An Unlikely Alliance by Patricia Bray Page B

her life was at stake. He pinned her up against the wall of the theater building but she continued to claw at him and struggle even though it was obvious that her slender body held no chance of dislodging him. “All I want is a few answers,” he said.
    Her eyes were huge and frightened.
    “Just tell me what I want to know,” he said. Cautiously, he took his hand from her mouth. “Now start talking.”
    She gulped convulsively. “I’ll not let you kill me,” she said. It was a brave statement, but the trembling of her body belied her seeming courage.
    Alexander felt a prickle of guilt. He had meant to throw a scare into her, but it seemed he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. The girl was truly terrified. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised.
    “How can I believe that after what you’ve done?”
    He stared at her. The Gypsy’s reactions were making no sense. His eyes picked up details that he had missed before—the wig that was now askew, the shawl that was falling off one shoulder. He shifted his grip on her shoulder and felt her wince at the same time as his mind registered the damp stickiness against his palm. A horrible suspicion began to grow in his mind.
    He raised his hand to his lips and the bitter taste of blood confirmed his fears. “What the hell happened to you?”
    Large, dark eyes stared into his as if she could see his soul. “It was your men,” she said simply. “They came for me.” Her eyes darted from side to side as if assessing her chances of making an escape.
    “It wasn’t my men,” he swore. Of course it wasn’t. The runners would never do anything so rash. But someone had tried to harm her, that much was certain.
    She swayed as he released his hold on her. Tearing off his cravat, he folded it into a pad and pressed it against the gash in her neck.
    “This will have to do for now. Just hold your hand here,” he said.
    Obediently she raised her hand to hold the makeshift bandage in place. “I don’t understand,” she said faintly. It was not clear whether she was referring to the attack or to his apparent solicitude. His mind whirled with speculation. Who had attacked her? And why? Had there been a falling-out among the conspirators? But there was no time for questions. She was fading before his eyes.
    “Neither do I. But I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
    He picked her up before she could collapse and carried her back through the streets to his waiting carriage. Her slender frame weighed nothing at all, reinforcing the impression of fragility.
    If John Coachman was surprised to find his employer return carrying a half-conscious woman, he knew better than to say anything. The trip back to the townhouse was accomplished with all due speed and a minimum of jarring, out of consideration for their injured passenger.
    As the carriage drew up in front of his townhouse, Mademoiselle Magda roused herself from her stupor. “Where are we?”
    “Home,” he said simply.
    Her eyes widened as she caught sight of his residence. What had she expected, that he would drag her off to some nefarious hideout where he could dispose of her quietly?
    Climbing out of the carriage, he reached in to help her. “I can walk,” she said, her eyes flashing with a trace of her former determination.
    He did not bother to reply to such an obvious falsehood. It was easier to simply pick her up and carry her up the sixteen steps to his townhouse.
    Dugan met him at the door and followed him into the study, where Alex laid his charge down on the sofa. “There’s been an accident,” Alex said tersely. “I’ll need hot water, some clean linen, and send Luke to me.”
    “I’ll see to it at once, but Mr. Luke is not here, my lord.”
    Damn. Luke should have returned by now, unless he’d found a lead or gotten himself in over his head. But there was no time to worry about Luke. Alex had his own problems to contend with. “Then fetch me his medical bag instead.”
    Turning back to