Page 55 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doin’ at night,” he added, flipping up the black crepe of her skirts followed by the petticoats. “Teasing me in your window.”

Window? She remembered the window across the street from the third-floor window. The one with a lit candle. Did he live there?

“I wasn’t, I promise,” she cried out. Panic had her pulling with all her might until the top of her head came to rest against the door. She fought against his attempt to lift her from the stairs, her kicks only occasionally impacting one of his arms, although she tried hard to aim for his face. Turned away from him as she was, she didn’t know exactly where to aim her feet. If only she could get herself turned onto her side, she would have the benefit of being able to see, to place a kick against his knee or into his face.

The rustle of clothing that wasn’t her own had her screaming at the top of her lungs. She kicked as hard as she could and managed to get a knee anchored onto a step. The move only helped him, though, for his arms reached beneath her hips and pulled her up. About to give in, she pleaded one more time for him to stop.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Beneath her shoulder and her arm, she felt the vibration of impacts on the stairs. Footsteps?

“What? Wait your turn, you bast—”

The sound of a grunt followed by a body tumbling down the stairs had her quickly scrambling to turn and sit up, her skirts and petticoats impeding her panicked movements. Once she was finally seated on the top step, she stared down the darkened staircase.

Beyond the stairwell, she could see only the bottom of a pair of legs and feet. She could hear the sound of a fist hitting flesh, over and over again. And then, there was silence.

Despite her need for air, she held her breath until Angus Thompson appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

For a moment, his rounded eyes appeared wild and frightening, and then, as he gazed at her, he swallowed and seemed to calm down.

“Angus?” she whispered.

“Are you all right? Did he…?” He glanced behind him before returning his attention to her.

“He… he didn’t. Almost, though,” she managed to get out before a sob robbed her of breath. Hot tears blinded her as shock set in.

“I’m here, Iris,” he said, before climbing the stairs. Despite the thin stairwell, he managed to get the door open and lift her to her feet, pull her into his arms, and hold her against the front of his body. “I’m here,” he whispered.

She continued to struggle for breath, but she soon she had one arm wrapped around his shoulder while she kept the other pinned to her side. “I’ve never… never been so frightened… frightened in all my life,” she stammered between sobs.

“I’m here. I’m only sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he murmured. “I heard your scream when I was still on the phaeton.” He chuckled softly. “I didn’t have a chance to park it. Poor horse has probably taken off and is halfway to St. Paul’s by now.”

Iris pulled her face from where it had ended up against his neck and instead rested the side of it in the small of his shoulder. “You came back,” she whispered.

He nodded. “I… I couldn’t stay away. I thought to invite you for supper. Thought we could continue the conversation we were having earlier,” he explained. “Oh, God, Iris, when I saw that book on the floor and heard you on the stairs, my heart went in my throat.”

She sniffled. “What… what did you… you do to him?”

Sounding a grunt of startlement, Angus loosened his hold on her. “I… I punched him, but he was still alive…” He motioned for her to remain where she was before he hurried down the steps.

Although she still felt unsteady on her feet, Iris went to the top of the stairs and listened for a moment before she gripped the railing and slowly descended the steps. She remained on the second-to-the-last step, wincing when she saw how Angus had bloodied the man’s face. He was flat on his back, and his nose was obviously broken. Most horrifying, though, was how his eyes were open and lifeless as he seemed to stare at the ceiling.

“He was breathing when I left him,” Angus said. “But I broke his nose. I think…maybe… he must have drowned in his own blood.” His voice emerged as a hoarse whisper.

“He’s dead?” she asked meekly. She found she couldn’t feel the least bit sorry for the scoundrel. He had attacked her. Tried to do unspeakable things to her. Surely it was better he was dead. Then he wouldn’t be able to come for her again. “Good. Thank you.”

Angus displayed a grimace before he drew a hand over his face. “I should… I don’t know. Find a constable?” he asked. “Surely I can’t be… accused of murder, can I?”

It was then Iris noticed that his other hand was covered in blood, and it appeared as if he had broken a bone or two. What knuckles she could see were badly scuffed.

“You’re hurt,” she said, managing the last two steps before she rushed to his side.

His gaze dropped to his hand, and he stared at it as if seeing it for the first time. “So I am,” he acknowledged.

“Let me help you,” she said, before glancing out the front door to see that his phaeton was still there. “It appears you still have your equipage.”

He turned and followed her line of sight. “Is there a public stable nearby?” he asked.