No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(73)

The woman pulled an embroidered handkerchief from Julia’s bodice. “Maybe not, but I can sell this for a ha’penny.”

Julia shoved her back. “Then sell it and be gone.”

But the woman was staring at her hair. “Not so fast. Your hair is a fine color.”

Julia put her hand to her head. “Get away.”

The woman produced a dull knife with the dexterity of a professional. “Might fetch me a crown or more.”

“You cannot have it. Go on before I scream.”

The woman laughed—or rather cackled. “Scream all you want, dearie. No one will ’ear you.” She raised the knife and moved toward Julia.

Julia had two choices at that moment—give up her hair or fight. She’d always been rather proud of her hair. It was vanity, she supposed, and unfounded vanity, as the color was not fashionable. Still, she knew it suited her, and more men than she could count had complimented it. One had even had the audacity to touch it. But her hair was not worth dying for. And yet, if she didn’t fight now, when would she fight? She couldn’t hide under couches—metaphorical or otherwise—for the rest of her life. She couldn’t close her eyes and hope those who wished to harm her—men like Slag—would simply disappear. If she’d fought Slag from the beginning, maybe Neil wouldn’t be in a burning building. Maybe Mostyn wouldn’t be risking his life to save him. Maybe she wouldn’t be on the street being accosted by a foul-smelling hair thief.

“Leave me be,” Julia said and took a step toward the woman and—dear God—the knife.

“Stand still or I’ll slit yer throat and then take yer ’air.” The woman advanced, but Julia didn’t cower. She had no room to back away. Instead, she made a grab for the knife. The woman slashed down, and bright pain flared in her arm. But Julia grabbed the woman’s wrist anyway, pushing her assailant’s arm back. A quick glance showed her the pain in her arm was accompanied by a stream of blood.

“Now look what ye done,” the woman said, struggling to wrench free of Julia’s hold.

“What I’ve done?” Julia used her momentum to push the woman a step back. “Who knows what sorts of filth you have on that blade?” She would probably die of some horrible as-yet-undiscovered disease. She forced the woman back another step, but it was a hard-won victory. The woman was tall and Julia was barely medium height. Both women were breathing hard, and Julia was grateful the struggle had forced the woman to stop speaking.

Her muscles burned and blood ran down her arm, but she refused to give in to fatigue. This was life and death. If she failed, Mostyn would find her lifeless body when and if he returned. Her bald, lifeless body.

With a growl, the woman pushed back, and Julia stumbled. Her feet scrambled for purchase, and she regained her balance and fought back. She might be small, but she had spent the last few months carrying small children, laundry, and heavy pots. She was strong.

The woman bared her teeth and pushed Julia back again, lowering her knife hand a fraction of an inch. Julia tried to raise the knife, but gravity was not on her side. She was tiring.

The woman pushed her back again, and this time Julia lost ground, her feet sliding backward. She concentrated all her strength on keeping the knife high and away from her face. But as she watched, the knife came closer and closer. The dull blade, red with her blood and black with God knew what, dipped lower and lower.

Julia tried to muster the strength to make one last push, but all she could manage was to keep the knife from plunging into her forehead.

Dear God, she would die this day. She had survived the Ox and Bull, survived Slag, and made it out of a raging fire, only to be killed on the street by a hair thief.

She closed her eyes as the knife moved closer, infinitesimally nearer to her skin. She did not want this woman’s face to be the last thing she saw.

And then suddenly, the woman’s wrist sprang free of Julia’s grip, and the knife clattered to the ground. Julia opened her eyes in time to watch the woman’s feet leave the ground as she flew backward. A dark-skinned man had the woman about the waist and shoved her at a pale man streaked with soot.

Julia’s gaze flew to the man who’d saved her. It was Neil, his skin covered with soot and ash. Only his sea-blue eyes were recognizable to her. He was alive!

“Mr. Wraxall,” she gasped.

“Good God, but can no one leave you alone for even a moment?”

She wanted to tell him if he insisted on being so surly, he could go straight back into the fire, but just then her legs gave way, and she wobbled. His arms caught her around the waist even as she caught herself. But he swept her up anyway, bringing her closer to his chest and the overpowering smell of smoke and fire.

“I can walk,” she insisted.

“And step into the middle of a dice game or a street brawl? I think I had better carry you for your own good.”

“You are acting like an arse,” she said, too tired to care that she’d used language unbecoming a lady.

“Yes, well, watching you almost stabbed through the eye brings out the worst in me.”

She looked up at him, hoping to discern something from his face. Was his statement an admission that he cared for her or was he simply angry that she might die and he be blamed for not meeting his responsibilities? But she could not see his features through the black grime. And then she remembered Mostyn. And Billy.