He did not know if she meant dresses or buttons. Still, he tore the garment open, drew a sense of satisfaction from the shearing sound until he realised she wore nothing underneath.
It was not lust he felt as he stared at her bare skin.
A hot, murderous fury ignited in his veins.
Damian pulled the material apart to reveal shiny pink welts crisscrossing her back. In that dank alley, he’d vomited on her boots. Now he feared he might do so again.
“Steele did this?”
She nodded. “My husband sought to break me.”
Thank the lord the sick bastard was dead, else Damian would charge around to his house, slice him open from neck to navel and serve his innards to his dogs.
“From your infamous reputation, I presume he did not succeed.” Talking was the only way to cool his raging blood. “The man deserves to rot in hell.”
“They’re the scars of a hard lesson learned. They’re the evidence of my grave mistake, but they are not the only ones.”
He wasn’t sure he could stomach seeing any more. But he had taunted her, belittled her cause, had insisted she plead her case.
She turned to face him, pushed the black silk off her shoulders down to her waist to reveal rosy nipples and spectacular breasts.
Every man in the world would admire her full, round bosom were it not for the scar running from her collarbone to the delicate pink areola. It was not the mark of a whip but one left from a cut with a blade.
“Have you seen enough?” The widow stood there, every ounce of pride she possessed stripped from her body and discarded along with the morbid material. “Hardly surface scratches,” she added to punish him for his foolish comment. “Had I been fighting against Napoleon, I might have received a medal for my injuries.”
He stared into her blue eyes. The white flecks made them look as cold as ice floating on an Arctic sea. “If not a medal, you would have earned every man’s respect.”
“I am only interested in earning your respect, Mr Wycliff.”
He stepped closer, struggled to fight the urge to draw her into his arms and offer comfort.
Hellfire!
This woman was dangerous.
Unable to soothe her pain, he pulled the sleeves of her dress up over her shoulders without once admiring the softness of her lush breasts, without dipping his head and feasting on her flesh. Only then did he notice the green bruises marring the skin at her throat.
The sight forced him to gasp and step back.
“They’re not black,” she said, sounding far too composed, “but they’re bruises all the same.”
“Your husband couldn’t have done this.” Having recently returned from Paris, Damian knew nothing of the lord’s demise. But if there was a wager at White’s, his death must be fairly recent.
Had she killed the blackguard?
Is that why she sought his help?
The widow snorted. “No. My husband died six months ago, his puny manhood still buried inside his mistress. But someone stole into my house in the dead of night and sought to squeeze the last breath from my lungs. Thank the lord for a chamber pot. I walloped the culprit hard enough to send him running.”
Numerous questions flooded Damian’s mind. Not least to ask if the pot was empty. The most pressing one was what she expected him to do about it.
“What do you want, Widow?” Whatever it was, he should inform her she was wrong about him. He never kept his word. Forever made false promises.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said, pulling up the high neck of her dress to cover the ugly marks around her throat. “I saved your life. I ask that you save mine.”
“You want me to find this felon?” He was not a damn errand boy.
“I want your protection.”