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‘As if I would have time to be counting.’
She saw the hint of amusement in his eyes as he moved aside and let her pass through.
Emma did not look back. Just got on with serving the tableloads of customers that were outside in the alley. But all the while she was conscious that he was inside. Too conscious. She smiled wryly to herself and got on with clearing the outside tables before returning to the taproom.
There was not a seat to be had inside. Ned was leaning against the bar, comfortable, already sipping a porter. He looked unconcerned by the crowd, by the heat, by not having a chair or table.
‘Six porters, two small beers and a stout, Emma!’ Paulette shouted and thumped the last of the tankards down on the wooden counter beside Ned.
Emma continued her quick pace to the bar and, while unloading her tray, slid a glance in Ned Stratham’s direction.
‘Busy in here tonight,’ he observed.
‘There’s a schooner in at the docks. We’ve had the full crew in since lunchtime.’
‘Good business.’
‘But bad timing. Tom did not come in today. Nancy is in the kitchen, cooking in his place.’ She started loading up the fresh porters while she spoke.
‘Bet that’s made her all sweetness and light.’
‘You know her so well.’
With impeccable timing, Nancy’s face, beet-red with heat and running with sweat, appeared at the hatch as she thumped three plates down. ‘Three mixed grills!’ She flicked a crabbed gaze in Emma’s direction.
‘Where’s me bleedin’ platter?’ someone shouted from the other side of the room.
‘Any more of your lip and it’ll be up your bleedin’ backside,’ Nancy snapped in reply and riveted the man with a look that would have blistered paint on a door.
Emma’s and Ned’s eyes met in shared silent amusement. ‘Enjoy your porter,’ she said and then she was off, collecting the platters on her way to deliver the porters.
‘Come on, wench! My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut! How long’s a fellow got to wait in this place for a drink?’ a punter shouted from the table in the middle of the floor.
‘We’re working as fast as we can!’ screeched a flustered Paulette from behind the bar, her face scarlet and sweaty.
‘Five porters, gentlemen.’ Emma’s voice, although quiet in comparison to the rowdy conversation, shouts and laughter in the place, stood out because she sounded like a lady. She worked quickly and efficiently, setting a tankard on the table before each man before moving on to deliver the rest of the drinks from her tray.
Ned watched her bustle across the room to the big table in the corner where the crew of the schooner looked three sheets past a sail. He felt himself stiffen as one of them copped a sly grope as she leaned across the table with a drink.
Her movement was subtle and slight, but very effective. The contents of the tankard ended up in the worm’s lap.
The sailor gave a yelp, followed by a curse, staggering to his feet and staring down at the sodden stain rapidly spreading over his trousers. ‘Look what the hell you’ve done!’
His crewmates were all laughing.
‘I am so sorry,’ she said without the slightest bit of sincerity. ‘I will fetch you another porter. Let us just hope it does not go the same way as the first one.’ And there was the steely hint of warning in her eye as she said it.
Grumbling, the man sat down.
‘I wonder where you got that idea,’ Ned Stratham said when she returned to the bar. He kept his focus on the token tumbling over his fingers.
‘I wonder,’ she said.
He moved his gaze to her. The strands of her hair had escaped its pins to coil like damp ebony ivy against the golden skin of her neck. The swell of her breasts looked in danger of escaping the red bodice. He could see the rise and fall of it with her every breath. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat and her eyes, sparkling black as cut jet, held his. They shared a smile before she hurried off across the room again. She was so vivid and vital and alive that the desire he normally held in check surged through him.
Ned wasn’t the only one, judging by the way the sailors were looking at her. After months away at sea most men had two things on their mind—drink and women. They were tanked up on the first and were now seeking the second.
‘What you doing later, darlin’? Me and you, we could step out for a little drink.’
‘Hands off, Wrighty, she’s coming home with me, ain’t that right, Emma darling?’ another said.
‘Neither is possible, I’m afraid, gentlemen. I’m meeting my betrothed,’ she said without missing a beat while clearing empties from their table.
‘Shame.’
The other looked less than convinced. His gaze meandered with greed and lust over the length of her body as she returned to the bar. He wasn’t alone. A man would have had to have water in his veins not to want her. And what was flowing in the veins of the sailors was far from water.
One drink, Ned had told himself. And yet he couldn’t walk away now. Not even had he wanted to. He ordered another porter from Paulette.
* * *
It was an hour before the bustle waned and another two before Paulette rang the bell for last orders.
Half an hour later and what remained of the Red Lion’s clientele had emptied into the alleyway outside.
Emma leaned against the edge of a table, taking the weight off her feet, while fastening her cloak in place. The taproom was empty. The tables had been wiped down, the stools upturned on the tabletops. The floor had been swept ready to be mopped the next day. Ned Stratham had gone some time while she had been in the kitchen helping Nancy scrape the grills clean. Gone without saying goodbye, she thought, and then realised how stupid that thought was. He was just a customer like all the rest. And if she had any sense in her head she should be glad of it.
‘Ned Stratham’s got his eye on you, Em,’ Paulette teased with a sly face.
‘Nonsense.’ Emma concentrated on fastening her cloak and hoped the dimness of the candlelight hid her blush.
‘I saw the way he was watching you. Asking questions, too.’
‘Too much time on his hands,’ said Emma dismissively.
Paulette smirked. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘What a night!’ Nancy swept in from the kitchen. ‘Tom better show tomorrow or there’ll be trouble.’
Nancy unlocked the front door to let Emma and Paulette leave. ‘Watch yourself, girls, we got a few stragglers.’
Emma gave a nod as she and Paulette stepped out into the alleyway.
