Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(23)

That nearly sent him into hysterics.

“Holy God,” he begged, “no more doctor-talk. Please.”

Garrett held her tongue, waiting while he fought for a measure of control.

“It wasn’t from scrotal chafing,” Ransom eventually said, a last tremor of laughter running through his voice. Letting out an unsteady sigh, he nuzzled against the side of her head. “Since we don’t seem to be mincing words, I’ll tell you what caused it: holding a woman I’d already dreamed about more than I should. Being near you is all it takes to put me in high blood. But I’ve no business wanting you. I shouldn’t have come to you tonight.”

At first Garrett was too stunned to reply. He wielded honesty like a weapon, she thought dazedly. Now he’d left them nowhere to hide. Coming from a man as secretive as he was, it was astonishing.

“You had no choice,” she eventually said. “I summoned you.” Her cheek curved against his shoulder as she added, “My genie of the whistle.”

“I don’t grant wishes,” he said.

“A second-rate genie. I should have known I’d get one of those.”

A last whisk of amusement sank into her hair, and his fingertip charted the soft rim of her ear.

Garrett’s head lifted. As she saw how close his mouth was, and felt the clean, warm rush of his breath, her stomach did an odd little flip.

She’d been kissed before, once by a charming doctor while working as a nurse at St. Thomas’s Hospital, and another time by a fellow medical student at the Sorbonne. Both occasions had been something of a disappointment. The sensation of a man’s mouth against hers had not been unpleasant, but she certainly hadn’t understood how anyone could describe kissing as a rapturous experience.

With Ethan Ransom, though . . . she thought it might be different.

He was still, his gaze locked on hers with an intensity that sent a jolt through her. He was going to kiss her, she thought, and she went weak with anticipation, her heart thudding and pumping.

But he let go of her abruptly, his lips twisting with self-mocking amusement. “I promised you something to eat. We have to keep you in fighting trim.”

They went back to the main street and proceeded toward a steady thrum of noise. As they turned a corner, Garrett saw Clerkenwell Green ahead of them, bustling with a massive crowd. All the shop fronts were lit, and at least a hundred temporary market stalls had been set up and trestled in double rows. Originally a village green with walks, trees, and mown lawn, the space was now a paved public gathering place bordered by houses, shops, inns, factories, public houses, and coffee rooms. Near the center of the green, a space had been cleared for dancing jigs, hornpipes, and polkas to the music of fiddles and cornopeans. Street singers wandered through the milling throng, stopping here and there to perform comic songs or sentimental ballads.

Garrett regarded the scene with amazement. “It looks like a Saturday-night market.”

“It’s to celebrate the new underground London Ironstone line. The railway owner, Tom Severin, is paying out of his own pocket for fairs and concerts across the city.”

“Mr. Severin may be taking credit for the celebrations,” Garrett said wryly, “but I can assure you, not a shilling of it has come from his own pocket.”

Ransom’s gaze flashed to her. “You know Severin?”

“I’m acquainted with him,” she said. “He’s a friend of Mr. Winterborne’s.”

“But not yours?”

“I would call him a friendly acquaintance.” A ripple of delight ran through her as she saw the notch between his brows. Was it possible he was jealous? “Mr. Severin is a schemer,” she said. “An opportunist. He contrives everything for his own advantage, even at the expense of his friends.”

“A businessman, then,” Ransom said flatly.

Garrett laughed. “He certainly is that.”

They skirted the crowd and headed to a row of stalls, each independently lit with self-generating gas lamps, grease lamps, or candle flames covered with rush light shades. Food was kept hot in large cans resting on iron firepots, or in tin and brass machines with fragrant steam issuing from little funnels at the top.

“What kind of food would you—” Ransom began, but broke off as his attention was caught by a minor disturbance near a cluster of stands. A plump, rosy-faced young woman wearing a felt hat festooned with colored silk ribbons was clutching a long, flat market basket while a red-haired constable tried to tug it away from her. People were gathering to watch the spectacle, some laughing, others lobbing insults at the constable.

“’Tis Maggie Friel,” Ransom said in a rueful tone. “I know the family well—I was friends with her brother. Would you mind if I take care of this?”

“By all means,” Garrett said readily.

Ransom strode to the arguing pair, while Garrett followed close behind. “What’s this, McSheehy?” he asked the constable.

“I’m confiscatin’ her ribbon spool for givin’ me sass, is what it is,” the officer snapped, wresting the basket from the woman’s grasp. It contained threads, scraps of fabric, and a long dowel holding rolls of laces and ribbons.

The sobbing woman turned to Ransom. “He can’t take me ribbands just cos I cheeked him, can he?”

“I can, and I will,” the constable told her. With his face flushed from outrage and exertion, and his ruddy brows and hair, he was as red as a live coal.