He found her on the first floor, crouched by an enormous wooden silo, in a pool of lantern light, in a room that smelled like wheat. She was holding a jar of beige powder and leaning over the damn bag she carried everywhere.
Tommy pulled up straight just inside the entrance to the room, sucking in a deep breath—what felt like the first one he’d taken since he’d opened the door to the Trevescan library and discovered she’d given him the slip.
He rubbed one hand across his chest as he exhaled—trying to ease the tightness there, even as he knew it would not dissipate. At least, not until this woman was out of his life and had taken her chaos with her.
Christ.
“I’ve changed my mind; I am going to make it my life’s purpose to get you married.”
She did not look up from her task as she lowered the jar into the bag, slowly. Instead, she said, “While I am sympathetic to your deep-rooted sense of responsibility, Tommy, and more than impressed with your commitment to your promise to my brother, I would appreciate it if you did not distract me.”
His brow furrowed and he took a step closer. “What is that?”
“Mercury fulminate.”
He stilled. Tommy had been investigating the explosions throughout London long enough to know that mercury fulminate had been used in the other two in the East End. He also knew that, in the wrong hands, it could cause the whole place to go, and them with it. Her with it. “Dammit, Imogen—leave it. I’ll handle getting it out of here.”
“No need. It’s perfectly safe when handled properly.”
“And is carting it around in a carpetbag proper handling?”
“Not for most people, no. But I am not most people.” Was she smiling? He couldn’t see it in the dim light, but he could swear he heard it. She finished seating the jar within the bag and returned to the silo, ignoring the bag and him, as though this were all completely normal.
“You do realize that I’ve just discovered you inside a burning building with an explosive.”
She stood and wiped her hands on her skirts. “And do you have reason to believe I have taken enough leave of my senses to be inside this burning building, with an explosive, by design?”
He didn’t. Despite the proximity this woman seemed to have to murder and mayhem, Tommy had never believed she was responsible for it. Not even at the beginning, when he hadn’t understood her. What he understood was that he wanted her out of this place.
He wanted her safe. And not only because it was his job.
Not that he was willing to admit it to her. “I have reason to believe you’ve taken leave of your senses in any number of ways,” he said.
“It is remarkable how everyone thinks I am the mad one,” Imogen grumbled.
Before he could ask her to explain, there was a rumble outside the room, where a half-dozen men climbed the stairs, buckets in hand, to fight the fire.
“They’ll need salt and alum to keep the fire from spreading while they fight it,” she said, all casual, as she snatched up the lantern and crouched low to look under the silo.
Tommy did not move. “They know.”
“I assume Beast and Hattie have it under control.” She paused, reaching a hand into the darkness, and Tommy held his breath. “They’ve handled fire here before.”
He didn’t want to talk about what the Sedley-Whittingtons had handled before. Not when this woman was destroying him, pulling words from him like “When I get you out of here, I’m going to turn you over my knee.”
“I’m nearly done,” she replied, the words entirely lacking in concern.
“Nearly done—” His indignation strangled the words in his throat. “Imogen, the whole place is aflame.”
“Not the whole place,” she said calmly into the darkness under the silo as she reached beneath it, feeling about for something. Hopefully not something flammable. “And when I am through it will remain largely un-aflame.”
“Imogen. Look at me.”
He wanted to see her eyes. Wanted to know she was as unconcerned as she sounded.
“I cannot, I’m afraid,” she said, pressing her cheek to the floor.
“Why not?”
“Because, you are a distraction, Tommy Peck,” she said. “And I would like very much for my friend to have as much of her brewery as possible in the morning.”
Satisfied, she came to her knees and pressed her hands to her thighs, one hand clenched in a fist. She took a deep breath. “I would like to have as much of the Docklands as possible in the morning,” she said, to herself more than to him.
And then, before he could reply, she said softly, with a voice that threatened to crack, “I would like very much for them to lose tonight.”
He recognized the frustration in the words. The quiet, barely-there admission that she was tired. But more than that, he recognized the meaning in them. Imogen knew who was behind the explosions. He was sure of it.
