Desire Wears Diamonds (7 page)

He jolted upright as the very object of his
daydreams suddenly come out of the side ally in a plain brown day
dress holding a small basket, as if slipping out to do some
shopping. She looked even prettier than he remembered. She would be
about twenty-four years of age. At thirty-one, she made him feel
ancient.

She should be married with a house of her
own.

She was overworked, as far as Michael could
see. The same grocer who’d gossiped about Sterling’s mysterious
illness had also shared his opinions about the “lady of the house”
as well as the Porter’s cook. Mrs. Dorsett was not liked in the
neighborhood and unpopular with the tradesmen for her sharp tongue
and haughty manners. But Miss Porter was the subject of great
speculation. She’d been seen scrubbing the front steps and doing
the work of a scullery maid, but her gentle manners and ladylike
demeanor were much admired on Baker Street. “Never a cross word!
Remembered my little one was ill and made a lovely dolly for her
with a lace and satin dress,” the grocer had stated. “She still has
it, sir! Tattered now but as precious as gold to my sweet
girl.”

Michael watched Grace for a few seconds and
something about her manner caught his eye. She looked guiltily over
her shoulder back at the house before adjusting her bonnet to
shield more of her face.

Where are you off to, Miss Porter? And why
so worried that someone will see you?

He pushed forward and adjusted his own coat.
If she were walking a short way, then the carriage trailing her
would be obvious, but if she hired a cab and he was on foot, he
could lose her. Michael took a deep breath and decided to split the
difference. He waited until she was away and then he climbed out of
the carriage, quickly ordering the coachman to follow at a discreet
distance.

As she moved through the city it was hard
not to speculate on her destination. They passed the grocer’s
markets and the streets with the ladies’ shops closest to her home.
If she meant to pick up something ordinarily on a woman’s list,
Michael was fairly certain there was no need to look so guilty.

Did the quiet and reserved Miss Porter have
a lover?

An unexpected wrinkle, but nothing to spoil
our plans.

He ignored an odd bubble of irritation at
the idea of Grace Porter meeting a man for a clandestine or heated
exchange. It was an irrational reaction and Michael pushed it away.
After all, what did he care if she had a dozen secret lovers?

Still, Michael wasn’t going to leave
anything to chance. Whatever her business, he didn’t want to allow
any blind spots to complicate matters. She might be running an
errand for the Jackal.

He kept out of her sight, grateful for the
natural shield of a lady’s bonnet that interfered with Grace’s
peripheral vision. But Michael began to close the distance as the
turns she took led them away from the more polished streets and
avenues of the city and more toward the poorer end of the city.
Jackal’s sister or no, Michael was not going to allow anything to
happen to a woman alone.

He watched with some trepidation as the
pedestrian trade looked rougher and rougher as she went. Her pace
was determined and unflagging so he disregarded the notion that she
might be lost.

He’d have slowed to add to the buffer
between them when the sidewalk narrowed but he didn’t like the way
one of the street urchins began to mirror her steps. He adjusted
the buttons of his own coat and changed his course to parallel the
young boy. Her basket had the thief’s complete attention so it was
fairly easy to form a plan. He would trip the boy and then duck
into the next alley to ensure that if she turned around there’d be
nothing to alarm her. But when he saw the flash of a sharp blade in
the boy’s hand, his instincts were alerted to the danger and
Michael reacted only as a protector.

He grabbed the boy’s wrist and lifted him
with a twist that demanded that he either drop the knife or forfeit
the bones in his arm.

The boy kicked out with his thin little
legs, his dirty face highlighted by wide eyes as he experienced
unplanned flight. The knife fell away and Michael noted that it was
an expensive weapon, engraved in silver with a shaped ivory
handle—probably a prize from a gentleman’s boot.

“Heave off,” he whispered. “I’m not going to
hurt you, you little snipe.”

The boy was disarmed and diverted, and
Michael was about to just let him go but instead of surrendering
the child transformed into a hellcat of teeth and claws.

“Oy!” the boy screamed. “Get off it!”

