Except it was barely sound. The cold had taken his voice.

  “Tommy!” She was there, running along the embankment, tracking him.

  Being chased.

  No. Not being chased. Chasing him.

  He focused on her, in that dress—that color, bright purple. Not the aubergine or lavender that would be worn by a different woman.

  By a woman in mourning.

  Dammit, it was cold.

  Would she mourn him?

  He drank her in, his arms starting to go stiff. He wouldn’t be able to keep himself afloat much longer. And still, he watched her.

  If he was going to die, he wanted to die looking at her.

  His boot hit the riverbed and he used the last of his strength to dig into the silt, to resist the current, thankful for low tide. But low tide or no, there was no one to help him. He closed his eyes.

  “No! Tommy!”

  The words were closer. She was closer. He opened her eyes and saw her, above him, on the Salisbury Steps, where she’d summoned him earlier.

  No. If she waded into the river, she could easily be lost. If she was swept up, he wouldn’t be able to save her. They’d die together of the damn cold. He tried to shout to her. “Don’t—”

  He struggled, but couldn’t move. That had been quick. How long had he been in the water?

  Wait. Now Imogen was in the water, a thick rope in hand—used to moor boats by the steps. She was wading toward him. “N-no . . .” He couldn’t scream. Could barely make the word out for his teeth chattering. “Don’t come further. The current . . .”

  She ignored him, and then she was there, reaching for him. “Tommy,” she said, her hand finding his. Gripping him tightly. Feeling hot like the sun. “Please . . .” Her voice was far away as she dragged him toward the bank. “I can’t do this by myself. Please . . . The tide is low enough . . . Can you stand? Please, my love . . . Please stand up.”

  My love.

  For the rest of time, he would remember those words on her lips.

  And the way they brought him back to life.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  They did not have time.

  By some miracle of location and tide, the current hadn’t taken him far, allowing Imogen to wade into the river and save him. After helping him out of the water, she looked back toward the spot where she’d taken out the attackers. The first was still unconscious in the muck, but he would rouse soon enough, and the other was gone, the blade she sank into his thigh gone with him.

  There was no time to care about it; Imogen wagered they had ten minutes before the whole of Scotland Yard was after them, and they had to find somewhere nearby to hide and get warm.

  They were halfway up the steps before the cold wind claimed most of Tommy’s mobility. He stilled as the wind whipped through him, swaying from the force of it, sucking in his breath.

  “Tommy,” she said urgently. “You have to move. Quickly. We’ll be seen.”

  Somehow, the words propelled him forward. “Leave me. You have to g-get inside.” His teeth were chattering so much it was difficult to understand him. “Out of s-sight. They’re coming for you.”

  They were coming for both of them, she had realized on the embankment, which terrified her no small amount. The Belles had made a life of facing the wrath of powerful men over the years, but the idea that she’d brought Tommy into their fight—the fact that Scotland Yard had turned against him, as well . . .

  “I’ll be inside when you are,” she said, setting herself beneath his arm, urging him to lean on her. “Christ, you’re big,” she said, looking down the embankment, assessing the threats that might present themselves at any time. And she didn’t have a weapon. “It’s not far, but we must move, love.”

  They had to get inside the maze of labyrinthine streets between the river and the Strand. Fast.

  “We can’t go to Whitehall,” he said.

  She gave a little laugh. “Tommy Peck, I have no intention of ever setting foot in Scotland Yard again.”

  “You were right,” he said through the work of movement. “It was the p-police. They’ve been following me the whole t-time. You weren’t in d-danger; I put you in danger.”

  “Some guard you are.” Imogen was hurrying him forward, desperate to get him away from the curious attention of those who worked on the riverbank. She flashed a bright smile at an elderly woman standing in a nearby doorway before saying, under her breath, “Can you move more quickly?”

  “C-cold.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s worse in the wind. We have to get you inside and dry. And warm.”

  “C-can’t move my arms,” he chattered. “Can’t keep you safe. Sh-shit, Imogen . . . We have to get you safe.”

