Tarnished Knight - By Bec McMaster Page 0,7

actually stepped forward and gave his fingers a small squeeze before stepping back. “You would never hurt anyone smaller than you. You’re such a… gentle man. Even if others don’t see it.” Her shoulders slumped.

Rip let out the breath he’d been holding. He didn’t think he could handle it if she were afraid of him. “Then what the ‘ell is this? I never lied. I said months ago I were takin’ me blood cold and I were then. It’s only been lately… Just three times. Weren’t ever a lie, Esme. It just ain’t seemed right to discuss it with you.” Scrubbing a hand over the roughened stubble on his head, he looked at her, trying to force her to see the truth. “Not the sort of thing I’d talk about with a lady, you understand?”

The look on her face made hope die in his chest.

“Esme?” he took another step toward her.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered. “I have waited and waited… I just thought you needed some time.”

“Can’t do what?” His eyes narrowed, focusing on the part of the conversation that made his blood run cold. If he could just understand what the hell was going on in her head.

She gave a breathless laugh. “Friends, Rip. Friends. It doesn’t matter. Forget I ever said anything.” Running a hand through her hair, she stared at the pot on the stove with a blank look on her face. “Soup. I need to get the soup on.”

He caught her arm as she hurried toward the stove and stared down at her. “Friends? You believe me? That I never meant to lie to you? You swear?”

Esme stared down at his hand. “I believe you.” She gave a little tug. “After all, what in Heaven’s name would you be trying to hide something from me for? It’s not as if I have any sort of hold over you.”

“True,” he said softly. Their eyes met and held, with Rip desperately searching for any sign that she might have felt otherwise. That she wanted him to have a hold over her. Anything that might have made him step forward and tilt her face up to his.

Esme’s dark lashes fluttered against her cheek and she glanced down, wiping her hands in her apron. “So that’s settled.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve got most of this done. I really don’t need any assistance.”

It felt far from settled to him, but he nodded slowly, letting out the breath he’d been holding. “As you wish.”

***

Later that night Rip started knocking on doors.

None of the neighbours had seen anything at Liza Kent’s and she hadn’t mentioned that she would be away to anyone. The corner she usually worked was cold and empty and Rip stared at it for a long time before returning to her apartment. Barely anybody would notice her disappearance and if they did they wouldn’t care. The corner would be claimed by someone else before too long and Liza Kent would vanish into the obscurity of just another Whitechapel disappearance.

Like his mother had.

The body of Flash Jacky was exactly where they’d left it. Usually Blade had men who handled the clean up, but Rip was loathe to involve him. And if he were honest with himself, he needed this. Something to keep his mind off the constant gnaw of the hunger and Esme. Of the two, he knew which thought ached the most. Their argument this afternoon felt unfinished. As though there were something she wasn’t telling him.

Though finding out who made Liza vanish would probably be easier than deciphering what was going through Esme’s mind.

Bending low, Rip tugged aside the gaping slash in Flash Jacky’s shirt and examined the wound. Looked like a knife but then he were no expert on wounds. Only on dealing them.

Luckily he knew someone who was.

Pounding on the door to Doctor Creavey’s, he held his breath for the stink that was starting to creep through the blanket he’d wrapped around Flash Jacky. Heavy footsteps sounded on the other side of the door and then Creavey peered out at him through his half-moon spectacles, his gaze narrowing on the body Rip had thrown over his shoulder. His red-rimmed eyes were watery and his thin wiry hair stuck out in gray tufts. There was more of it in his mutton chops than on the top of his head.

“Two pounds,” Creavey snapped.

Rip simply stared at him.

Creavey cursed. “It’s after hours, Rip. Man’s got to make his living.”

“After ‘ours?” Rip asked, shouldering over the stoop. “Or