“Who? Who are they?” He took a step toward her, wanting to help her up. Wanting to get her out. Wanting her to see that they were on the same side. “Tell me—”
“No,” she said firmly, holding up a hand, and did not look in his direction. “Don’t move. If you knock the bag—”
He stilled at the words, wanting to take her by the shoulders and shake her and carry her out of this building and off the docks and out of fucking Britain until he was sure she was safe.
But he did as she asked, and did not move.
Instead, he watched her, silent sentry, ready to carry her from yet another building if it was required. She stood and moved to the bag, fussing within before snapping it closed.
Tommy held his breath when she lifted it, even as she moved toward him with smooth purpose, as though she were carrying a basket of baked goods for a church tea and not a bag full of explosives.
She lifted the lantern when she drew close, and he fought the urge to rub at the tightness in his chest once more as she smiled, bright and beautiful and unconcerned.
With a little head tilt, she inspected him. He knew what she found—the opposite of her own demeanor. Frozen in place, fists clenched, every muscle in his body strung tight like a bow. Ready to fight any villain if it meant keeping her safe.
His jaw ached with tension.
“You are angry with me.”
He shook his head. “Angry does not begin to describe how I feel about you right now.”
Something softened in her gaze and it made him come even further unstitched. “You were concerned.”
“Am. Am concerned. Present tense,” he said, the words tight in his throat.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I shan’t tell my brother I gave you the slip.”
He released a harsh breath. “You think I care about what your fucking brother thinks right now?”
Her brows rose at his foul language. “Do you not?”
His throat worked, and her gaze flickered to it. He hated what she saw there. How it revealed more than he would ever admit. “I want you out of this building. Now.”
She waved the lantern in the direction of the door. “I am not the one blocking the exit, Detective Inspector.”
The words were punctuated with a creak from above—a sound Tommy did not like, all things considered.
He stepped aside to let her pass. “Down, Imogen.”
“And here I was thinking the street was up,” she quipped.
Swallowing his irritated growl, Tommy followed close behind her as she descended the narrow staircase, keeping his gaze on the carpetbag that was the most serious threat to her person.
At the base of the stairs, ten yards from the entrance to the warehouse, with a straight shot to the outside, Tommy could see Mithra Singh standing, wringing her hands. Inside, the great, cavernous warehouse was circled with stairs, circling up to the top of the building, allowing for access to the windows and a wide open view to the roof, but Tommy didn’t look to where the fire brigade was doing their best to keep the flames at bay—all he could look at was Imogen, curls bouncing, hips swaying and carrying that infernal bag containing a deadly explosive device, as though everything were perfectly normal.
If he hadn’t been so focused on the damn bag, he might have looked up. Might have heard the massive crack a heartbeat earlier.
By the time he heard it, she’d slowed, turning her face up to the ceiling and the chorus of warnings shouted from above. He didn’t follow her gaze, not even when she turned wide eyes on him in what seemed like impossibly slow motion.
Instead, he ran for her, snatching the bag from her hands and pushing her toward the door with the singular goal of keeping her safe. Miss Singh came forward to catch Imogen as she stumbled over the threshold, even as Tommy dropped the bag and kicked it away, just in time, as a too-large hunk of wood came down on top of him, the jagged edge of it scraping over his arm, leaving a wicked sting in its wake as it sent him to his knees.
Imogen, the madwoman, was coming back for him. “Tommy! Are you—”
And then he was mad, too. He pointed to the docks beyond and shouted, “Get the hell out!”
She blinked at the words, at the wild shout of them. And then she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and said, “Not without you, you lummox.”
In all his years brawling his way through East London, followed by nine as a Scotland Yardsman and two more as a detective inspector—no one had ever called Tommy Peck a lummox. He didn’t care for it. “What did you say?”
He struggled to his feet, as she came to help him. “I’ll be happy to repeat it once we get outside and you are safe.”
“You don’t keep me safe, Imogen Loveless. I keep you safe.”
“Oh, right. In this play, you act the part of my nursemaid. I forgot.”
This damn woman. Did she not know how she’d incited him in the last three hours? Did she not understand that such things had repercussions?
She bloody well would. He would tell her. In great detail. But first, he snatched her bag from where he’d kicked it and pulled her from the building at a clip, passing her friends and his foes, ignoring them as they called out, finally stopping where their lights faded and the shadows began.
