unconscious or dead on top of—Rafe climbed farther inside. “Hello there?”
A muffled cry answered as he wrenched the hefty torso away from a rumpled Miss Greyville-Nugent. Fanny was alive.
“Are you all right?” He rolled the rest of the inert body off her. The deadweight uttered a moan.
She rose up on her elbows. “Captain Savage to the rescue.” She coughed, gasped for a bit of air, but otherwise appeared unharmed. Wild strands of curl haloed her head. Rafe swallowed—so relieved he hardly noticed how tousled and, well, beddable she looked.
“Here, let me help you.” He reached out a hand.
Gingerly, she picked her way out of the van and onto the pavers. While she fluffed up her bustle and patted down skirts, he checked her ankles and limbs for a sprain. She swatted his hand away.
“Apologies. Don’t know what came over me.” A lock of hair had fallen in his eyes. He raked it back.
“Are all Scotland Yard men the cheeky sort?” Excellent. She was more than unharmed; she was the spirited young lady of memory.
He returned her grimace with more of a grin. “Regretfully, worse than cheeky.”
Though she seemed herself again, he knew from experience the shakes would start soon enough, when the excitement wore off and shock set in. He must get her home and into a hot tub. Good God. He imagined the goddess stepping into her bath—a lovely curve of spine, a plump derriere. She turns to reveal those lovely peach mounds . . .
Mentally, he slapped himself.
She looked up from buttoning her boot and grinned. That devilish pixie grin from childhood—the fairy of Lochree—smiling at him. He checked the urge to yank her into his arms and—well, enough of that sort of thing. What a cruel trick of fate this assignment was turning out to be.
Several new men approached the wreckage to lend a hand. “Right. Could one of you shave off a bit of rein and tie up the large character inside? The sorry bloke just attempted to abduct this young lady.” Rafe poked his head inside the compartment to supervise. “Hands and feet both.”
The elder man of the group nodded. “Yes, indeed, sir. This here culprit won’t get away.”
Rafe drew a tuppence from his pocket and called a young groom over. He placed the coin in the boy’s palm. “Make your way to the nearest police station. Report what has happened here. Tell them there has been a kidnapping attempt. Have them send a man round to 28 Randolph Place.” Rafe took out a card and passed it over.
The young groom squinted, mouthed a few words silently, and gasped, “Blimey, Scotland Yard.”
Fanny shivered, crossing her arms under her chest. Rafe’s gaze lingered a moment on her lovely figure covered in black silk before he unbuttoned his coat and draped it around her shoulders. He took a deep breath, turned her around, and steered her into George Square.
“Blimey, Scotland Yard.” She mimicked the voice and wide eyes of the stable boy. “I suppose all of London’s young ladies swoon over a chance meeting with a Scotland Yard detective.”
“Depends on the type of encounter.” Rafe sauntered happily alongside her. “Ladies do tend to swoon during a rescue or very soon after. I prefer the sturdier lass, like yourself, especially if the lady is on the curvy side.”
Fanny laughed. How utterly nostalgic. Her laughter often started as a soft giggle and ended in something wonderfully musical. For the moment, she had forgotten how angry she was with him. He wondered how long it would last.
Rafe opened the gate at the corner and motioned her through.
She waited for him to turn around, sporting her signature pout and accusatory squint. “I suppose this incident means you are thrust upon me for the duration?”
“I am honored to be thrust upon you for the duration.”
Lovely doe brown eyes went wide and somewhat dewy. She marched away, shoulders back and chin forward. He paused to admire the sway and bounce of her bustle. “Fanny.” He caught up to her.
A muffled cry answered as he wrenched the hefty torso away from a rumpled Miss Greyville-Nugent. Fanny was alive.
“Are you all right?” He rolled the rest of the inert body off her. The deadweight uttered a moan.
She rose up on her elbows. “Captain Savage to the rescue.” She coughed, gasped for a bit of air, but otherwise appeared unharmed. Wild strands of curl haloed her head. Rafe swallowed—so relieved he hardly noticed how tousled and, well, beddable she looked.
“Here, let me help you.” He reached out a hand.
Gingerly, she picked her way out of the van and onto the pavers. While she fluffed up her bustle and patted down skirts, he checked her ankles and limbs for a sprain. She swatted his hand away.
“Apologies. Don’t know what came over me.” A lock of hair had fallen in his eyes. He raked it back.
“Are all Scotland Yard men the cheeky sort?” Excellent. She was more than unharmed; she was the spirited young lady of memory.
He returned her grimace with more of a grin. “Regretfully, worse than cheeky.”
Though she seemed herself again, he knew from experience the shakes would start soon enough, when the excitement wore off and shock set in. He must get her home and into a hot tub. Good God. He imagined the goddess stepping into her bath—a lovely curve of spine, a plump derriere. She turns to reveal those lovely peach mounds . . .
Mentally, he slapped himself.
She looked up from buttoning her boot and grinned. That devilish pixie grin from childhood—the fairy of Lochree—smiling at him. He checked the urge to yank her into his arms and—well, enough of that sort of thing. What a cruel trick of fate this assignment was turning out to be.
Several new men approached the wreckage to lend a hand. “Right. Could one of you shave off a bit of rein and tie up the large character inside? The sorry bloke just attempted to abduct this young lady.” Rafe poked his head inside the compartment to supervise. “Hands and feet both.”
The elder man of the group nodded. “Yes, indeed, sir. This here culprit won’t get away.”
Rafe drew a tuppence from his pocket and called a young groom over. He placed the coin in the boy’s palm. “Make your way to the nearest police station. Report what has happened here. Tell them there has been a kidnapping attempt. Have them send a man round to 28 Randolph Place.” Rafe took out a card and passed it over.
The young groom squinted, mouthed a few words silently, and gasped, “Blimey, Scotland Yard.”
Fanny shivered, crossing her arms under her chest. Rafe’s gaze lingered a moment on her lovely figure covered in black silk before he unbuttoned his coat and draped it around her shoulders. He took a deep breath, turned her around, and steered her into George Square.
“Blimey, Scotland Yard.” She mimicked the voice and wide eyes of the stable boy. “I suppose all of London’s young ladies swoon over a chance meeting with a Scotland Yard detective.”
“Depends on the type of encounter.” Rafe sauntered happily alongside her. “Ladies do tend to swoon during a rescue or very soon after. I prefer the sturdier lass, like yourself, especially if the lady is on the curvy side.”
Fanny laughed. How utterly nostalgic. Her laughter often started as a soft giggle and ended in something wonderfully musical. For the moment, she had forgotten how angry she was with him. He wondered how long it would last.
Rafe opened the gate at the corner and motioned her through.
She waited for him to turn around, sporting her signature pout and accusatory squint. “I suppose this incident means you are thrust upon me for the duration?”
“I am honored to be thrust upon you for the duration.”
Lovely doe brown eyes went wide and somewhat dewy. She marched away, shoulders back and chin forward. He paused to admire the sway and bounce of her bustle. “Fanny.” He caught up to her.
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