A BROKEN RIB

"Eight or nine, perhaps," she said. "No more than that I should think."

Ian nodded, his eyes leaving her face to focus on the passing scenery. He lifted on the seat, stretching out his leg. As he did, his gaze came back to Annie in time to discover that she was watching him, the anxiety she felt probably revealed in her face. She dropped her eyes, using the opportunity to pull off the stained gloves.

"Do you think he got away?" she asked.

"He had every opportunity," Ian said.

Actually, the sweep had seemed to forget all about the boy when Ian opposed him. His fury had been directed not against the child so much as against the 'nobs'(nobles)

Of course, there had been a lot of social unrest in the country during the last few years. Perhaps what had happened today had been the result of pent-up frustrations, not so much directed at them for trying to help the boy, but at their class and the excesses for which it was known. The knowledge of those excesses, from those of the Regent down, must be extremely galling to people who had so little.

So little. As the poor child did, she thought. She brushed her bare fingers over the stains the boy's desperately clutching hands had left on her skirt. She could not imagine the senseless brutality to which he had been subjected during his short life. It was a wonder he had found the courage to run.

"If you wish, I shall send the coachman and a groom back to search for him," Ian offered.

She looked up to smile at him. "They won't find him," she said, very sure of that. "Thank you for offering to have them look, but we both know it will be wasted effort. I only hope the men who were helping his master won't be able to find him, either."

"They will no doubt realize the futility as well."

His long fingers touched the gash above his eye again, wiping at the small, but steady stream of blood it produced. Annie reached into her sleeve and pulled her handkerchief free. She held the scrap of cloth out to him.

"I should ruin it," he said, quickly removing his fingers from the cut, almost as if he were embarrassed to have been caught touching it.

"You have just saved my life, Ian Sinclair. And before that you attempted to save a boy from his tormentors. I think this," she said, shaking the wisp of lace to emphasize her point, "would be a very small price to pay for either of those efforts. Unless, of course, you value my life less than this? I assure you that I do not."

She smiled at him again, and finally he reached for the handkerchief. It looked absurdly small in his hand but he used it to dab at the blood. After watching a moment, she leaned forward and took the cloth from his unresisting fingers.

"May I?" she asked, remembering his earlier reaction to her attempt to stem this flow of blood.

"Of course," he said.

He closed his eyes and leaned forward as well. He was near enough that, despite the unpleasant residue of egg on his coat, she could again smell all the fragrances that would forever in her mind be associated with Ian Sinclair.

She didn't know why she hadn't been aware of them in the street. Perhaps because she had been more aware of his body, and of its strength, pressed tightly along the length of hers.

This was the second time he had come to her rescue.

And again, just as when her guardian had stepped between her and danger before, she had not found the rescue to be romantic in the least. It had been frightening, rather than thrilling. It seemed that London was determined to teach her the fallacies in all the fantasies she had once enjoyed.

Ian's eyes opened. Brought back to the present by the question in them, she again pressed her handkerchief over the cut. She kept her eyes resolutely on the task, but she was aware that his had not closed again. They remained fastened on her face as she worked. Fighting to keep her fingers steady, however, she refused to meet them.

*~*~*~*

"A broken rib, I suspect," McKinley said, lightly touching Ian's back and side. "Possibly more than one,"

His fingers pressed more firmly as they worked their way downward. Ian flinched against the pain, trying, as he had from the beginning, not to let any sound escape as the physician made his careful examination.

"I can bind them to give you some relief. The rest of the damage appears to be superficial. The bruising itself will cause some discomfort, but that will become less noticeable after a few days. My best advice is to stay off your feet and allow your leg to heal. This," he said, running his palm along Ian's side, "will resolve itself as you rest the knee."

The worst of the aftereffects from yesterday's confrontation was whatever he had done to his knee. Weakened by the injuries he had suffered on the Peninsula, the leg had been badly wrenched when he had fallen.