She drew the horses to a stop out of view of anyone who might decide to look up the hill as they rode past, and leapt down with a “Don’t move.”

  When she returned a few minutes later, having lit several lanterns within, hanging one on the west side of the house, in the center upstairs window, Henry hadn’t moved.

  He was still as death.

  So she did the only thing she could think to do. She released the pressure on his wound, then reapplied it, hard. Fast. Enough to wake him with the pain. He groaned at the sting, reaching for it, his hand covering hers. He looked to her, confusion clearing almost instantly . . . almost. Slower than it should in a mind as quick as his.

  “We must get you inside,” she whispered, unable to keep the plea and the worry from her voice. Maybe when they got inside he would slumber again. If he was unconscious when she packed and stitched his wound, it would be better for them both.

  He peered around the darkness. “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  “Are there others here?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t like that. “Then you aren’t safe. Not if I can’t fight.” He tried to stand, but hissed in pain, one hand going straight to his side.

  “I can hold my own. And Danny is taken care of.”

  Anger flooded his gaze. “Stop calling him that.”

  “That’s his name.”

  “I hate that you know it.”

  Of course he did. Adelaide Frampton was not an aristocrat—everyone knew that—but the idea that she might be acquainted with actual criminals . . . It was the first brick of her reputation to fall. How many more would there be? “I’m afraid I am bound to disappoint you, then, Duke.” She injected the words with false bravado as she caught him under the arm. “You need to focus on staying alive; everything else can wait until you’re sewn up.”

  He looked down at her. “Who will do that?”

  She tossed him a bright, false smile. “It’s all part of the service I provide.”

  “Can you sew?”

  “You don’t believe I have been properly trained in the domestic arts?”

  “I have trouble believing that you made time for needlepoint while you were training to be the world’s best pickpocket.”

  She’d learned on knife wounds much like his, as a matter of fact, but she refrained from telling him that. Instead, she said, “I’m afraid, Duke, that picking your pocket does not require much training.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not talking about mine. I saw you pick Havistock’s pocket at the Beaufetheringstone ball.”

  Surprise coursed through her. “You did?”

  “I did,” he said, wincing as she pointed to the wide slab of wood at the center of the kitchen. “I hope it was a great deal of money.”

  It had been a list of factories the marquess owned and in which he was attempting to entice others’ investment, despite the places being filled with children who worked for scraps and too often didn’t survive the harsh conditions. Adelaide had plans for the factories.

  She shook her head, her mind spinning, which was likely why she told him, “It wasn’t money, and you weren’t supposed to notice me. He didn’t. I must not have been fast enough.”

  “You were like lightning,” he said, wincing again as he leaned back onto the table. “I simply have practice noticing you.”

  She ignored the warmth that spread through her at the confession.

  But it was difficult to ignore the words that chased it. The words that spilled out of her mouth. “Don’t die.”

  “I won’t.” He lifted a hand to her cheek, but his fingers barely grazed her skin before they fell back to the table. His eyes slid closed as he added, “You promised me answers to all my questions.”

  Of course he’d heard her in the carriage. Dammit.

  She started to turn away, to fetch the things she would need to work on his wound. But he used the last of his strength to grab her hand and meet her eyes, his gaze clear and firm. “Adelaide.”

  “Yes?”

  “Who will protect you if someone comes?”

  That unfamiliar warmth again. “I’ve spent years protecting myself, Duke. Don’t worry.”

  His dark brows knit together. “You shouldn’t have to.”

  She forced a smile. “You’ve a massive gash in your side and you’re threatening to bleed to death on a kitchen workbench, Your Grace. Now is not the time for courtly love.”

  “When this is over . . .” His words were thinning. Becoming more reedy as he slipped into sleep.

  “Tell me,” she said, suddenly desperate to keep him awake. With her.

  She wasn’t ready to lose him.