  Wonderful man. Half dead from the cold, and still only thinking of her. “The faster you move, Tommy, the sooner I’m safe.”

  He moved.

  They skirted around the pub at the top of the stairs, and headed north along Dirty Lane. When she recognized where they were, Imogen whispered, “Thank God.”

  “Where are we g-going?”

  She raised a fist and pounded on the unassuming door to an unassuming building, willing the door to open. Holding him as tightly as she could, she checked the street again. Empty in the twilight, but that didn’t mean there weren’t a dozen unseen witnesses.

  The door opened. A keen set of eyes greener than any Imogen had ever seen tracked over them both, stopping on Imogen’s face. “What kind of trouble are you bringin’ to my place, Imogen Loveless?”

  Imogen pleaded, “The kind the Belles will pay handsomely for.”

  The beautiful woman looked to Tommy. “Is that Peck? You brought a fucking Peeler here?” A pause. Then, “What happened to him?”

  “He went for a swim,” Imogen said, unable to keep the fear from her tone. “Please, Lorelei.”

  A sigh before Lorelei Wilde, tall, powdered, patched, and wearing a rose-colored dress that revealed a stunning bosom, opened the door wide. “Alright. But Duchess will owe me.”

  “I’ll owe you,” Imogen said. “Whatever you like.”

  “I want a batch of that stuff you use to send men to sleep,” Covent Garden’s most skilled madam negotiated.

  “I would have given you that for free,” Imogen replied. Whatever the girls at Wilde’s needed to stay safe while working.

  “Back to work, lovelies. For every man you distract this afternoon, the lady will pay handsomely.” Lorelei waved several curious faces back into the main receiving room and indicated the center staircase. “Can he get up the stairs?”

  “Of c-course I can,” Tommy stuttered. “And I can hear.”

  The madam gave him a long look. “’S about all you can do right now, old man.” She lifted his other arm and draped it over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “You’re going to pay for this dress, too, Imogen, when your Peeler gets the stink of the river all over it.”

  “I’ll p-pay for it,” Tommy said.

  Lorelei cut him an amused look. “Even if I were certain you would live, I wouldn’t take that promise. This frock cost more than your yearly salary.”

  They made it up the stairs and down the hallway, to a dimly lit room with a large bed, a wardrobe, and little else within. “Who’s coming after ’im?”

  “With all due respect, Lorelei,” Imogen said as she helped him to the bed, “it’s best if you don’t know this particular story. But it’s quite warm in here.”

  “It’s n-not warm,” Tommy interjected.

  She met his gaze. “It will be. Just as soon as we get you out of your clothes.”

  “Too warm?” The madam leveled Imogen with a look. “As warm as a Peeler in my place?”

  Imogen turned away, already shoving his coat off his shoulders and letting it fall in a wet, sopping mess to the floor as she made for the buttons of his waistcoat. “As warm as a crew of them.”

  “Bloody hell, Imogen.” Lorelei cursed, moving to the bed to pull back the counterpane and sheets.

  “I know,” Imogen said, frustration and anger flooding her. She knew she’d done the wrong thing bringing him here. Bringing the prying eyes of Scotland Yard here. “But he would have . . .”

  She couldn’t finish.

  “Still might, God willing, then we can give him up.” Lorelei sighed. “You’re lucky I owe you four. Get him in that bed as soon as possible. I’ll send up a brick or two to help get him warm. And you’ll tell Duchess my debt is clear.”

  “It’s better than that,” Imogen said, throwing his waistcoat wide and pulling it down his arms. He was shaking enough to make the floors creak. “Now the Belles are in debt to you.”

  “If we survive this, I’ll be sure to call it in.” Lorelei gathered the coat and waistcoat in her arms and leveled Imogen with a look. “He’ll need a bath. If the cold don’t do him in, the river will.”

  With that assessment, Lorelei left them alone. “They’ll be looking for us.” He shook beneath Imogen’s touch. “They’ll know we haven’t gone far.”

  She nodded, but did not stop her work, unraveling the cravat from around his neck. “You must get dry. And warm.”

  “I can’t lift my arms.”

