Page 22 of The Forsaken

The gun in his hand did not waver. “What business could she possibly have with you?”

“The same can be asked of you, Lord Kerr.” Her eerie voice bore an undertone of sly amusement.

He shuttered his features.

“Yes, I know who you are,” the woman said.

Kerr regarded her through narrowed eyes. “Then, you also know my ties to her family. I’m more likely to split open anyone who stands too close to her than leave her.”

Dozens of staggered clicks rippled around the tavern. Andromena tore through the men surrounding him.

Later, Kerr would find a surprising amount of admiration for Andromena’s strength and fearlessness. Right then, as Andromena tore through a merciless London mob to shield him from a dozen drawn blades, pistols, and shattered bottles, the only thing he felt was a decidedly unchivalrous combination of annoyance, exasperation, and anger. Fear implied he cared about her—beyond the grim obligation of delivering her back to Culross in one piece.

Arms aloft, the minx addressed her loyal court of cutthroats. “Forgive me. Though, foul-tempered, there are many things to recommend the gentleman. He is…and he…”

Kerr waited.

Leave it to this harridan to find not a single redeeming quality. Had it been any other friend, sailor, or nobleman, they would have happily rattled off a lengthy list of his attributes. Even his patience had limits.

“Would you finish the sentence, chit?”

Andromena spoke in a rush. “He’s a very capable sailor and served in the King’s Navy and—”

“They are not looking for my bloody letters of introduction.”

“No. They are clearly defending the young woman whom I’ve come to see.”

It wasn’t a lady of her acquaintance.

She rested her hands on his lapels, nudging him for attention. She needn’t have bothered. His body had already reacted to the warmth from her palms. Annoyed by how easily he was affected, he growled. “What?”

“I’m not a child, Edgar.”

No, she wasn’t. “You’re certainly acting like one.”

Andromena scoffed. “Why? Because I want to go out and live my life the same as you or any man.”

Kerr spoke the harsh reality; fully aware she was too stubborn to listen. “The key distinction is that you aren’t a man,” he said bluntly, determined to shatter her naive illusions and drill the truth into her thick skull. “And not being one in this world will get you killed. We’re going.”

The impudent chit planted her feet apart and angled her dainty, obstinate chin up at Kerr.

So be it. She was determined to make him do this. He would have to toss her over his shoulder. Flexing his neck and rolling his shoulders, he steeled himself—until her whispered plea stopped him dead in his tracks.

“She is a fortune teller.”

He must have heard her wrong. Because in no rational world would anyone, not even the flightiest McQuoid of them all—Andromena Smith—dash around the Rookeries for…

“A fortune—?”

“Teller.” She nodded.

A sharp crack rang in his ears as his molars ground together.

“She is someone who predicts the—”

“I know what a bloody fortune teller is.”

“You needn’t get testy. You seemed confused.”