Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(77)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Sinclair put his hand under her chin, his fingers ice-cold, and kissed her lips again. “When you get outside, you run. Find Hart’s man. He’ll look after you.”

Fear slashed through her. “I’m not leaving you!”

Sinclair shook his head. “You have to, love. I can’t move faster than a snail right now—a very slow snail.”

“Then we’ll be slow together. Two is better than one. I’m not a precious lady who won’t dare soil her lily-white hands—I know how to kick and fight with the best of them.”

Sinclair slanted her a look as he put his arm around her shoulders and leaned his weight on her. “Are you sure you’re not Scottish?”

“No. But I’m Cockney, and we’re pretty tough.”

“You are, bless you.” Sinclair kissed her on her cheek, which sent her hat sliding again.

Bertie righted it as she helped him down the hall. There was a door at the end, a large thing, bolted shut, but the bolts were fairly new, and a key rested in the lock. Bertie slid the bolts back, turned the key, and pulled open the door. Sinclair smiled grimly at her as they stumbled over the threshold, back into the unwelcoming streets.

Chapter 27

Plenty of people were about, as well as carts, horses, and hawkers. The night had gone dark and icy cold. Lights flashed from carried lanterns, or trickled dimly from windows and lamps along the main street.

“This way,” Bertie said.

Sinclair leaned on her, having no idea where she was leading him, but he trusted her. He knew he’d fall over and expire before too long—Bertie was the only thing holding him up. She had more courage than any soldier he’d ever known, and a caring that left no one behind.

The cold was brutal. Snow started to fall as they staggered along, ice under their boots. Sinclair’s wound had ceased hurting, which he took to be a bad sign.

“There!” Sinclair heard a man shout.

“Hell and damnation,” Sinclair said. “Bertie, go.”

Bertie gave him an anguished look, but she propped him up against a wall and gave him a nod. Tears wet her eyes, but she understood. Things were different out here—plenty of people surrounded them. The thugs would have to gamble that someone on the street wouldn’t come to Sinclair’s aid, or Bertie’s, while she raced to find Richards and Hart’s pugilist.

Another shout went up, but this one the denizens on the streets responded to. “Fire!”

Smoke billowed from the passage that led to Bertie’s cellar. The walls and floor in there were all stone and plaster, without much to burn, but the wall of smoke was thick, the stench strong.

One thing that could pull Londoners together was fire—even the smallest blaze carried the danger of destroying half the city. The great fire of London two hundred years ago had started not far from here, in fact. Devlin and his men got shoved aside, as people began shouting for buckets and the fire brigade.

Sinclair watched Bertie’s gray feathered hat disappear into the throng. She could move, sliding through the crowd, in and out of openings no one else saw. He remembered watching her hat bob along like that the night he’d first seen her, as she disappeared after picking over her mark. Sinclair’s heart swelled. His brave, strong, street-smart lady would outwit them all.

Devlin was coming for him, as was James, still standing, though he moved unsteadily. James was truly a bastard. He’d coerced Daisy all those years ago, stealing away a spirited young woman and breaking her into tiny fragments. Sinclair thanked God he’d been able to rescue her from him. Now James wanted vengeance for that rescue, ready to hurt innocent Bertie and Sinclair’s children to get it.

Thoughts of Cat and Andrew, waiting at home under Mrs. Hill’s care, galvanized him. Sinclair had asked Fellows to make sure constables watched his home, so if anyone tried to slip in while he was gone, they’d be routed.

Sinclair knew now that he’d live. He’d see his children again, he’d bring Bertie home to stay, and James would lose. Again. The man was doomed to lose in the end, because his entire life was a lie. Truth, even ugly truth, always won.

Shrill bells rang as the fire brigade and their terrifyingly large wagon and horses charged down the street. Devlin leapt out of its way just in time, becoming separated from his thugs. Sinclair used the opportunity to stagger down the street, caught up in the crowd like a piece of flotsam.

When he drifted to a halt again, he saw Devlin look around then throw up his hands in disgust. Devlin signaled to his henchmen, and they all disappeared down the street, toward the river and more darkness.

James spotted Sinclair. He came at him, his handsome face smeared with blood, soot, and grime, his eyes full of crazed anger. James knew his hired thugs had left him stranded, but it was apparent he didn’t care.

He rushed Sinclair, his knife flashing in the glare of lamplight. “Fucking Scottish pig,” he said, and struck.

Sinclair had one bullet left in his gun. He fired.

James’s body jerked, but his anger didn’t fade. The knife came down, and Sinclair dove wildly out of its way. The blow went slack as James fell, his body crumbling to a heap on the street. The crowd, rushing with buckets toward the fire, leapt over him or stepped right on him, never noticing.

Sinclair managed to drop his pistol back into his pocket before his knees folded, and he slid to the ground next to James. He protected his head with his arms, but he’d be trampled, just like James, nothing left but pale flesh ground into the mud.

He couldn’t see whether James was dead or alive. Blood flowed from the wound Sinclair’s Webley had made, and James didn’t move.

More people rushed past, bumping and buffeting Sinclair, all too worried about the fire to stop and find out if he was well. Didn’t even take the time to try to rob him, Sinclair thought with ironic humor. He was losing strength again, the pain of the wound returning. He was wrong—feeling the pain was worse. It made his head buzz, and the city recede again, taking Bertie with it.

“Sir!” Harsh light flashed into Sinclair’s face, and a strong hand caught him under the arm.

Sinclair groaned and looked up into the sky-blue eyes of Macaulay, the ghillie come to rescue his laird. Macaulay’s freckled face and red hair seemed a long way up, and Sinclair understood now how Andrew felt when he looked up at the giant of a man.

Another warmth came to Sinclair’s other side. Bertie. She regarded him anxiously with her violet blue eyes. Her hat was straight on her head again, but her nose was covered in soot, which made him want to laugh.