  “In romantic novels,” she said to him, grasping the open neck of his shirt, “the villains are always ripping bodices in two.”

  “You should go, Imogen. Get far from here. To your brother. Out of the city.”

  She ignored the stupid suggestion, chalking it up to his cold-addled brain. Instead, she said, “Layers of silk and linen and whalebone, just . . . pulled apart like a Chelsea bun. I’ve always wondered how that would feel.”

  “Imogen. The f-further you are from me, the less likely they are to hurt you.”

  She yanked at the collar of the shirt, rending it down the middle with a single, long riiiiiiip. “Oh,” she said softly. “That is a delightful sound. I might like it better than an explosion.” She tossed him her best flirt. “I certainly like the result better.” Another pause as she tossed the shirt and ran her fingers to his bandage, which she immediately unraveled. “We need this off—you likely pulled a stitch.”

  “Imogen.” No stutter there. Good. He was getting warmer. Or angrier.

  She could find anger, too. “Tommy, you imbecile. I’m not leaving you. The further I am from you, the less likely I am to keep you alive, you lummox,” she argued softly, finishing with the bandage and moving to work the buttons of his trousers.

  She pushed the fabric down over his hips and shoved him back to sit on the bed. He went, unable to stop her, his strength barely there. “Imogen,” he repeated, his voice cracking with frustration. “Listen t-to me.”

  “No, you listen to me, Tommy Peck,” she said urgently, pulling one boot off and then the other. “I am your guard now. I am your blade. Right now, I keep you safe.” She looked up at him. “You call me Oracle? Here is my prophecy. You will get warm. And you will survive. And we will fight. And we will thrive. Together.”

  She had to believe it. There was no other choice.

  A knock at the door prevented him from replying. She stood and flung his wet trousers away as it opened, looking for a weapon. Dammit. The one day she didn’t bring her bag.

  Thankfully, it was Lorelei, massive blond wig in hand, followed by two girls, one with firewood and the other with an iron basket of bricks.

  The girls moved with immense speed as the madam handed Imogen the wig and waved her hand in the air. “Turn.” Imogen did as she was told, “Best put that hair on and get yourself into bed as soon as you can. It’s warm outside.”

  The police were looking for them.

  “Dammit,” Imogen replied, bending over and inspecting the wig, high and caged, as though it had been sent from a palace lady in waiting. “That was fast.”

  “Where are they?” Tommy asked from the bed.

  “Why? Are you planning to do them in, Peeler?” Lorelei worked at the buttons of Imogen’s gown as Imogen tucked dark curls up into the blond hairpiece. “I’ll do what I can, Imogen, but you’re going to have to give them something.”

  Imogen understood, stepping out of the bright purple dress—a color they would not miss. “They’ll be looking for someone wet and cold.”

  “Take the clothes,” Lorelei said to the girls who’d come with her as she crossed to the room’s wardrobe, pulling a handful of menswear, a red silk dressing gown, and something else from within.

  She tossed the clothes to the floor and the rest to the bed, returning to the hooks on Imogen’s corset, adding it to the pile of clothes in one of the girl’s arms. “He needs a mask. And you’d best put on a show. Chemise.”

  Imogen pulled it off without hesitation.

  “Wait—” Lorelei reached up and adjusted the wig, tucking in the last few strands of black curls, stepping back and assessing Imogen’s nude body. “Let’s hope they don’t go looking to see if it matches.”

  Imogen rolled her eyes and turned for the bed. There was no time to be embarrassed as she climbed in, reaching for the dark mask and leaning over to tie it over Tommy’s eyes.

  “Pity there’s no time for a shave,” Lorelei said. “Pull the curtains, make sure he stays in the dark, and hope the Yard sends idiots.”

  “Do they have anything else?” Imogen quipped.

  “I can hear you,” Tommy chattered.

  She grinned. “You’re not the Yard anymore, Mr. Peck.”

  “This isn’t f-funny, dammit,” he said, looking to Lorelei. “Get her out of here.”

