Читать книгу The Midnight Man - Charlotte Mede - Страница 10

Before she could reply, they’d crashed through the open door. Four of them, big brawny men swinging bats and brandishing pistols. She recognized none of them from Madame Congais’s.

Ramsay pushed her under the stairwell. Fury washed over her, a hot pounding in her brain that she didn’t stop to analyze. Head spinning and terror threatening to paralyze her, her vision contracted on Ramsay as gooseflesh chased up her arms and down her spine.

The numbers weren’t good.

Ramsay didn’t bother pulling the pistol from his waistband. Instead, he wound up and leaned forward, driving his weight into the momentum that lifted the first two men off their feet and sent them flying. He dove to the left, then staggered back, slamming his fist into the shoulder of the tall, wiry assailant barreling at him, his lips curled back in a snarl. He grabbed the bat from his hand, turned, and swung it at the last man standing. The wood splintered before it connected with flesh, making a sound Helena never wanted to hear again.

She watched as one of the men rose shakily from the floor, his face a rictus of pain. At the sound of his heavy tread, Ramsay turned, the move almost elegant, before throwing 200 pounds into an overturned easel with a thundering crash.

It was over before it started. The air hung with sweat, pungent and noisome, overpowering the lingering odor of paint and turpentine. Helena edged a step out of the stairwell, watching Ramsay’s heaving back, her eyes tacking back and forth, containing her panic while measuring how quickly she could get through the open door. Away from these men, now broken and battered, littering the floor. But more important, away from Ramsay.

Amid the strangled silence she could hear the clicking of a clock, miraculously undamaged. Her moment was now. She wouldn’t think about the heaviness between her thighs, the oil that still slicked her legs…Don’t think. If she waited, if Ramsay turned around…

Not daring to move her head, she spied the palette knife out of the corner of her eye, discarded, where he’d tossed it after he’d twisted it from her grasp. She wondered if she would have the courage to use it. As though it would protect her from him. He had disposed of four men in the space of a heartbeat, moving with preternatural swiftness and a lightning rapidity that shocked her.

There was nothing left for her to think about; she could only act. Sensing her intentions, like an animal in the wild, Ramsay swung around. He stared at her until she felt him looking through her, not at her.

It was then that she lurched toward the door. There was a swift movement of air as she closed her eyes. She was not going to go easily, willingly, but his arm snaked out in one efficient motion, halting her escape.

This time she didn’t struggle. He held her as though she were no more than a blade of grass, apparently relaxed, but his muscles were tight, ready to uncoil and attack. Towering over her, he was so close, she could smell the scent of blood, metallic and harsh, and the impact was of power and some deeply held fury that, she found herself praying, would remain beneath the surface forever.

He smiled in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. “You know, Lady Hartford, we can’t go on like this.” At the same time, his right heel slammed the door violently shut, undercutting the irony in his tone.

“You’re perfectly correct on that count.” She wrenched her arm away from him and, surprisingly, he let go. Then he was gone, in two strides across the room back to the front windows, where he glanced, through the curtains, at the alleyway below.

Helena took in the closed door and the motionless bodies scattered like broken dolls on the painted wooden floor. A small river of blood, its source unclear, began to soak the edge of the worn Persian carpet. She looked away and into Ramsay’s eyes, which were following her smoothly from across the room as his pistol had done earlier.

No chance of escape. Not now. Breathing deeply, she blocked it from her mind. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Are you hurt? There’s so much blood.”

He inclined his head before glancing back out the window. “Not to worry. Although a glass of water wouldn’t be amiss.”

She walked carefully, avoiding the debris, to the small pantry in the studio and opened a cabinet where a decanter of water waited, mercifully, undisturbed. With steady hands, she found two crystal tumblers and poured water into each.

Let him come and get it, she thought, a strange recklessness coursing through her, born of the knowledge she had little to lose.