  “I should have taken better care of you,” he said, barely, the admission making her chest tight as she stood over him, considering the constellation of wounds he bore for her. The bruises from fighting for her. The scrapes from his carriage accident as he chased after her. The scratches on his shoulder where she’d clawed her pleasure into him.

  Before she could find the words to tell him he had cared better for her than anyone had ever done before, he said, “When I wake . . . I will take better care of you.”

  She sucked in a breath, resisting the words, more tempting than she’d ever admit. Adelaide knew the truth, after all. When this was over, they’d never see each other again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  While he slept, Adelaide fetched boiling water and linens and supplies and stoked the fire in the kitchen hearth. She had just begun cutting his bloody shirt free of his torso when a knock sounded and the door opened, revealing Lucia.

  “I see I did not miss the good part,” Lucia remarked, stepping inside, her gaze on Henry’s supine body as Adelaide pushed his shirt to the side, revealing a wide, muscular chest.

  Adelaide threw her friend a look. “He’s unconscious.”

  “But not yet dead, and neither am I,” Lucia quipped, moving forward to soak a long length of linen in the basin of hot water Adelaide had placed next to Henry. She wrung it out and offered it to Adelaide. “And neither are you.”

  She wasn’t. Even as she told herself she was simply cleaning him, making it easier to see the place where Billy’s knife had landed in his side—the gash across his torso where the tip of the blade had slipped and slid until it found purchase in skin—Adelaide could not ignore the ridges and valleys of his body.

  “Did you hear from Mary?” Adelaide asked Lucia.

  The other woman nodded. “Your deliveries are already on their way to London. I hope you know what you’re doing sending Danny back to your father.”

  “Any hesitation I might have had about my father’s ability and willingness to mete out a fine punishment has been calmed by the knowledge that he sent Danny north to find and fetch me back to London for a similar fate. Alfie doesn’t like losing. And he really doesn’t like it when his Boys are the reason for it.” She placed a cool cloth on Henry’s brow. “Thank you for your help.”

  Lucia waved away the words. “What is the use of having Rufus and Tobias if I cannot watch them toss grown men about?” She pointed to the spot where a fast blossoming bruise spread. “Your man’s broken at least one rib. And his nose.”

  “I noticed,” Adelaide said, hating the bumps and cuts and bruises across his body, each one her fault.

  “I imagine you did,” Lucia said in a knowing tone.

  Adelaide told herself that noticing the broken rib was why she noticed the rest—the muscles and sinew. And only then, she’d noticed because dukes were not to have such bodies—they should come soft and pale and unworked for their lifetimes of idyll.

  “Doesn’t look like only school fighting to me.” Lucia voiced what Adelaide was thinking.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” she said.

  Lucia snorted her disbelief. “You can admit it, Adelaide. It’s just the two of us, and I’m here to help you save the toff. Which is no small disappointment, I’ll tell you. I expect a certain amount of softness for aristos from Sesily and Imogen and Duchess, considering they’ve standing invitations to Almack’s or whatnot—”

  “No one cares about Almack’s anymore,” Adelaide said, rinsing the bloody linen.

  Lucia’s dark brows rose high. “Honestly. It pains me to hear that you know that. What happened to solidarity among thieves?”

  Adelaide smiled at the other woman. “Did I not hang the lantern in the window and summon you here?”

  “To save a toff, not to rob one,” Lucia said, lifting the bottle of high-proof alcohol that Adelaide had brought with the rest of the medicinal items. “You really want him saved?”

  “I really do,” she replied. Adelaide said, swallowing the knot of emotion that rose at the words, “He never should have thrown his lot in with me.”

  And she should have known better than to ask him for more.

  Lucia tutted at Adelaide’s words. “I wager that if he were awake, he’d tell me this has been the best week of his life. Let’s make it even better, shall we?”

  She leaned in and shouted into Henry’s ear, “Wake up, Duke!”

  His brow furrowed.