Only then, when they were as far from mayhem as possible, did he risk looking at her. And that was when he realized his mistake. As long as he was near Imogen, mayhem was not far.
And in moments like this, he would not be able to resist it.
He set the bag on the ground and pulled her far from it, a flood of emotions coursing through him—fear and fury and frustration and relief, acute and intense.
And need.
It was the need he could not deny.
He pulled her to him, not caring that half the Docklands could see them, not caring that any number of people who could orchestrate the end of his career were in shouting distance.
All he cared about was having his hands on her.
She came without hesitation, her own hands sliding to find purchase on his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair as she released a little sigh and turned up to his kiss.
He searched her face, running his thumb over her rosy cheek, marveling at the softness of the curls that clung to his hand. “I should take you home.”
“Do you want to take me home?”
He didn’t. For one, wild moment, it occurred to him that he didn’t want to take her anywhere . . . because here, in this place, surrounded by her friends, no one was interested in separating them.
But he should.
“I should bring you home and tuck you into bed,” he said to himself more than to her. “I should see you safe and asleep.”
And damned if this magnificent woman didn’t flash him the sweetest smile and say, “Whose home?”
The question thrummed through him—no longer in a bed with fluffy pillows and pristine bedclothes fit for a princess born into her world, but now in his bed in Holborn—big enough for a man of his size, but without the frills and frippery suited to a woman like Imogen.
Still, they’d make do.
He closed his eyes against the image, which was a mistake, because the action only clarified it. And when he opened them again, she was looking up at him with those enormous brown eyes rimmed with those impossibly long lashes, and he had no choice but to kiss her.
Before he could lean down and claim her mouth, however, she stopped a hairsbreadth away from him and whispered, “Thank you.”
He was too full of her to understand. “For what?”
She smiled, and he imagined he could taste it, slow and sinful and sweet. “For coming to rescue me.”
He claimed her mouth, needing the feel of her, the scent of her, the taste of her, the softness of her lips, the sweet way they opened to let him in as though he belonged there, inside her.
Pleasure thrummed through him, pooling hot and deep, and he was instantly hard with the wildness of the evening—the memory of her coming around his fingers crashing into the knowledge that she’d been inside a burning building and could have been hurt. Desire was a wild riot inside him . . . a need to claim her. To mark her safe. To mark her his.
Madness.
He’d never felt this way. Never wanted anything the way he wanted this woman in this moment. It was unsettling and infuriating and terrifying.
And irresistible.
And he didn’t care. God knew he should. God knew he was on the cusp of ruining this glorious woman—of making it impossible for her to live the life for which she was born.
But she’d been in danger, and he’d been out of control, and now he had his hands on her, and, Christ, he could feel how much she liked it in the way her hands trembled at his skin as they slid over his shoulders, and her tongue slid over his, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to stop.
She gripped his arm, using his strength to press herself closer. To kiss him properly, and he reveled in it—in being strength for her use.
Until pain lanced down his arm, a lick of fire that had him ending the kiss on a gasp. Her eyes went wide and she released him, turning her palm up, revealing fingers dark with blood. His blood.
“Dammit, Tommy!”
He shook his head and tried to pull away. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s absolutely not nothing,” she said, taking his hand in a firm grip and tugging him toward the light once more. “Frances! Help!”
The woman who’d been in conversation with the Duchess of Trevescan turned at the urgent cry, already moving toward them.
“Imogen, it’s fine.” He’d had worse. Like having to let her go.
Ignoring him, she said, “He’s been hurt.”
Embarrassment coursed through Tommy. “I’m fine.”
“Where?” the woman named Frances asked Imogen.
“His arm.” Imogen held out her hand. “He’s bleeding.”
“Best get him out of that shirt,” Frances said.
“I’m perfectly able to hear you both,” he cut in.
Frances looked to him. “Excellent. Then please remove your shirt, Mr. Peck.”
He absolutely wasn’t doing that. “I don’t think—”
Before he could finish refusing politely, a tear sounded in the darkness, and he stared down at Imogen, the wicked blade he’d found beneath her skirts earlier in the evening now in her hand . . . and the sleeve of his shirt now hanging in pieces at the shoulder.
“Something fell on him,” Imogen said to the other woman, who was already turning him to inspect his arm in the light from a nearby lantern.