  “So sorry, I don’t take orders from men,” Lorelei retorted, fiddling with the curtains around the bed, and stepped back to look at the tableau they made. “You make a good-looking pair. Try not to muss the wig.”

  As he could not move, Imogen highly doubted they’d be getting anywhere close to mussing the wig. He shivered beneath her as she straddled him, his eyes widening as he realized what was happening. She forced a smile. “You hear that, Tommy? You’ve been here for five minutes and you’re already gaining admirers.”

  “I’d like to see what you deliver when you haven’t been swimming in the ice,” Lorelei said, her assessment a distracting gift to them both. “Maybe I’ll come back and have another look when the lady has warmed you up.”

  “You absolutely will not,” Imogen said.

  “Really.” Lorelei leaned over Tommy’s face. “Stay awake, man. She’s making threats on your behalf.”

  He gave a little huff of laughter. “Sh-she’s allowed to.”

  The madam’s dark brows rose and she looked at Imogen. “Is she, now?”

  “I am,” Imogen said, unable to stop herself, nerves on end as Lorelei pulled a blanket over them both. Imogen pressed herself down to his body, cold and hard. Like marble. “He’s mine.”

  Lorelei’s eyes went even wider. “Isn’t that a thing.”

  Imogen wrapped him in her arms, aiming to touch him in as many places as possible. To warm him however she could. He sighed, and she could not ignore the thrum of pleasure that coursed through her. “Send a message to Duchess. We need help.”

  “Already done,” Lorelei said, and the door closed.

  Silence fell inside the room, but outside, belowstairs, she could hear footsteps. The bang of a door. A few shouts of outrage, both deep and high-pitched.

  “They’re here,” he said.

  Searching the place. Imogen lifted her head. “Talk to me,” she said. “You can’t fall asleep.”

  “I c-can’t get warm.”

  “You will,” she said.

  Another little huff of laughter that gave her hope. “Another prophecy.”

  “That’s right. And they always come true.”

  “Not always in the way they are expected,” he said. “For example, earlier t-today, I would have r-reveled in a prophecy that said that you and I would be naked in bed together this afternoon . . . but this was not quite how I would have imagined it . . .”

  More footsteps. Closer. Another door banging open down the hall. Her mind raced. No weapons. No strength. No disguise.

  “Tommy,” she whispered, looking back over her shoulder to the door—directly facing the end of the bed. She lifted up off him. “You said you were with me, at the river? Do you remember?”

  His eyes found hers behind his mask, blue and beautiful. “Always.”

  “Right then,” she said, sitting up as the boots came closer. “Stay with me.”

  She tossed the blankets back, revealing them both from the waist up, and went upright, straddling him. Leaning over the edge of the bed, she grabbed the red silk sash from the dressing gown Lorelei had pulled out of the wardrobe.

  She positioned Tommy’s arms above his head, taking heart when he sucked in a breath at the movement. “You can feel that, my hands on yours?”

  “Yes,” he said, the words rough as she wrapped his wrists quickly in the red ribbon, tossing the end over the edge of the bed. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. When she leaned back, he said, “I can see you, too.”

  She flashed a quick smile down at him. “Getting warmer, are you, Mr. Peck?”

  “Mmm,” he said, gasping when she pressed her hands flat against his chest and sat up straight, arching her back. “Fucking hell—that’s—”

  “Distracting?”

  His muscles rippled beneath her hands, and she raised a brow in his direction. “Possibly lifesaving.”

  She couldn’t laugh at his little joke. Couldn’t do anything but hope that he was right. That it would be enough to save his life. And still, she forced a quip. “Let’s hope they are not looking for a blonde.”

  Footsteps came closer, and Imogen began to move, gazing down at him, his gaze on her, drinking her in. “I don’t want them to see you like this,” he said. “I want this for myself.”

  She leaned over him. “It is for you,” she whispered, and it was the truth. “I am for you.”

  The door blew open, and Tommy’s gaze flew over her shoulder. The air shifted immediately, and he growled. “Get out!”

  It didn’t sound anything like a man who’d just been for a swim in the Thames. Nor did it sound anything like a man who was in hiding.