It would have been laughable except the
boy’s boot squarely connected with Michael’s testicles and
everything imploded in a white shattering pain that felt as if
someone had hammered iron spikes into his hip bones and up into his
spinal cord. His hands went numb and he released his charge who did
him no favors by crashing into Grace as she was starting to turn
around at all the commotion.

Cunning little animal!

Mortified to be seen, he was powerless to do
little more than watch as her basket was upended and sheets of
paper flew up around her to be blown into the street. Grace
screamed and then did the most surprising thing of all and
something he would never have anticipated.

She blindly dove after the chaotic flurry of
parchment into the street, and for Michael everything slowed. He
last thing he remembered was the sound of an approaching carriage
as he lunged to grab her coat and yank her backward.

Only to lose his footing and then the world
was all horse’s hooves and carriage wheels.

And darkness. And one last thought…

There you have it. Getting hit by a carriage
doesn’t even come close to taking a shot between the legs.

Lesson learned.

CHAPTER FIVE

Grace squeaked as someone grabbed her firmly
from behind by her collar and yanked her off her feet. But as her
backside connected with the dirty sidewalk, her squeak became a
scream as her rescuer slipped and took her place and the phaeton’s
back wheel struck him down. She heard the sound of the driver’s
whip driving the horses on and in numb horror realized that the
carriage’s handler had no intention of stopping to see who he’d
murdered.

She lurched forward again, to wave off the
next carriage and prevent her good Samaritan from being struck
again. She knelt next to him and gasped in surprise.

It’s Mr. Rutherford! My god! There’s a way
to surprise Sterling with a reunion! I’ve caused his friend to be
injured and…I’ll be caught out for sure!

Another bystander stepped down to help her
pull her savior from the muddy street and onto the sidewalk, but
got nowhere for her hero was a bit heavier than the average bloke.
“Please!” she pleaded to another group of gentlemen passing along.
“Please help me to move him!”

They complied, a bit reluctantly, but Grace
ignored their lack of manners, openly grateful for their charity.
It took three men to lift him and she guiltily scrambled behind
them to pick up what pages she could while they achieved the
pitiful sanctuary of the cobbled stone walkway and dropped their
unconscious burden.

“He’s probably done for, if you ask me,
miss.” One of the men said as he placed a white silk handkerchief
under his nose. “Unless you know him, I’d say brush off your skirts
and clear off!”

Grace stood, glaring at the man. “Feel free
to apply that wisdom to yourself, sir! Brush off your skirts and be
on your way!” She shoved the muddy pages into her basket and knelt
anxiously at Michael’s side, paying no further attention to the
insulted men who withdrew with growls about insolent women and
suicidal fools. “Mr. Rutherford,” she said softly. There was a
small trickle of blood from a cut at his hairline and at the sight
of it, terror crystallized inside her chest.

Oh, god. He did this saving me and I was—I
was blindly chasing after a chapter about a band of cursed pirates
and undead mermen!

“Mr. Rutherford,” she tried again,
tentatively patting his cheek to try to rouse him. “Sir?”

“Shall I send for help, miss?” a woman
stopped to ask. “Is he dead?”

“No! I mean, I don’t…” She sat up a bit
straighter and prayed he wasn’t. “I need a cab.”

“I’ll hail one for you,” the woman offered
and left Grace to attend to her charge.

“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll get you to a
hospital and all will be well,” she told him softly. Mr. Rutherford
opened his eyes at that exact moment and made her yelp in surprise
yet again. “Mr. Rutherford!”

“No hospitals,” he said calmly. “I am
perfectly fine.”

Grace pressed a hand against her forehead,
relief making her dizzy for a moment. “No offense, Mr. Rutherford,
but men who’ve been struck by carriages do not get to argue that
they are in perfect health. At least, not while they are lying on
their backs outside of a tobacco shop.”

He lifted his head, a groan slipping past
his teeth and proving her point. “Then I’ll sit up.”

“Please, sir.” She held his arm, helping him
up as best she could. “Perhaps I should not have staked my argument
on your…physical position.”