“Mmm,” Frances said thoughtfully. “You’ll need stitching, I’m afraid.”
“I can do it myself,” he said. It wasn’t the first time he did such a thing, nor would it be the last.
“And no doubt that would be pretty indeed,” she replied, already reaching into the heavy black satchel that hung across her body.
Tommy had the clear sense that he was not being given a choice as she extracted a brown glass bottle and a handkerchief. Uncorking the bottle, she announced, “Water,” and then poured a liberal amount of the liquid on his arm and the handkerchief, soaking it through. “Let’s get a good look at this wound.” He hissed as she poked and prodded at him.
“Really, Tommy,” Imogen said, sounding altogether too happy. “You are making a meal of it.”
“All men make a meal of it,” Frances replied. “Why do you think I choose to work with women?”
“I think most women would dislike someone rooting around in their wounds,” he said through gritted teeth. “Ow!” he said as she squeezed the edges together.
“Well!” The Duchess of Trevescan clapped her hands as she approached, something close to joy in her voice. “The fire is contained, and though it will take a bit of time, Mithra won’t lose everything.”
Imogen let out a sound that was close to delight, and he couldn’t help but look to her, and revel in the relieved, bright eyes she turned on her friend. “We win,” she said.
I would like very much for them to lose tonight.
Imogen’s words from earlier.
“Tonight,” the Duchess said, the words rich and warm and triumphant in her Mayfair accent. “What’s happening here? Are you hurt, Detective Inspector?”
“Yes,” Imogen said, as he replied, “No.”
Duchess looked to Frances. “There appears to be some confusion.”
“No confusion. He’s a nasty slice on his arm.”
Duchess looked to him. “That’s what you get when you take off your expensive coat, Mr. Peck.”
Tommy gritted his teeth as Imogen laughed. “Don’t needle him, Duchess. I hear he was hauling water.”
“He was indeed. It was difficult to miss,” Duchess said, looking at him. “Making Scotland Yard look like a worthy endeavor tonight.”
He didn’t care what Scotland Yard seemed like that night, if he were honest, but he did not reply.
“You shall have to tell me all about it in great detail,” Imogen quipped, and Tommy thanked his Maker for the beard that hid the heat that spread across his cheeks at the words. “Just as soon as Frances sews him up.”
As if on cue, Frances reached into her bag for a second bottle and looked to him. “You’re not going to like this bit.”
“Because men make a meal of things?”
“No, because it’s going to hurt.” Frances looked to Imogen. “Perhaps you ought to distract him.”
Imogen nodded and stood directly in front of him, setting one warm hand to his cheek, tipping his face up to look at her, her black curls blowing wild around her face, cheeks red with the cold wind coming off the river.
Christ, she was pretty.
He resisted the urge to put his hand over hers on his cheek.
“You did very well on the water line, Tommy,” she said softly.
Why did that make him want to preen?
He didn’t have time to think through the answer, because Frances took that moment to pour the liquid over his wound. He cursed, low and foul, and said, “What is that?”
“Gin,” she said with a shrug. “There is a growing belief that alcohol on a wound aids healing.”
“I would have preferred to drink it,” he grumbled, rolling his shoulder in an attempt to shake off the pain.
“I feel the same, truly,” Frances said. “But my partner is legions smarter than me, and I do what she says. Now, let’s get you stitched.”
“I’m afraid you won’t be stitching Mr. Peck, Frances,” Duchess said. “We’ve a few men with burns from the fire who need tending, and they take precedence over the Inspector.”
Imogen patted Tommy’s cheek. “Duchess doesn’t mean to insult, Tommy.”
“Of course not,” Duchess agreed. “I’m leaving you in more than capable hands, Mr. Peck.”
She meant Imogen’s hands. Hands that Tommy knew were more than capable. Hands he’d experienced earlier that evening. Hands to which he would happily turn himself over if given another opportunity.
Except the opportunity that presented itself didn’t seem pleasurable.
Indeed, as he looked at the women, considering him with a collection of suspicious smiles, he realized the opportunity that presented itself involved Imogen taking a needle to him.
He shook his head. “No.”
Frances was already turning away—heading to patients in more serious circumstances. But he heard her as she tossed over her shoulder, “I wouldn’t fret. Imogen is excellent with a needle.”