Never taking his gaze from her, he took three steps and removed a glass from her hands. She moistened her dry lips and said nothing, but all she could think about was flight. There were four sets of stairs, narrow and twisting, and she knew instinctively that he’d overtake her in an instant.

She watched the corded muscles of his neck as he drank the water. His physicality, even in this simplest action, was overwhelming. The memory of his hands between her thighs, his mouth devouring hers, was like a hallucination. Her face burned and she hoped he couldn’t read her mind. She took a quick gulp of water.

“Do you have any idea who these men are?”

Helena shook her head, cradling the tumbler between her two shaking hands. “They aren’t familiar to me, but I have an idea as to who sent them.” Her eyes darted around the room. At any other time and in any other world, the mayhem and carnage would have sent her into a spiral of panic, but just thinking of Sissinghurst hardened her horror into pitiless determination. “Can we be sure they will stay unconscious for the moment?” Her cool tone, she noticed, almost matched his.

Ramsay shrugged carelessly. “They won’t cause any more trouble for a while.” She thought about what had happened, and about how quickly and ruthlessly he had managed the attack. It didn’t make sense that one of the wealthiest men in the empire handled himself like a felon in an alleyway ambush.

“I’d suspected they might come back looking for you,” he said, his voice clipped, revealing no more emotion or information than a complete stranger would. Gone was the pent-up fury, the monumental rage that had burned through her skin when he touched her. It was as though nothing between them, nothing intimate, had ever happened. He set down his water glass and halfheartedly smoothed the front of his shirt, now splattered with blood. “I’d found the atelier destroyed when I first arrived. Believe me or not. But do believe me when I say that somebody hates you with a passion.”

Her chin jerked up, unwilling to absorb his statement or his transformation. “You knew they were coming, and yet you allowed yourself to…” The words tumbled from her lips. “To engage in what we did, when you knew someone might…” She trailed off, her grip tightening on the glass to the breaking point.

The faint mockery in his voice was disquieting. “We can’t control everything in life, much as we might try. Besides which, I enjoy a certain amount of risk,” he said. “And I think you’re much the same, Lady Hartford.”

The formal use of her name peeled back another layer from her frayed nerves. She stared at a precise spot on Ramsay’s once immaculate white shirt, where the ivory button had popped off. For once in her life she couldn’t explain herself, couldn’t account for the collision of emotions crowding out every thought. Each moment she’d endured so far with Nicholas Ramsay was an outrage she could never hope to understand.

She looked into his eyes and saw cool calculation, an awareness that he knew exactly what he was doing and why.

Irritation and hopelessness fueled her impatience. “None of this makes any sense, at least to me, Mr. Ramsay,” she said, infusing the words with iron. “Speak your business and let’s have done with it.”

Without taking his eyes from her, he sauntered across the room, broken glass crunching under his booted feet. He leaned against the windowpane, this time not bothering to lift the curtain to glance outside. “You still don’t understand,” he said finally. “Maybe you don’t want to understand.”

Helena set down her glass with a thud on top of the cabinet. “You’re speaking in riddles, but I’m giving you one minute to explain yourself.” She let out a short breath, feeling suddenly calm and certain. “Why should I believe that you have nothing to do with this wanton destruction? You’ve asked me repeatedly to trust you, to go along with you when all I can think of is this.” She gestured helplessly around the room, trying to avoid looking at the four bodies slumped on the floor.

“You are asking the impossible!” For emphasis, she scooped up a piece of torn canvas, the corner a livid, vibrant green, before tossing it back to the frayed carpet. “I meant what I said earlier when I entered this room—if you have had anything to do with this abomination, you will pay.”

“You’re not in any position to be exacting retribution.”

“Just watch me.”

“That’s your problem, Helena. You act on emotion. Try counting to ten from time to time.”

“Damnit—I’m leaving.” She kicked at an overturned chair with a jerk of frustration, making her way to the door.

He didn’t bother to come after her, his supreme confidence unnerving. “Do you see what I mean? If you just stopped feeling for a moment and listened, it might do you some good.”

