Sobbing, Bertie got him to his feet. He was half unconscious, snapping awake again as Bertie drew him into the hall beyond.
She slammed the door, though there wasn’t much point, and limped with Sinclair down the hall toward where she thought the front door must be.
Halfway along, Sinclair stopped her. “Bertie.” His voice was a little stronger. He turned her to face him. “Bertie, I love you.”
Before Bertie could answer, he hauled her to him, every bit of gentleness gone, and kissed her. She was ground against him, Sinclair’s hands hard on her, the kiss fierce, savage. He smelled of sweat and blood, fear and worry, but his mouth was a place of heat in the cold darkness.
His teeth scraped her lips as he opened her mouth with his. Bertie sank her fingers into his coat, the hat she’d jammed on her head sliding sideways as Sinclair raked her hair from her face. If she let go of him, she knew, she’d tumble into a mire of despair and never be free. Sinclair was her world now, and Bertie would hold on to him through madness and terror, up again into the light.
The kiss turned deeper, as though Sinclair drew all his strength from Bertie. His strength fed her in turn, fires heating her in the bitter chill of this last day of the year.
Sinclair grunted, faltering, and he broke the kiss. Bertie looked up to see pain in his eyes, his strength depleted, the strain of his wound taking the fight out of him.
“We’ve got to go,” she whispered.
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.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” Sinclair said, and he did laugh.
Laughter hurt, but he kept on, as Macaulay and Bertie dragged him to another beautiful sight, his own carriage. Hart’s pugilist and Richards reached out to help, and the four of them got Sinclair successfully decanted inside.
Bertie climbed in after him. She landed beside Sinclair on the seat and gathered him into her arms as the carriage jerked forward.
Outside, London clamored, the fire brigade and London’s citizens rushing to put out the blaze. Inside the coach, all was calm and sweet. Bertie cradled Sinclair against her soft bosom, and she kissed his lips, his face, his hair. She was crying, but Sinclair was too exhausted to try to figure out why.
Bertie refused to leave Sinclair’s side, no matter how often Macaulay, Mrs. Hill, and the surgeon told her to go to bed. She’d nurse Sinclair with her own two hands until he was better, she declared. She’d never give up on him.
She watched anxiously as the surgeon Macaulay had fetched cleaned Sinclair’s wound and stitched him up. The surgeon instructed Bertie how to wash the wound and change the dressing, then he mixed up powders and a poultice to leave with her for him. Bertie mentioned Warburg’s tincture, which Sinclair had used to dose Andrew, and the surgeon said it couldn’t hurt.
Sinclair lay deathly still throughout the procedure, not waking enough to take the morphia the surgeon had brought. The man finished, telling Bertie that when Sinclair woke, she should try to make him eat some broth, to keep up his strength.
The night was long. Sinclair tossed and moaned, his body heating and then breaking into a sweat. He pushed off the covers then shivered, and Bertie and Macaulay patiently tucked him in again.
Macaulay slept on the sofa in the study, and Mrs. Hill came in often. The children wanted to see their father, of course, but Mrs. Hill was keeping them away so they wouldn’t disturb him or accidentally hurt him.
“Less distressful for them too, not seeing him like this,” Mrs. Hill said, entering near to midnight. “But they’re still awake, and they’d benefit from seeing you, Miss Frasier.”
Mrs. Hill gave her a pointed look, but Bertie shook her head. “I can’t leave him.” Her eyes hurt from tears. “Not yet.”
Mrs. Hill frowned, then she smoothed Bertie’s hair with a gentle hand. “I understand, dear. But they need you too.”
Bertie knew she was right. Cat and Andrew must be frightened and worried, knowing their father was in danger of slipping away. Bertie couldn’t make them face that alone. “I’ll nip upstairs and make sure they’re all right,” she said, and Mrs. Hill gave her an approving nod.
Mrs. Hill sat down in Bertie’s place, and Bertie hurried to her room, her legs weak with exhaustion. She washed her face and smoothed her hair, trying to enter the nursery with some show of confidence.
Andrew threw himself at her, wrapping around her as soon as Bertie walked inside. Cat took Bertie’s hand, squeezing hard.
Cat looked different now that she no longer had the doll perpetually in the crook of her arm—she stood a little straighter and some pain had gone from her eyes. The repaired doll sat on a shelf above Cat’s bed, dressed in another of the gowns Sinclair had given Cat over the years, her cracked smile still benevolent.
“You’ll save Papa, won’t you, Bertie?” Andrew demanded.
“Of course she will,” Cat answered him. “Just like she saved you, and my dolly. She’ll take good care of him.” Cat’s voice was firm, that of a sister reassuring her younger brother, but the look she sent Bertie was anxious.
“Cat is right.” Bertie stroked Andrew’s hair, which was the same color as Sinclair’s. “I’ll look after your dad proper, don’t you worry.”
“Macaulay told us he was in a battle,” Andrew said. “With guns and everything. Like at Culloden.”
“Not like that, Andrew,” Cat said with a touch of her usual scorn.
“He was very brave.” Bertie shivered, remembering how she’d watched Sinclair collapse on the street, barely able to react to her and Macaulay when they came for him. He’d been bleeding again, blood staining his clothes, her gloves, and the seat of the carriage.
