Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(21)

One of the cardinal rules of navigating through the dangerous areas of the city was to appear confident. And here she was, pausing at a street corner, her feet as heavy as lead. What was she doing? What was this terrible feeling inside? Sadness, wrapped around yearning. A hollow feeling that no blasted hobby or holiday was ever going to fix.

Perhaps she should go visit Helen unannounced, manners be damned. Helen would listen to her worries, and know what to say. But no . . . that would only lead to more urging to meet Weston Ravenel, a substitute for the man she truly wanted to see . . . an amoral, oversexed government assassin with a dimple in one cheek.

Garrett’s mind sifted through remnants of conversations she’d had during the past week.

“No one knows what side he’s on. But he’s not a man you should have anything to do with.”

“Ransom is a cold-blooded cutthroat whose soul is bound for hell . . .”

“If he did meet you in secret, where would it lead?”

And Ransom’s low voice . . . “I see no fault in you.”

As Garrett stood there, trapped in that mysterious ache of a mood, she could hear a couple quarreling on a nearby street, the bray of a donkey, the cries of a watercress seller as he rolled his handcart along the pavement. The accumulated hum of city noise filled each passing second as London eased from the tumult of the day to the seething excitement of a warm summer night. It was a mean, big-bellied, prosperous city, shod in brick and iron, wearing a thick overcoat of factory smoke, carrying a million secrets in its pockets. Garrett loved it, all of it, from the dome of St. Paul’s down to the lowest sewer rat. London, her friends, and her work, had always been enough for her. Until now.

“I wish . . .” she whispered, and bit her lip.

Where was Ransom at this moment?

Maybe loving the sewer rat was taking it a bit far.

I wish . . . a phrase she never used.

If she closed her eyes—which she was not idiotic enough to do in a parish containing three prisons—she felt as if she might actually be able to see him, like an image trapped in a fortune-teller’s crystal ball.

Garrett was bemused to discover the silver police whistle was in her hand. Without even being aware of it, she had fished the whistle from her jacket pocket. The pad of her thumb rubbed across the gleaming surface.

Obeying a lunatic impulse, she raised the whistle to her lips and gave an abbreviated blow. Not enough to produce a shrill alarm that would alert a constable, just a little chirp. She closed her eyes and counted to three, waiting and listening for an approaching footstep.

Oh, I wish, I wish . . .

Nothing.

Her lashes lifted. No one was there.

It was time to go home. Morosely she tucked the whistle back into her pocket, unhooked the cane from her left arm, and turned to leave.

A smothered exclamation was torn from her as she walked into a wall, the leather bag dropping from her hand. “Suffering savior!”

Not a wall. A man. Her face was mashed against the center of a broad chest.

Before her mind fully comprehended what had happened, her body had already recognized the feel of tough, heavy muscle, the big hands gripping her securely, the clean masculine scent that was nicer than anything in the world. Dark blue eyes took swift and thorough inventory of her, assuring himself of her well-being.

Ransom.

He’d been following her after all. A shaken breath of laughter escaped her. As she looked up into his hard face, exhilaration flooded her as if it had been injected directly into an artery. She was shocked at how good it felt to be with him. Her soul was leaping.

“That whistle is only for when you need help,” Ransom said in a low voice. A scowl darkened his face, but his fingertips flexed slightly as if he longed to fondle and caress the shape of her.

Garrett couldn’t help smiling up at him. “I do need help,” she replied, striving for a normal tone. “I’m hungry.”

A hint of raw emotion stirred beneath his controlled surface. “Acushla,” he said in a rough whisper, “don’t do this.”

“It’s my birthday,” she told him.

His hot gaze turned her inside out. “Is it?”

She nodded, trying to look forlorn. “I’m alone and hungry, and it’s my birthday.”

Ransom uttered a curse as soft as a vesper prayer, and lifted his hand to her face, gently cupping her jaw. The touch of his fingers was so pleasant that she felt a change come over all her skin. After surveying her for a burning moment, he shook his head grimly, as if marveling at a particularly unfortunate turn of fate. He bent to pick up her bag.

“Come,” he said.

And she went with him, neither asking nor caring where they were going.





Chapter 6




Garrett took Ransom’s arm as they walked. He was dressed in workingman’s clothes, with a vest made of leather as thin and soft as glove material. The muscled surface of his arm was hard beneath her palm. He guided her through streets lined with rows of serried buildings. They passed beer shops, a public house, a chandler’s shop, and a store selling secondhand clothes. The street became increasingly populated with sailors and jolly tars, men in greatcoats, shop girls, costers, and well-dressed tradesmen’s wives. Garrett relaxed her usual vigilance, knowing that not a soul would dare approach her in the company of a big, healthy bruiser who was so obviously at home in the streets. In fact, he was the one who made other people fearful.