“You bastard.”

He cocked a brow. “A fine and accurate assumption on your part. But never mind that, are you ready to listen?”

A step away from the door, she whirled to face him. “Enough about what I’m supposed to feel or not feel, sir. I’ve had a lifetime of being dictated to by men, and I’m not about to have you of all people move me around like a piece on a chessboard.”

He crossed his arms. “Then what do you propose to do to extricate yourself from this particular situation? It looks like you have half of London eager to ensure you rot away the rest of your life in Bedlam. Not a great prospect—unless you have a solution at the ready.”

Helena hated the condescending tone and she evaded his gaze. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Again. I’ve said it a few times in the last twenty-four hours—I can help you.” He glanced briefly out the window and then had her back in his sights like the marksman he probably was.

“Then you have a peculiar way of showing your regard.”

“You’ve yet to give me the opportunity,” he lied smoothly, no doubt the result of years of practice.

“It’s been difficult—what with your unwelcome attentions.” She regretted the words the minute she’d said them and could have bitten her tongue. She looked away from those hard eyes.

But his faint smile revealed nothing. “If you haven’t noticed already, I’m not a gentleman, and in any case”—he held up both hands in mock defeat—“I refuse to give in to the charade that my attentions were in any way unwelcome. I recognize a woman’s response, and frankly, I’m surprised at your hypocrisy.”

Helena flushed. “Even your referencing this, this…” She was at a loss for words.

Ramsay shrugged carelessly, raising a dark brow. “Where is the free-spirited bohemian, the artistic soul, the woman who cares not a shred about society’s strictures, the renegade who takes and discards lovers as though they were kid gloves?”

“You know nothing about me, sir.” She glowered.

“I know you’re supremely talented and about one minute away from being locked up in Bedlam for the rest of your life. What else is there to know?”

The man had a point. “You have a proposal, a solution?” She shot him an incredulous look. “And how do you intend to gain from it? I don’t think the knight in shining armor is particularly your strong suit.”

Her sense of foreboding didn’t evaporate. It was heightened, particularly when she thought about the way he made her feel. This was what lust was, it occurred to her suddenly, a heady, reckless emotion emerging from a lethal combination of fear and attraction. She put her hand to her forehead and was horrified to find it trembling.

He scrutinized her closely, dissecting her with his eyes. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have a solution to your problems. And by the way, you’re shaking.”

The man didn’t miss much. His stillness was unnerving, his opaque gray eyes giving nothing away, save that they could read her mind. Dear God, she hoped that he would never see into the dark of her soul that she trusted to no one, the part so well hidden, it kept her safe and whole.

“I haven’t had much sleep,” she muttered, forcing her hands to her side.

With a last glance out the window, he stalked toward her. “If you don’t leave with me now, you’ll have the rest of your life to sleep away in your cell at Bedlam. And if, once again, you don’t believe me, just take a look outside this window.” He grabbed her arm. “You’re about to receive a visit from half of London’s constabulary.”

Helena smothered a curse, trying to ignore the hand burning through the fabric of her dress. Her head snapped toward the door, but she knew it no longer offered an option.

She moistened her lips. “You could be lying. Those men could be yours.”

“You know that is entirely illogical.” He paused for a second. “Although something tells me there’s more going on here. You seem to have quite a few enemies, Helena.”

Before she could respond, he swung her toward the stairs. Dear God, the stairs where they had nearly…just minutes ago… She wouldn’t think of that now.

“The stairs lead to the rooftop, which I’m sure you know, and into a back alley.” The man was thorough, having checked out all the entrances and exits in advance. “Once again, you’ve got no choice but to trust me.” He added coolly, “Twice in one day, how unfortunate for you.”

She felt panic once again close her throat as Ramsay squeezed her hand, his movements calm and assured. And like an obedient child, she followed him through the atelier, up the stairs and onto the rooftop into the stinging light of day.