“I heard a noise,” her son said by way of embarrassed explanation.
Her attacker stood absolutely still as Millie lunged for Jakub, and she sent a silent prayer of gratitude that he’d let her go. “I know. I’m sorry. L-let’s get you back to bed.” Desperate to get him away from the intruder, she scooped little Jakub up and ran for his room. Once inside, she set him down and locked the door, leaning back against it and trying to slow her panicked breaths.
“Who was that?” Jakub’s eyes remained as large and round as an owl’s.
How did she answer that question? He was a dangerous man. One she’d allowed to kiss her earlier that night, one who’d followed her home for Lord-knew-what nefarious purpose. Her behavior had brought this on them, she’d acted like a wanton and put her child in danger.
“Why was he kissing you?” Her son didn’t wait for an answer to his first question before pressing forward.
Millie opened her mouth to answer, distressed that she could still taste the masculine flavor of his lips on her own. Had he broken in to molest her? To finish what they’d started in that nook beneath the stairs? Had he intended to rape her?
“Is that my father?”
Millie’s hand flew to her chest. “What in God’s name would make you think that?” she puffed, reaching for the bell-pull in Jakub’s room and tugging on it twice, with a pause and then once more.
The signal to George Brimtree of danger. He would bring his gun, and this would all be over.
Jakub followed her around as she checked the lock on the door, paced away, checked it again.
“At school Rodney Beaton said that mothers had to kiss fathers whenever they were told.”
“Rodney Beaton is a half-wit,” Millie muttered without thinking, before taking Jakub into her arms and holding him tight. “That man … he’s not your father,” she said more gently. “He’s…”
She heard the attic door burst open and George Brimtree’s heavy footfalls pounded toward the locked door.
“An intruder, George, in my rooms,” she called through the heavy wood.
“I’ll get ’im with old Francesca, ’ere,” George bellowed back. Francesca, of course, being the name of his rifle.
Millie could hear him charging her rooms. “Be careful!” she called belatedly. George was a big man. He’d been a foot soldier for years, and worked his way up into a rifle brigade. But somehow she knew that, even with the weapon, he wasn’t going to stand a chance against the profligate who’d followed her home.
Praying for his survival, Millie didn’t breathe again until she heard her butler limping back down the hallway. “All clear, Miss Millie. Inn’t no one there. I checked every crack and cranny.”
Hesitantly, Millie unlocked the door and peeked into the dimly lit hallway, shaking more now than when she’d actually been in the clutches of the brute. She would have laughed at the sight of portly George in his nightshirt and hat, clutching the ancient rifle to his chest, if she wasn’t so shaken.
“Are you ’urt, Miss Millie?” he asked. “Is wee Jakub all right?”
“We’re fine, George,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice.
“Must’ve lit out the window. Though I can’t see ’ow he’d do it without breaking ’is legs.” The old man looked stymied.
“Best send for Scotland Yard, George,” Millie said, shutting the door and turning back to poor wide-eyed Jakub, gathering him into her arms again.
That’s it, tomorrow she was installing bars on all the windows, or she’d never sleep again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Please—don’t hurt my son. The words echoed through the cold, biting February rain as it whipped through the narrow streets of the East End. Argent couldn’t tell whose voice roared against the storm rolling down from the north. Millie LeCour’s? Or his mother’s?
Numbness stole the dexterity from his limbs, though whether the culprit was the freezing temperature or the pounding in his head, he couldn’t be certain. Suddenly he felt as though he’d run several leagues. His ribs tightened around his lungs, inhibiting his breath. His heart tossed itself against its cage, throbbing in his ears, through his muscles, and in the very marrow of his bones.
Was it truly so cold outside? Or could it be the startling contrast between the chill of the evening and the warmth of the flesh he’d had pressed against him only moments ago?
Trying to remember how long he’d been running, he plunged into darker streets, down the most dangerous alleys, with names like Cutthroat Corner or Hang Tree Row. He couldn’t seem to stop. If he stood still his skin might peel away from his body. And with nothing to shield his awareness, he might blow away in the storm.
Objectively, he’d always wondered if the black, cold void in his chest would expand to swallow him whole. Maybe that’s what he was running from. Evisceration. Oblivion.
For as long as he could remember. Since … since the night he’d been left alone in this world, he’d often felt as though he existed outside of his body. That he walked alongside himself, behind his own head, detached, apart, an emotionless observer to the blood he spilled. His body existed as an animated corpse, bone and vein, but bereft of a soul. Of whatever passion that made a being fundamentally human. What caused them to sigh at a poem, or see themselves within a painting. Take offense at their neighbor or start a war out of greed.