The last of the evening light had long since faded to an inky dark blue. The day’s heat had cooled. Behind them the kitchen door closed with a slam. A lone sailor stood waiting before them.
Emma met Paulette’s eyes.
‘It’s all right, Em. George said he’d wait for me. He’s the boatswain off the ship that’s in,’ explained Paulette.
Emma lowered her voice. ‘Paulette—’
‘I know what I’m doing, honest, Em. I’ll be all right,’ Paulette whispered and walked off down the alleyway with the boatswain.
Behind her Emma heard Nancy slide the big bolts into place across the door, locking her out into the night. The only light in the darkness was that from the high-up kitchen window.
Emma turned to head home, in the opposite direction to the one that Paulette and her beau had taken, just as two men stepped into the mouth of the alley ahead.
Chapter Three (#ulink_8ab85e92-4e23-5344-9ad7-52958a2a51de)
‘Emma, darlin’, you’ve been telling us porkies.’ Through the flicker of the kitchen lamps she recognised the sailor who had asked her to step out with him for a drink. He was unshaven and the stench of beer from him reached across the distance between them. His gaze was not on her face, but lower, leering at the pale skin of her exposed décolletage. Her heart began to thud. Fear snaked through her blood, but she showed nothing of it. Instead, she eyed the men with disdain and pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
‘Good job we came back for you, since there’s no sign of your “betrothed.” Maybe now we can get to know each other a bit better.’
‘I do not think so, gentlemen.’
‘Oh, she don’t think so, Wrighty. Let us convince you, darlin’.’ They gave a laugh and started to walk towards her.
Emma’s hand slid into the pocket of her cloak, just as Ned Stratham stepped out of the shadows by her side.
She smothered the gasp.
His face was expressionless, but his eyes were cold and dangerous as sharp steel. He looked at the men. Just a look. But it was enough to stop them in their tracks.
The sailor who had done the talking stared, and swallowed, then held up his hands in submission. ‘Sorry, mate. Didn’t realise...’
‘You do now,’ said Ned in a voice that for all its quiet volume was filled with threat, and never shifting his hard gaze for an instant.
‘All right, no offence intended.’ The sailors backed away. ‘Thought she was spinning a line about the betrothed thing. She’s yours. We’re already gone.’
Ned watched them until they disappeared and their footsteps faded into the distance out on to St Catherine’s Lane. Only then did he look at Emma.
In the faint flickering light from the kitchen window, his eyes looked almost as dark as hers, turned from sky-blue to midnight. He had a face that was daunted by nothing. It would have been tough on any other man. On him it was handsome. Firm determined lips. A strong masculine nose with a tiny bump upon its ridge. His rogue eyebrow enough to take a woman’s breath away. Her heart rate kicked faster as her gaze lingered momentarily on it before returning to his eyes.
‘What are you doing here, Ned?’ she asked in wary softness.
‘Taking the air.’
They looked at one another.
She’s yours. The echo of the sailor’s words seemed to whisper between them, making her cheeks warm.
‘I didn’t think you’d be fool enough to walk home alone in the dark through these streets.’
‘Normally I do not. Tom lives in the next street up from mine. He usually sees me home safe.’
‘Tom’s not here.’
‘Which is why I borrowed one of Nancy’s knives.’ She slid the knife from her pocket and held it between them so that the blade glinted in the moonlight.
‘It wouldn’t have stopped them.’
‘Maybe not. But it would have done a very great deal of damage, I assure you.’
The silence hissed between them.
‘You want to take your chances with the knife? Or you could accept my offer to see you home safe.’
She swallowed, knowing what he was offering and feeling her stomach turn tumbles within. ‘As long as you understand that it is just seeing me safely home.’ She met his gaze, held it with mock confidence.
‘Are you suggesting that I’m not a gentleman?’ His voice was all stony seriousness, but he raised the rogue eyebrow.
‘On the contrary, I am sure you are the perfect gentleman.’
‘Maybe not perfect.’
She smiled at that, relaxing a little now that the shock of seeing him there had subsided, and returned the knife blade to its dishcloth scabbard within the pocket of her cloak.
‘We should get going,’ he said. And together they began to walk down the alleyway.
Their footsteps were soft and harmonious, the slower, heavier thud of his boots in time with the lighter step of her own.
They walked on, out on to St Catherine’s Lane. Walked along in silence.
‘You knew those sailors would be waiting for me, didn’t you?’
‘Did I?’
‘You do not fool me, Ned Stratham.’
‘It’s not my intention to fool anyone.’
She scrutinised him, before asking the question that she’d been longing to ask since the first night he had walked into the Red Lion. ‘Who are you?’
‘Just a man from Whitechapel.’
‘And yet...the shirt beneath your jacket looks like it came from Mayfair. And is tailored to fit you perfectly. Most unusual on a man from Whitechapel.’ He was probably a crook. A gang boss. A tough. How else did a man like him get the money for such a shirt? Asking him now, when they were alone, in the dark of the night, was probably not the wisest thing she had ever done, but the question was out before she could think better of it. Besides, if she did not ask him now, she doubted she would get another chance. She ignored the faster patter of her heart and held his eyes, daring him to tell her something of the truth.
‘You’ve been eyeing up my shirt.’
She gave a laugh and shook her head. ‘I could not miss it. Nor could half the chop-house. You have had your jacket off all evening.’
‘But half the chop-house would not have recognised a Mayfair shirt.’ Half in jest, half serious.
Her heart skipped a beat, but she held his gaze boldly, as if he were not treading so close to forbidden ground, brazening it out. ‘So you admit it is from Mayfair?’
‘From Greaves and Worcester.’
‘How does a Whitechapel man come to be wearing a shirt from one of the most expensive shirt-makers in London?’