Both children hugged her, then Cat withdrew and wiped tears from her face. “You must go back and look after him. Mustn’t she, Andrew?”
Andrew squeezed his eyes shut and clung tighter to Bertie. Cat nudged him, and Andrew jumped.
“Yes, you must look after Papa,” he said rapidly, as though Cat had made him rehearse the line.
“I’ll take care of Andrew,” Cat said. “I’ll put him to bed.”
Andrew tried not to look dismayed. Bertie kissed both of them. “Thank you. I promise, I’ll send for you the moment he’s better.”
Hours later, she feared the worst. Sinclair muttered in his sleep, shoving away the covers. Bertie changed his bandage, washing the wound, which felt hot. She couldn’t make him wake enough to drink the tincture or the powders, so he only tossed more in pain.
He finally quieted when the clocks were striking five. Sinclair’s skin was damp but didn’t feel roasting hot, and his breathing had become more even. Bertie curled up next to him, pulling the rumpled sheets over herself. She said a little prayer, then her eyes would stay open no longer, and she slept.
Sinclair woke, moved, and cursed. Pain ripped from his abdomen through to his spine, and he hissed a breath through his teeth.
He relaxed slowly, making himself lie perfectly still. There. If he stayed just . . . like . . . this, the pain was only slightly excruciating.
He heard soft breathing beside him and carefully turned his head. Bertie was next to him, her head pillowed on her arm, her eyes closed. Her hair was a mess, the curls on her forehead damp. Her nose was free of soot now, except for one tiny smudge, and her lips were parted in her sleep.
If Sinclair didn’t hurt so much, and could move his body at all, he’d roll over and kiss those pretty red lips. Then he’d brush back her hair and slide on top of her, parting her legs to make sweet, deep love to her as the house slept around them.
Sinclair did hurt, however, so all he could do was look at her. Not a bad thing. Firelight touched her throat, her dress open at the neck, and glinted on the chain of her locket.
Safe. She was safe. James was dead or dying, Devlin would likely go after more lucrative game, and Jeffrey would be sent off to Dartmoor.
Safety. Peace. Bertie had never known it, and Sinclair had taken a long time to learn it. He’d make sure Bertie had it for the rest of her days. He’d go on standing up in court, speaking for those who didn’t know how to speak for themselves, helping the innocent and making a case against the guilty. He’d continue working toward being a judge, making Old Monty and his committee happy enough to present him with a position on the bench. Then he’d come home to Bertie and his children every night. Idyllic.
Sinclair knew, though, that he’d never stomach such an ordinary life for long. He’d clung to this routine only because it had helped him bury his grief—being caught up in his work meant he’d never had to take grief out and look at it.
He’d looked at it plenty in that basement with Bertie, when the men had come through the door, ready to kill her. Sinclair would make sure that never happened, and he’d live his life with her and his children to its fullest. He’d take them to this Christmas pantomime Bertie kept talking about, and then they’d go home to the Highlands for the rest of the holidays, back where he belonged.
Sinclair could move his right hand without too much pain. He lightly smoothed Bertie’s hair, loving the soft warmth of it. Bertie was life, and he wanted life with all his might.
Bertie stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Her first puzzled look slowly dissolved, and a little smile moved her lips. Sinclair smiled back.
Bertie’s eyes widened,
and she sat up straight. Her hand went to his forehead, then his face, then lightly landed on his chest. “You all right? How do you feel?”
“Bloody awful.” Sinclair winced at the croak that was his voice. “What about you? Throwing fireballs and breaking through walls, like a warrior woman. I’ll wager Boadicea is an ancestor of yours. Though I wager she was never as pretty.”
Bertie’s cheeks went red. “You’re a charmer, ain’t you? Bet you won’t be so charming while I’m changing your bandage.” Bertie sat up, reaching for a pile of cloth on the bedside table.
Sinclair rumbled a laugh. “I was never a good patient, lass, but I won’t promise not to seduce you while you’re nursing me. With the understanding that I can’t carry out anything I suggest until I can move again.” Sinclair’s breath went out of him as he twitched the wrong way. “Bloody hell.”
“You lie still.” Bertie grabbed the bandages and hurried around the bed. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
She started for the basin in the corner, then halted, her back quivering, and swung around again. “Blast it all, I thought I’d lose you for sure.” Tears trickled down her cheeks as she rushed back to him, leaned over him in the bed, and wrapped her arms carefully around him.
Warm goodness. Sinclair lifted his stronger hand and threaded it through her hair, gently pulling her head back so he could kiss her. This he could do—kissing—without pain . . . as long as he didn’t move too much.
Bertie eased away and touched his face. “Thank you for staying alive.”
Sinclair tried a smile, though in his heart he was thanking God, Bertie, and his stubborn constitution for not letting him slip away. “Just wait until I’m better, vixen,” he said. “I’ll show you what I’ve been dreaming about all night, what I’d do right now if I wasn’t in debilitating pain.”
“Yeah?” Bertie’s word was soft, but her eyes danced with laughter. “Well, maybe I’ll show you what I’ve been dreaming about you.”