“H-he… cornered me at an art gallery and tried to… tried to persuade me by—” She shivered, and though she tried to trap it, a sob escaped as she wrapped her arms around herself. “No one saw. But he talked. Elaborated. Brag—” The end of the last word caught in her throat. Her cheeks hollow and eyes empty but for a sadness so complete it might carve out the entire world.
Hell. Who cared? The only thing that mattered was her. The gray sky had cleared somewhat, revealing the last waves of pink and purple draining into the rooftops. Above, a navy blanket and stars winking into existence. And Samuel did the only thing he could in full view of all of Grosvenor Square at dusk—placed his palm on her back and rubbed it up and down her spine. A mistake. A risk.
He didn’t give a damn.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked, barely in control of his own voice.
“No-no. Yes. He tried. He kissed me. Would have gone further, but my friend had seen him leave the ballroom. She discovered us. Thank heavens. But she thought I’d lured him there, intent on seducing him.” She gave a hard laugh. “And now all of Edinburgh feels the same. And this is what I should not tell you. I must be in London because no one in Edinburgh trusts me anymore. They all think I’ll seduce their suitors and leave them heartbroken. London is my only hope.” Each word smaller than the last, her voice a dying fall.
He pulled her to her feet. She followed with quick steps as he dragged her beneath a large tree with low-hanging branches. Hidden now. Not entirely, though. Someone still might see.
He didn’t care.
He bent low over her until they shared the air, their mingled breaths growing heavy, fast, frantic for a kiss.
Him at least. Her?
Her gaze dipped to his lips. So perhaps.
The ghost of their last kiss was alive between them, begging to be resurrected.
With one hand, he stroked his thumb across her cheek, the pad of it skating scandalously close to the perfect, secret corner of her lips.
And with the other hand, he gave her his knife.
Chapter Eleven
Emma would have put good money on it—Samuel was going to kiss her. Who would have expected a knife instead? Not her. Perhaps she should have. But what should she do now? With her heart slamming against her ribs, with her disappointed lips, with his hands still warm and lovely on her cheek, with the blade like a hot coal in her palm.
“It folds up,” he said, “so you can keep it with you safely. In a pocket or in your reticule.” He showed her how to work the mechanism and unfold it. “You do it.”
The hilt was made of something that felt like satin, something that shone in the growing dark like the stars. Or the moon. Perhaps it felt so smooth because his constant handling had made it that way. She flipped it open. “I’ve seen these before.”
“They are quite common. But this one is specially made. Mother-of-pearl hilt. Blade sharper. It’s too big for you, better fitting in my hand. But it will do for now. It is not good for throwing. No folding knife is. But it is better than nothing. Do not leave home without it. And the next time a man tries what that other devil did, you gut him. Do you understand?”
She nodded. She understood well the desire to gut, to protect herself and others.
But there were other things quite incomprehensible stealing her speech, her attention.
“I need more than a nod.” His hands crawling up her forearms, swallowing her elbows, and holding tight. “Tell me what you’ll do.”
Somehow, despite her tight throat and dry mouth, she managed to say, “Gut him.”
“Slash his damn face. If you go for the torso and hit a rib, you will not hurt him enough to get away. But if he suspects he might be scarred forever, his shame an eternal slash across his face for everyone to see…”
“I understand.”
“Good.” His hands on her elbows loosened. He was about to step away.
No. Every inch of her skin screamed it. How could she let a man like this slip into the night? How could she release the way he made her feel with the simple gift of a used folding knife? She must be violent minded if her heart tripped over itself with such bloody instructions.
But… he cared about her, wanted to protect her, gave a bit of himself away to do it.
A first.
And she could not let it pass without recognition. Parkington’s kiss had been thrust upon her. And her first kiss with Samuel had been his to take, though she’d gladly given it. This, though, this kiss was for her. Hers to give and take, hers to create. It belonged to no one but him, and no one but her could give it.
A twist of her hands was all it took to grasp his biceps, pull up on toe, and kiss him. Not quite sure what to do after their lips met. A moment of confusion.