“Cab, miss?” the driver called down from his
perch, having stopped at the hail.

“Yes!” she said, just as Mr. Rutherford was
barking, “No!”

Grace looked up at him and might have been
swayed, but the small trickle of blood on his head became a rivulet
that trailed down the side of his face. “Yes. We are most
definitely in need of a carriage.”

“I am
not
going to a hospital, Miss
Porter.”

“Then accompany me home and you can take the
carriage wherever you’d like afterward.” She’d have said anything
to get him inside the cab, a vague plan coalescing inside her head
about convincing him to see reason once he was off his feet.

Several pedestrians moved past them and
Grace held her breath.

“Fine. We’ll get you home safely,” he
conceded then looked up at the driver. “The lady will give you her
address and then we’ll go on from there.”

The driver touched his hat with an odd
smile. “As you wish, sir.”

The driver helped Mr. Rutherford to his feet
and Grace gathered up her basket to stand next to them, only to be
bemused as she realized that Mr. Rutherford was holding his hand
out to her to act the gentleman and help her inside the waiting
cab. As if it were perfectly normal for bruised and bleeding men to
adhere to social courtesies.

She eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not going
to bolt once I’m wedged in there with my skirts, are you?”

His jaw tightened, but his expression was
hard to interpret. “On my honor, I won’t make a run for it.”

Grace took his hand and climbed up then true
to his word, he followed her. If she’d been cavalier about the
man’s physical size and presence before; there was no escaping his
dimensions now. The springs on the carriage protested a bit as he
shakily ascended into a space that was meant to hold only two
passengers and inserted himself as carefully as he could onto the
seat next to her.

There was not an inch to spare. He made a
great effort not to infringe on her skirts or her person, but it
was in vain. By the time he landed, the length of his thigh was
harbored up against hers, the outside of his hip touching hers and
only by twisting his upper torso at great cost to his comfort did
he avoid practically taking her into his arms.

Layers of crinoline and petticoats did
little to shield her from the heat of his flesh and even with his
hands politely holding the handle and door frame to keep his weight
from shifting against her, it was a delightful crush.

In countless stories, she’d written of great
passion or unrequited love, all fueled by her own guess at the
subject since she’d never so much as held hands with a man she
wasn’t related to and only once witnessed an impolite kiss between
her father’s assistant and a farmer’s daughter behind the market
wall. It was all supposition and borrowed descriptions from ladies
magazines and books; with a salacious dash of what she hoped was a
man’s frankness if he had explored the fictional world of the
dreadfuls.

But there was nothing fictional about the
erratic beating of her heart and the curl of an electric spiral of
tension coming to life between her hip bones arcing all the way up
to the crown of her head. “Well!” she exclaimed, aware that she was
three shades of pink at the discovery of the wicked confines of a
hackney cab when shared with Mr. Rutherford.

“Well?” he asked.

“I’d say the odds of a quick escape are
beyond us both now.” She started to laugh and then covered her
mouth with a gloved hand, mortified. “I’m so sorry! That was
terribly forward!”

“You did say that you tend to speak your
mind,” he said. He pounded a fist on the roof to signal the driver
to move off. “Nothing rude in that, Miss Porter. If you ask me,
it’s a charming weapon that disarms more than it wounds.” He
averted his face and watched the traffic as it passed.

Grace’s mouth fell open at the compliment,
stunned into a brief silence—but only briefly before curiosity
reasserted itself. “I should thank you, Mr. Rutherford, for
stopping me from…falling.”

“It was instinct, Miss Porter. I’m only
wishing I hadn’t tripped over my own feet in the attempt.”

“I still can’t believe you were there.” She
looked away from him, nervously.
Does he wonder why I was there?
He’s a friend of my brother’s and if he mentions it to Sterling
when he sees him…God help me, it’s a tangle.

“May I ask you to tell me?” he asked.

“Tell you what?”

“I know what
I
was trying to save
when I fell into the street. But what were you trying to save, Miss
Porter?”

Grace’s grip on the seat tightened. “I…would
rather not say, Mr. Rutherford.”