Cool air swirled around Ophelia as she stepped out onto the front step. It was madness, but she couldn’t just run away and leave his door unlocked. She turned the key in the massive iron lock, hearing it engage with a
For a moment, she stood there, taking deep breaths. Ravenhunt’s house was on the outskirts of Mayfair. The entire world seemed to be in the street. Carriages were packed in the street and could barely move. Many people filled the sidewalk after disembarking from their carriages. There was a party going on just two houses from Ravenhunt’s, which meant many people were alighting from their vehicles.
Surely she was safe. Surely no one from the Royal Society would attack in front of all these people.
She had weapons, too. In a drawer in his bedchamber she’d found a box containing two pistols, along with shot and powder. Two loaded pistols weighed down the pockets of the great coat she had found, swinging and hitting her legs as she moved.
Though she prayed she didn’t have to use them. She didn’t want to have to hurt anyone, even villains who wanted to hurt her. She’d done enough killing and hurting through her life.
She was not just escaping Ravenhunt; she was going to escape from her life. She would go away, somewhere far away, where she could hide from other people.
It would mean she would be a prisoner, but at least she would be her own prisoner, instead of being kept hidden and locked up by someone else.
She was going to take charge of her own life. Finally.
Ophelia began to walk down the steps, then stopped. How could she blend into this crowd of people? She would have to walk along the sidewalk with them. She would bump against them, be jostled by them, perhaps she would have to grasp someone to steady herself.
She couldn’t risk hurting anyone, but she had to get away. There was no way now to get to the mews without going back through the house.
At the bottom of the steps, Ophelia held her breath, made her body as slender as possible, and tried to slip between people. But from behind, something struck her and she jerked around in blind panic. A desperate apology sat on her lips—but how could she say sorry for killing someone, not now, but hours or days from now? Whoever had hit her would sicken and die—
It was a walking stick. A gentleman’s stick had hit the back of her leg. Something utterly safe, but it meant the gentleman, who walked with his wife, arms linked, was nearing her.
She stumbled back, clearing the path, as the elderly couple passed her. Then she jumped to the side as a group of foxed young men staggered together toward the party.
“Out of the way,” one of them shouted at her, a short, portly buck. His gaze went over her, taking in her borrowed breeches, shirt, and oversized great coat. “You are no lad. That’s a plump derriere squeezed into those breeches.” His leering and sneering tone made all the others laugh.
Another of the group, skinny with spotty pimples on his cheeks, barked, “She’s a useless, grubby urchin, that’s what she is. She’s blocking the sidewalk.”
She sensed something move beside her. It was the first gentleman, and he’d lifted his hand to grab her.
“Don’t,” she gasped. “Dear God, I could kill you.” She took a quick step to the street, and tripped in Ravenhunt’s too large boots. She fell toward the third of the young, drunk men.
His hand struck her shoulder, but only for a brief second, because he gave her a hard shove out of the way. She fell to her knees, wincing as they struck the ground. “Here,” the man shouted. “Mind your manners with your betters. You don’t walk into gentlemen, you little piece of rubbish.” His hand lifted, as if preparing to deliver a slap.
“Do not touch me,” she cried. She scrambled to her feet and rushed toward the busy street, stumbling off the sidewalk. Horses whinnied, a coachman shouted vile curses at her, and she turned to see hooves clawing at the air above her head. The metal shoes flashed, the horses seemed to be screaming in her ears, her legs felt caught in treacle.
She forced her numb limbs to work and jumped out of the way.
Hard cobblestones struck her hip and her shoulder. She landed on her side, and seemed to bounce off the cold, hard street. Pain screamed through her body, but dazedly, Ophelia got to her feet.
Then she ran like a rabbit, weaving around horses and carriages. Men shouted at her, a riding whip struck her shoulder, which made her cry out. At least the thick fabric of Ravenhunt’s coat absorbed the crack of the lash.
Men chased her. Men in dark coats, some with tall, black beaver hats, who were well dressed, and some who wore rough clothes and gray wool caps.
She ran. She ran in between the carriages, trying to keep close to the vehicles so she could hide, yet avoid hooves, wheels, and whips. Somehow she reached the end of the street without being trampled. She stumbled through the intersection. Sound was everywhere, filling her head with raucous confusion. Her lungs burned with exertion.
She raced across the road to the opposite sidewalk. Sucking in breaths, she stopped against a wrought-iron fence at the front of a house. Her insides felt as if they would heave up. But she didn’t want to stop long. Holding the fence, she dragged herself onward, until she reached a narrow gap between two rows of houses—a small, dark alley. She threw herself into the stinking space, and plastered her back against the damp brick wall.
“What in Hades do you think you’re doing?”
Deep and soft, the masculine voice came out of the shadows. She almost jumped out of her loose boots.
Ravenhunt. He was standing beside her in the shadows, where there had been nothing before. He gripped her wrist. She fought to get free, even as the pain began where his fingertips pressed hard into her flesh.
“Let me go. I’m not going to die as your dinner—”
“You aren’t going to be my dinner.” He released her wrist, but he moved so his body was in front of hers, mere inches away. His large hands braced against the brick on either side of her head. Rough brick bit into her back. He was naked; she couldn’t see him because he loomed over her, but she knew he must not have a stitch of clothing on. His muscular neck was bare. Faint light gleamed on the naked expanse of his wide, straight shoulders and his broad chest. His body stood in front of her like a wall. “I’ve fed on blood and I’ve gained control of my hunger, Ophelia.”
“None of that reassures me in any way,” she protested. “You are telling me you went out and killed someone and drank their blood.” She couldn’t stop staring at his teeth. They looked normal now. No fangs. They must disappear when he was not feeding. When they came out, it must mean he was ready to bite. She watched them nervously.
His lips cranked down in a frown. “I did not kill anyone. Now, listen to me. There are a dozen armed men coming after you. I am the only hope you have—”
“Hope for what?” she threw at him. “Hope that I survive a little longer, until you can no longer resist and you plunge your fangs into my neck? Or do you mean, hope to survive until you take my power so you can then kill me?”
“Love, this is not the place to argue.”
“It will have to do. I am not returning to your house. And I am
He stiffened and twisted to look at the mouth of the narrow alley, while his arms and body kept her trapped. “They’re coming, damn it. I can smell them.”
“We have to run,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“It’s too damned late—”
A sharp, strange sound filled the air—the sound of something snapping. Ravenhunt howled and his body fell forward, pressing her against the wall. She tried to push him back, but she couldn’t move him. Then he slid down, his hands pulling along her arms.
Good heavens, he was collapsing. She froze, because pain was shooting through her arms where he touched her. She couldn’t help him. She could barely move. He fell heavily to the ground, landing on his side.
