Sinclair rose. He fired another shot, then he grabbed the remaining lamp and tossed it into the blaze. It burst with a puff of flame, and then fire and smoke filled the tiny space.
Sinclair’s fingers latched around Bertie’s arm, and he shoved her back toward the hole. Bertie paused a split second to snatch up her precious hat, then she climbed through. Sinclair followed, turning around to fire one more time before he dove after her.
He landed and rolled, as Bertie had, but instead of leaping to his feet, he groaned and slipped down to the muck. Bertie ran to him. She got under his arm and lifted him, half dragging him to the stairs. Behind them, she heard Devlin yell, “To hell with this. Get up there and around. I want them.”
Bertie pulled Sinclair up the rickety wooden stairs, praying they wouldn’t give way. Sinclair tripped and staggered, his body heavy on Bertie’s. She’d left the door open, and she reached it, but Sinclair fell at the top of the stairs.
Sobbing, Bertie got him to his feet. He was half unconscious, snapping awake again as Bertie drew him into the hall beyond.
She slammed the door, though there wasn’t much point, and limped with Sinclair down the hall toward where she thought the front door must be.
Halfway along, Sinclair stopped her. “Bertie.” His voice was a little stronger. He turned her to face him. “Bertie, I love you.”
Before Bertie could answer, he hauled her to him, every bit of gentleness gone, and kissed her. She was ground against him, Sinclair’s hands hard on her, the kiss fierce, savage. He smelled of sweat and blood, fear and worry, but his mouth was a place of heat in the cold darkness.
His teeth scraped her lips as he opened her mouth with his. Bertie sank her fingers into his coat, the hat she’d jammed on her head sliding sideways as Sinclair raked her hair from her face. If she let go of him, she knew, she’d tumble into a mire of despair and never be free. Sinclair was her world now, and Bertie would hold on to him through madness and terror, up again into the light.
The kiss turned deeper, as though Sinclair drew all his strength from Bertie. His strength fed her in turn, fires heating her in the bitter chill of this last day of the year.
Sinclair grunted, faltering, and he broke the kiss. Bertie looked up to see pain in his eyes, his strength depleted, the strain of his wound taking the fight out of him.
“We’ve got to go,” she whispered.
Sinclair put his hand under her chin, his fingers ice-cold, and kissed her lips again. “When you get outside, you run. Find Hart’s man. He’ll look after you.”
Fear slashed through her. “I’m not leaving you!”
Sinclair shook his head. “You have to, love. I can’t move faster than a snail right now—a very slow snail.”
“Then we’ll be slow together. Two is better than one. I’m not a precious lady who won’t dare soil her lily-white hands—I know how to kick and fight with the best of them.”
Sinclair slanted her a look as he put his arm around her shoulders and leaned his weight on her. “Are you sure you’re not Scottish?”
“No. But I’m Cockney, and we’re pretty tough.”
“You are, bless you.” Sinclair kissed her on her cheek, which sent her hat sliding again.
Bertie righted it as she helped him down the hall. There was a door at the end, a large thing, bolted shut, but the bolts were fairly new, and a key rested in the lock. Bertie slid the bolts back, turned the key, and pulled open the door. Sinclair smiled grimly at her as they stumbled over the threshold, back into the unwelcoming streets.
Chapter 27
Plenty of people were about, as well as carts, horses, and hawkers. The night had gone dark and icy cold. Lights flashed from carried lanterns, or trickled dimly from windows and lamps along the main street.
“This way,” Bertie said.
Sinclair leaned on her, having no idea where she was leading him, but he trusted her. He knew he’d fall over and expire before too long—Bertie was the only thing holding him up. She had more courage than any soldier he’d ever known, and a caring that left no one behind.
The cold was brutal. Snow started to fall as they staggered along, ice under their boots. Sinclair’s wound had ceased hurting, which he took to be a bad sign.
“There!” Sinclair heard a man shout.
“Hell and damnation,” Sinclair said. “Bertie, go.”
Bertie gave him an anguished look, but she propped him up against a wall and gave him a nod. Tears wet her eyes, but she understood. Things were different out here—plenty of people surrounded them. The thugs would have to gamble that someone on the street wouldn’t come to Sinclair’s aid, or Bertie’s, while she raced to find Richards and Hart’s pugilist.
Another shout went up, but this one the denizens on the streets responded to. “Fire!”
Smoke billowed from the passage that led to Bertie’s cellar. The walls and floor in there were all stone and plaster, without much to burn, but the wall of smoke was thick, the stench strong.
One thing that could pull Londoners together was fire—even the smallest blaze carried the danger of destroying half the city. The great fire of London two hundred years ago had started not far from here, in fact. Devlin and his men got shoved aside, as people began shouting for buckets and the fire brigade.
Sinclair watched Bertie’s gray feathered hat disappear into the throng. She could move, sliding through the crowd, in and out of openings no one else saw. He remembered watching her hat bob along like that the night he’d first seen her, as she disappeared after picking over her mark. Sinclair’s heart swelled. His brave, strong, street-smart lady would outwit them all.