of real humor. “I am your wife.”
* * *
What have I done? Messalina wondered nervously as she and Hawthorne stepped from the theater several hours later. She’d agreed to help him. It was a small thing, really, finding a tailor for him. Picking out new suits. But it represented a softening in her thoughts toward him.
A possible weakness.
If all went well, she’d be gone shortly after she received the dowry portion he’d promised her. That was her goal. Her plan from the very start, and she meant to carry it out. She couldn’t begin a—a friendship with Hawthorne now.
She meant to leave him. She wouldn’t feel guilty for pursuing her own dreams.
She wouldn’t.
She glanced at Hawthorne as he offered his arm to her. A smile was tilting his devilish lips.
Blast it, she felt guilty.
No! Messalina mentally shook herself and gazed up at the full ivory moon hanging just over the rooftops of London.
“What a lovely night,” she murmured to distract herself.
“It is.” Hawthorne guided her past the crowded front of the theater.
The street was too narrow and busy for carriages to pass. Messalina was glad that the night air was balmy, for they’d have to walk a bit to where Reggie had parked their carriage.
She glanced at Hawthorne. The bright torches and lanterns outside the theater dimmed as they strolled. Still a few shop lanterns glowed by themselves on the lane. In the moonlight her husband’s profile was austere, nearly menacing.
And yet he no longer seemed as frightening to her.
Hawthorne cleared his throat. “I hope you enjoyed the play.”
“It was quite funny,” Messalina replied.
She felt him look at her. “You didn’t find the humor too…coarse?”
“Oh, a little coarse.” She shrugged. “But sometimes one needs a belly laugh instead of complex witticisms. Besides, I couldn’t help noticing that you seemed to enjoy the jokes.” She’d caught her husband grinning more than once during the performance.
The sight had made something catch in her throat.
“I did enjoy the jokes,” he replied, his voice sounding self-deprecating, “but then I’m a common sort of man.”
“Hm,” she hummed doubtfully. “I’ve noticed that most men—of whatever stature in life—seem to derive unreasonable amounts of pleasure from comedy involving buttocks, fornicating, and the breaking of wind.”
He snorted.
She had to hide a smile.
“Perhaps we could attend again,” he rumbled beside her. Why had she never noticed how smooth and deep his voice was?
“I’d like that,” she replied truthfully.
He nodded, but he seemed distracted.
Their footsteps echoed in the lane.
Messalina glanced around, realizing for the first time that the street was no longer populated. They’d walked into a nearly deserted area of closed shops.
The carriage was still not in sight.
“What is it?” she whispered.
The muscles of his forearm tensing beneath her fingers was her only warning.
Hawthorne yanked her, all but flinging her against a shop. “Stay behind me!”
Messalina gasped at the painful impact.
She glanced up in time to see her husband turn his back to her and face three men—ugly, armed, and frighteningly big.
Footpads.
Except the strangers didn’t demand their purses.
They simply attacked.
Messalina screamed as all three charged Hawthorne.
He crouched, his feet spread, and in a darting, snakelike movement lunged at the man on his right.
The man gave a cry, falling to the ground, a spray of blood spattering to the cobblestones.
How—?
The remaining two men skipped back warily. One had a club with a spike at the end. The other had either a long knife or a short sword.
“Thief! Thief!” Messalina shouted as loud as she could. She had no weapon nor anything to use as a weapon. Even with one footpad down, that left two against Hawthorne. Her heart was beating fast with fear. “Help!”
Moonlight glinted off something in Hawthorne’s right hand. He held a thin blade almost delicately in his fingertips and waved it in front of himself idly.
The still-standing footpads parted, spreading to opposite sides of Hawthorne.
They were going to try to divide his attention. Make him turn his back on one of them.
The wounded man had regained his feet. Half of his face was painted with blood from the cheek down. He looked uncertainly at the other two men.
“What are you waiting for?” Hawthorne rasped, and the words made goosebumps come up on Messalina’s skin. His voice was soft. Dark. Deep, with a tinge of laughter in it.
What sort of man laughed in the middle of a fight?
“My wife’s lungs are strong,” Hawthorne continued. “You’d best run or have another try at me. Help will be here soon.”
At his words the man with the knife darted at him