want to tell me what it was about?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“That’s as well, then, as we’re home now.”
She sighed with relief as they made their way stealthily around to the back entrance. The cook let them in and Lizzie knew she’d have to work a combination of bribery and threats to ensure her silence as they made their way past her interested gaze. Quinn paused at the doorway of the library.
“Lady Amberly has offered me free range of her fine whisky whenever I like. I shall bid ye goodnight, Miss Burnet.”
“You’re going to have a drink?” Lizzie asked.
“I am going to get drunk,” he corrected, opening the door.
She paused for a second, watching him lower himself into one of the armchairs and reach for a bottle and glass.
To hell with it, she thought, following him in. She’d never get to sleep. A drink would help to shake off the effects of the disturbing attack. And Quinn’s presence had been so comforting, she didn’t want to leave him yet.
“Better pour me one, too,” she said, falling into the chair opposite him and returning his delighted grin.
***
Quinn was a little tipsy when they left the party, and his first and most pressing plan of action was to get roaring drunk so he could forget about the news from home.
Lizzie’s lack of stealth as she’d made her way down the hallway piqued his curiosity and he’d watched from the library window as she slunk away into the night, clearly in a hurry.
So the message she received before the party had been an assignation, he surmised.
He felt mildly embarrassed at finding himself jealous of whomever she was meeting, and the jealousy simmered into a bubbling need to see who it was.
Who could cause the prim and proper Miss Burnet to sneak out in the wee hours?
Being in the sort of mood to cause some trouble, and glad to have something to distract him from having to make a decision about his problems at home, he’d followed her.
He caught up with her just as the madman lunged toward her. Quinn acted without thinking, grateful Lizzie had fought, giving him enough time to cover the distance between them from where he’d been.
Now he knocked back a healthy swallow of quite good whisky, raising an eyebrow of begrudging respect when she did the same and slid her glass over to him for a refill.
He knew she was badly shaken, and he should have really seen her safely to her room before starting his debauchery.
He found he didn’t give a good damn about what he should do, and splashed some more alcohol into her glass.
“Why were you following me?” she asked, taking several long gulps. She eyed him over her nearly empty glass. “Mind you, I’m glad you did.”
She set the glass on the desk and he refilled it, taking a swallow of his own drink. He decided not to answer her, not about to admit he’d been jealous, and definitely not about to admit that he found her fascinating.
“Why was that odd wee man trying to kill ye?” he countered instead.
She sighed and lifted her shoulders, letting them drop on a weary exhale. He nudged her refilled glass closer to her hand and she took another drink. “I honestly don’t know,” she said with a sad laugh. She looked at him a bit fearfully. “Did you hear what he said to me? Before he attacked?”
Quinn shook his head. “I didna hear any of it, only saw him rush at ye. I didna even see he had a knife until I’d already dropped him.”
“Well, thank you for being overly cautious,” she said, finishing off another glass and shoving it toward him for a refill.
He wasn’t sure she ought to have any more, she’d had an awful shock, so compromised by pouring it half full. She gave him a dirty look and reached for it, missing. Her hand hit the desk and she giggled, but quickly stifled it.
“Are ye all right?” he asked. Her shoulders hunched forward and she wavered in the chair. He took her half empty glass and pushed it aside. “Ye’re already drunk.”
“I didn’t eat dinner,” she explained.
“Whyever not?” he asked.
“Corset,” she said and hiccuped.
“Ah well, this has been verra nice,” he said, standing up. He put his hands under her arms and lifted her easily out of the chair. “I’ll help ye upstairs now, ye wee sot.”
She rested her body weight against him, pressing her palms to his chest and sighing deeply, like she was glad to be there, and his body tensed. He let his hands travel down her sides to rest at her waist. She wasn’t wearing a corset now and he liked the way she felt under his fingers.
The news that reached him that afternoon intruded on his thoughts.
There was trouble at the farm, his people needed answers from him.
They wanted him to come home and settle some nonsensical dispute.
His most trusted advisor and friend admonished him that he never should have gone to England in the first place.
As if he could have let Catie come down here alone.
Yes, Lachlan would have done it. It was all he heard, in his own head, as well as from his clan, what bloody Lachlan would do in his place.
But where was big brother now? Gallivanting in the future, leaving him to deal with all this.
And Quinn couldn’t look at sweet Catie’s tear-filled eyes when she learned she would be visiting England and not offer to go with her.
But now she had a lovely aunt who clearly cared for her, and Miss Burnet…