  “Not unconscious!” Lucia announced as Adelaide pushed her irrational relief to the back of her mind. “I suppose that if we’re not going to fleece him, it’s time to wake him up!” She held the bottle high and looked to Adelaide for permission.

  Granted.

  The bottle tipped, dousing him in the clear liquid.

  With a wild curse, he shot up, coming to a seated position on the table, his hand moving instantly to his side, where the sting of the liquor was no doubt excruciating. Adelaide caught his hand before he could touch it. “No. Don’t touch.”

  “You don’t touch!” he roared. “What in hell?”

  “What did I tell you? Definitely not dead!” Lucia said happily, and he swung around to look at her.

  “The highwaywoman. Of course.” He scowled in Lucia’s direction. “You’ve already taken my money; are you here for my blood as well?”

  “It’s decided.” Lucia looked to Adelaide. “I like this duke.”

  “Henry, please—” Adelaide said. “You need to lie back—”

  “You’re still bleeding,” he said, the words like a lash. Back to Lucia. “She’s bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing,” Adelaide attempted to interject.

  “She’s bleeding from the neck,” he clarified.

  “Yes, I noticed,” Lucia said. “And you’re bleeding from the side. What a pair.”

  “She needs attention. Now. Before whatever the two of you were going to do to me.”

  Lucia turned an amused look on Adelaide. “You know this man is half gone for you, right?”

  “He’s not—”

  “She’s bleeding.” He looked to Lucia. “She needs sewing up.”

  “She doesn’t need sewing,” Lucia said, as though she were speaking to a child. “It’s a scratch.”

  “It’s a neck wound.”

  “Hear me, Duke. If I thought for one moment that Adelaide was in danger, you can wager all the money in that purse you can’t seem to keep in your possession that I would see her healed before anyone touched you. But she is fine, and there’s a better than fair chance that you won’t survive the night, so do shut up and let us get on with it, will you?”

  Silence fell in the wake of Lucia’s announcement, and Adelaide would have laughed at the Duke of Clayborn’s shocked face if she weren’t so concerned about the unpleasant chances Lucia had pointed out.

  He sniffed the air. “You doused me in rotgut.”

  Adelaide tilted her head with a little smile. “Some believe it helps keep a wound clean.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do. Be glad of it, for there are others who think urine does the trick, too.” Before he could reply, Adelaide pressed him to his back once more. “Don’t worry. I’m a dream with a needle and thread. Before we had Jane, I used to sew our clothes.”

  He lay down. “I am not clothing.”

  “But think of the embroidery you’ll wake with,” she retorted, forcing herself to sound light, as though she were not terrified of what was to come.

  He reached for her then, his thumb rough on her cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s a scratch.”

  “I want it gone when I wake.”

  She smiled at the arrogant directive. “You can’t will it away. This isn’t Parliament. You cannot orate at it.”

  “Do whatever you want to me,” he said. “But you are more important.”

  She swallowed. It was not even remotely true, and yet this man . . . this magnificent man. “You are the one who must wake, Duke. You’ve a world to change.”

  “You’re already changing it,” he said quietly. “You first.”

  “Oh, I do like him,” Lucia said softly.

  He didn’t look away from her, but he replied to Lucia. “Her first.”

  “Henry,” Adelaide said, catching his hand and holding it tightly, letting herself pretend, for just a heartbeat, that there was more between them than a few stolen kisses and a night of pleasure. That there might be hope for the future they’d whispered about in the darkness.

  She looked to his wicked wound, still seeping with blood. Lucia poured liquid from a small brown bottle onto a clean length of cloth, and extended it to her.

  Taking it, Adelaide returned her attention to his beautiful blue eyes. “You asked who would protect me earlier.” Even the memory of the question warmed her—what a strange, wonderful thing to have someone worry about her.

  “I will.” His gaze tracked over her face, his thumb stroking over her cheek again. “You’re so beautiful.”

  Her heart pounded in her chest. This man.

  “Tonight, let me protect you.”

