“Aren’t you going to scold me? Tell me what a dreadful girl I am and demand what I was doing?”
The desire to do all those things, plus giving her a good hard shake for terrifying him so, was a living thing beneath his skin. He ignored it.
“I assumed you were watching the match,” he said lightly, taking his time going to retrieve his hat.
He took a deal longer inspecting it for dirt, relieved it had not fared too badly, and giving himself time for his heart to slow to something less likely to kill him.
“That’s it?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes at him.
God, she was lovely. Now he knew she was safe, he could recollect the sight of her, pistol in hand, sure and determined, and felt a swell of pride. An equally fierce protective instinct rose too, the kind that wanted to take her home and keep her safe, to shelter her from the world, then search out that villain again and break his bloody neck. He ought to have beaten the bastard bloody before he let him go. The desire to seek retribution for her had been tangible, but he’d not wanted her to see that. He looked back at her, knowing he could tell her none of this.
“What else do you want? You made your feelings perfectly clear, Miss Barrington. You do not need or want my opinions nor my protection.”
She looked a little uncertain now, big blue eyes regarding him doubtfully.
“Yet you came running anyway.”
“As I would to any woman I thought might be in danger,” he said tersely.
“Of course,” she said at once, an apology in her eyes. “I know that. I know you would. Thank you.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to say any more. Now he was wondering who she’d been at the bloody match with, for surely she’d not have been so reckless as to go entirely alone. And if she had met someone, where was the bastard now? What manner of man would not have seen her safely home again? What kind of fool had taken his eyes off her for a moment among such a crowd?
“Do you have a carriage waiting?”
Phoebe shook her head. “No. I… I was going to hire a hackney.”
Max once again restrained the urge to demand what the devil she’d been playing at, wandering about this part of London alone—hiring carriages alone. His heart seemed to perform a strange acrobatic flip as he considered everything that might have happened to her. He clenched his jaw against the rebuke building in his chest. If he scolded her, she would only grow angry and run away again, and she was right, he had no say in her life.
“My carriage is a short walk from here. Would you allow me to see you home?”
He prayed she would agree, for he could not allow her to continue alone, and yet he desperately did not want to fight with her again.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Thank God.
As she laid her gloved hand upon his arm, a little of the violent anxiety, the desperate need to protect her that had been singing through his muscles, seemed to ease away, and was replaced by an altogether different kind of tension. He tried his best to look at ease, to keep his voice placid, and attempted a conversation with her.
“What did you think of the fight, then?”
Max looked down, wondering at what he saw. Her features were extraordinarily fine, her skin almost translucent, her eyes the colour of cornflowers in some lights, and in others that of a sky before a storm broke. How could something so fragile and lovely encase such a formidable will? The combination of delicacy and determination, beauty and recklessness, drew him in as if he’d been caught like a fish, the hook dug in deep and sure.
“I don’t exactly know,” she said, glancing up at him.
Max looked away, afraid of what she might see in his eyes. She didn’t want him, he knew that, and he’d not make things worse by allowing her to see how much he wanted her. It would make things uncomfortable for them both.
“At first it was rather thrilling,” she admitted. “They looked quite heroic and brave, and the excitement of the crowd was intoxicating, but as it went on, as Evans was hurt and yet still kept getting up….”
She shivered, and his body was so acutely aware of hers that the slight tremor seemed to vibrate