Page 136 of When We Touch

“I know, but . . .”

“What?”

“You know she loves you,” Cecilia said.

“All that matters is that I find her now,” he replied, and freed his hand. Time. He had to hurry. He’d seen Adrian Alexander in action before.

And he believed that the man was capable of anything.

* * *

Maggie woke because of the water being thrown on her face.

For a moment, all she knew was that it was cold and startling. Then she realized that she was lying on a hard stone floor, that her cape and wig had been snatched from her, and that someone powerful and very angry had not just sluiced her face with water, but was then nearly suffocating her, scrubbing away with a vengeance at the theatrical paint she had been wearing.

Instinct made her fight. Fingers wound into her hair, pulling so hard that tears came to her eyes. Then the hold eased, but as she fought to get the cloth from her face, she became aware of another, far more terrifying sensation.

There was a knife at her throat.

She held very still, barely breathing.

“There, there! I knew you weren’t a stupid girl. You’re not about to scream, are you, Lady Langdon? You’re quite fond of living. Who wouldn’t be, in your position. Funny thing is, I didn’t get who the girl was right off. But, after our little debacle, I naturally tried to discover just who you might be. And when I looked back, I found the newspaper reports, and . . . I honestly didn’t recognize you last night. But then, something warned me . . . some spirit, maybe! So I waited tonight, and watched.”

It was almost completely dark. Maggie thought that after he knocked her out, he must have dragged her into an empty house or factory. It was damp, and freezing, as well. Only a pale illumination seeped in through broken windows from the streets beyond.

Alexander seemed to have the eyes of a cat, or else he was accustomed to the darkness and the shadow of the East End. He knew her discomfort as well, knew that he held all the advantages.

“You thought that you would strike a blow against me tonight, eh? Good heavens, woman, what on earth is wrong with you? Haven’t you heard—there’s a madman out there. Why bother with a spiritualist?”

He started to laugh. The knife edged closer to her throat. If she took a breath at that second, her flesh would be cut. She remained dead still. Chills swept through her as she remembered how he had come in the night before.

With his hands wet.

As if he had just washed them.

Washed away . . .

Blood.

She fought the rising panic within her. Whether this man was actually Jack the Ripper or not didn’t really matter—since his intent was to kill her!

“You know, though, m’lady, you actually make many an unfortunate in this area look like a saint. Ah, well, perhaps that’s pushing it. They’re whores, wretched whores, wanting their alcohol more than there own silly little lives. If Jackie weren’t taking his knife to the bitches, they’d die soon enough anyway, rotting to pieces from pickling their own innards! But then, that’s the likes of them. And there’s the likes of you. What a high price to be paid for your companionship! But then, not a few pennies, eh? For your favors, you’d have a marriage license, and lots and lots of riches. Then you’re all supplied with a coachman, or several coachmen! And you can buy disguises. And set out to attack people who had no argument with you!”

Maggie remained very still, tensing only as she heard the police whistles and footsteps that suddenly broke the quiet of the night.

“Look at the commotion you’ve caused! Alas, pity, I really must get going tonight. There would be no way to do you any true justice . . . but, then again, you’ll help me to slip into the darkness.”

The knife was suddenly gone. Maggie breathed in and out, desperate to see in the night. Then she gasped out involuntarily as a noose was slipped around her neck. “They’ll have to let you die to take me!” he said cheerfully, and she was dragged up to her feet. She felt the coarse rope around her throat. “Let’s see . . . a doorway or window . . . or the lamppost. The lamppost, and quickly.” He dragged her to a doorway. She struggled to find the reticule she had brought, the braided handle of it held on her person through the black sash that tied around her waist. As he pushed her forward, she struggled to find her little pistol.

He had a grip of steel. She was tight against his body as he held her, looking out. “One sound and I will gut you like a pig!” he warned.

Then . . .

The little square, with the gaslight that was out or broken, was empty again. No sound of footsteps. No shrill of police whistles.

He forced her out. She kept attempting to slip her hand into the reticule.

It was difficult, for he dragged her through the street, with the strength of his hold, and with the ever tightening pressure of the rope. She worked her fingers into the bag . . . curled her hand around the pistol. . .