  He didn’t like that, she could tell. But before he let her know how much, Lucia spoke up, meeting Adelaide’s eyes across the table. “Time.”

  There wasn’t much of it. They had to move quickly.

  Without hesitating, Adelaide leaned down and placed a quick kiss on his mouth. His hand came to the back of her head, fist clenching in her hair. She broke the kiss and whispered, “See you soon,” then placed the cloth in her hand over his nose and mouth, and knocked him out.

  “Remarkable, that stuff,” Lucia said. “Imogen has really changed the way we do business, hasn’t she?”

  Adelaide looked down at the cloth, doused in something Imogen called chloric ether. Harmless and extremely helpful when it came to felling villains. Or, in this case, dukes who required sewing up. “It helps to have a genius in the crew,” Adelaide acknowledged.

  “I wager your duke won’t agree,” Lucia said with a pretty laugh. “He’ll be furious when he wakes up.”

  “He’s not my duke,” she said immediately, because of course she did. But he was hers, in that moment. He was hers to fret over. Hers to keep safe.

  “Ah, so we are calling him your Henry now?” Adelaide gave a half smile at her friend’s jest. “Addie,” Lucia added softly. “People survive stabbings.”

  Adelaide didn’t look away from his sleeping face, bruised and battered and somehow still impossibly beautiful. “Not all of them.”

  Fever could come quick. And it often never left.

  There was a long silence while she worked, putting a row of neat stitches into Clayborn’s side. When she was done, she clipped the thread and packed the wound, spreading it with honey before they worked together to bandage it and the rib he’d broken. When they were through, her gaze tracked over his still face, the even rise and fall of his bruised chest, his long arms.

  Finally, she looked to Lucia. “Thank you.”

  The other woman raised a brow. “For what?”

  She shook her head. “For . . .” For being here. “For being a friend.”

  Lucia’s dark eyes saw more than Adelaide wished, but she did not ask the myriad questions that flashed in her pretty face. Didn’t wonder at the way Adelaide gripped the duke’s hand. Instead, she said, “He was so furious that you took a blade to the neck; it would not surprise me if he woke up strictly to ensure you were mended.”

  Adelaide gave a little laugh, swallowing around the thick knot in her throat.

  Lucia bustled about for a moment before sliding a look to Adelaide and saying, “And the girl? What of her?”

  Lady Helene, whom Adelaide should be tracking even now. Who needed the Belles’ protection more than ever, if her horrid father had hired The Bully Boys to bring her home. “She’s close enough to the border—with Danny headed back to London, I expect she and Jack will get there tomorrow. And marry.” She looked to Henry, unconscious. “For love.”

  Jack, whom Henry loved beyond measure. Jack, whom Adelaide must keep safe if Henry could not.

  “Happy news in the midst of an absolute mess.” Lucia paused. “But they have to be told they cannot return to London, or they go to the wolves a matched set.”

  A new son-in-law would not stop Havistock from silencing Helene. Instead, he was another concern for the marquess, already on the list of heads he was hoping someone would claim for him, if Danny was to be believed. Lucia was right. Adelaide should leave Henry there. Should stick to the plan. Get to Helene and Jack and use the Belles’ vast network to tunnel the newlyweds to safety.

  Staying was madness. It would change nothing. She had done all she could, and now they had nothing to do but wait. Rosemary oil could not help Henry now. Staring into his face, blooming with bruises and a newly broken nose, she told herself to leave.

  “I need help.”

  Lucia’s brows rose. “Adelaide Frampton, asking for help? You must love the man.”

  Love. Was that what this was? This panicked need to see him safe, along with the people he cared for? This unmooring at the idea that he might not wake? At the idea that she might not speak to him again?

  Surely not. This was awful.

  Pushing the thoughts aside, she looked to her friend. “I need messages sent to Helene and Jack. And to Duchess.”

  She didn’t have to look to know that Lucia’s brows rose in surprise, but she was grateful when the other woman said, quietly, “Done.”