To his surprise, she didn’t panic and flail in his hold. The only sound she made was the initial gasp of surprise as he’d pressed her to the wall. She briefly tested his hold, but only once and subtly. There was no point in resisting his strength, and apparently, she was clever enough not to waste time on futility.
She stilled. But tension radiated from every inch of her form.
Mason’s body responded readily to the proximity of her warmth and her stubborn, subtle resistance. The stirring of lust in his blood was unexpected.
“Release me,” she demanded.
“No.”
“You dare—”
“I dare,” he interrupted in a heavy murmur. “That and more.”
Finally, she tipped her head back to meet his gaze and her hood slid back to reveal a very angry countenance and dark hair smoothed into a twisted chignon.
Dusk was slowly sliding into full night, darkening the shadows in the room, but it wasn’t yet so dark he couldn’t make out the details of her face. If Mason had still harbored any doubts the woman was Freddie’s sister, they would’ve disappeared then. She was basically a female version of the boy, with the same refined bone structure, the same wide, dark, fathomless eyes beneath thick slashing brows. And though her gaze flashed with a familiar intelligence, the way she glared at him before arching one formidable brow in a subtle signal of derision was an expression all her own.
She was a beauty. A woman of elegant wrath and graceful contempt.
Mason was captivated.
Chapter Three
Lady Katherine Blackwell forced her breath to a steady rhythm. Difficult, when she stared up into an intent gaze set within harsh, hardened features. As she noted the furrow in the man’s brow and the insanely strong line of his jaw, the trembling in her belly threatened to expand to her limbs, but she willed it under control.
She could not allow this overmuscled brute to think she was fearful even though the sheer size and obvious strength of him was enough to terrify anyone. Poor Mr. Boothe hadn’t stood a chance against him.
The former Runner had been recommended to her by Lord Shelbourne, an associate of her father’s and the only person she was acquainted with in London. After her father’s death, Shelbourne had sent a letter of condolence, which had been followed up by several more, inquiring after their well-being, offering assistance in any way should she ever need it. Not knowing where else to turn when she discovered Frederick’s disappearance, she’d taken the lord up on his offer. Shelbourne had advised that a personal investigator would be more effective than the authorities and exceedingly more discreet. Apparently, discretion was everything in London society.
Despite Lord Shelbourne’s insistence, there had been several times she’d nearly gone to the authorities anyway. The days and days without a single clue as to what had happened to her brother had been torturous. Then, about a week ago, she’d received a note. Hastily written in Frederick’s hand, it had stated simply that he was well and he’d contact her again soon. Though the note had assured her Frederick was alive, she feared he’d written it under duress.
And then finally today, Boothe received a tip that a boy of Frederick’s description had been seen at this address.
The former Runner had tried arguing with her that it wouldn’t be safe or proper to accompany him to such a place. He’d tried to deter her by explaining the property housed the business of a ruthless moneylender revered and feared for going undefeated in the underground bare-knuckle boxing circuit. A beast of a man named Mason Hale.
But she’d overridden all of his objections. What on earth did any of that matter when her brother was lost and alone in London? If Frederick had truly fallen into such dangerous hands, she wasn’t about to be left waiting at home for word on whether or not her brother had been found and freed.
Watching the brief, unmatched fight between Hale and Boothe, she’d been forced to acknowledge the danger of the situation. But she’d come prepared.
When the sound of her pistol hammer being pulled back drew Hale’s attention, she’d been momentarily stunned by the raw intensity in the man’s eyes. Violence emanated from him. And he didn’t even try to tame it. He appeared to revel in his own brutishness.
Having lived her life in the country, she’d seen farmers and laborers at their work. She knew several large men with barrel chests and huge forearms who would have shuddered at the idea of using their strength for violence. They were gentle giants in comparison to this man whose body had obviously been honed in battle rather than in the fields.
Tall and exceptionally broad of shoulder, Hale had a chest that was less barrel-like and more...brick wallish. Immoveable and imposing. His arms were nearly as thick as a blacksmith’s and his hands were large. His face was bold and squarish with a slightly crooked nose, a hard jaw, and wide lips. His brow was heavy, shadowing eyes that sparked with power.
When he’d walked toward her, each stalking step he’d taken had increased the rate of her heartbeat.
It was fear, yes, but also an acute anticipation unlike anything she’d felt before.
Because she hadn’t known what he would do.
He was brute force and casual control. Considering his size, he should have been slow and clumsy; instead he was grace and strength in perfect harmony. His raffish appearance and tilted grin accompanied thick, gravelly words spoken in a rough, Londoner accent. Yet Hale’s confidence and blatant irreverence suggested he was more than someone’s hired muscle, and he’d barely blinked when she offered to pay him what was likely to be a small fortune. In fact, he’d
