my chin.’ He reached up and tapped at the side of his head. ‘And don’t forget about the weight of your body. You can drop your knee a bit and twist with your hip and turn towards me, taking some of the weight from your legs to pull me off balance if you can.’
He bent his knee and twisted, moving his shoulder down and around.
‘And you can surprise me. If I’m pulling you into me, then lunge against me, perhaps, to get me off balance. But whatever you do, try to stay off the ground. You can’t fight back well there. It’s possible, but you’re going to have to get up to escape and that takes time.’ His voice became a wisp. ‘You need to do everything you can to run to safety.’
She put her hand over his touch, regaining her own skin. ‘Were you just born knowing this?’
He laughed. ‘I’ve spent my fair share of time at Gentleman Jackson’s.’ He looked away, reminiscing about something. He put his hand to his neck, rubbing just under the collar, kneading the muscle. ‘And I don’t seem to feel pain like others.’ He chuckled. ‘A handy skill to have.’
‘Not feeling pain?’
‘Well, I’m aware of it. I know if someone twists my arm behind my back that it doesn’t feel well.’
‘Oh.’
‘It just doesn’t matter at the time. Or later. What matters is that I let someone get that close. They should be on the floor with my boot on their chest.’
‘Oh.’ She looked down at his toes. The first one was big and on the bony side. The others were thin, longish, though not well defined in the shadows. ‘It must take a lot of effort to get those into boots.’ She looked up. ‘I guess that’s why you didn’t wear them.’
‘It seemed a waste to put them on just to take them off again in a few moments.’
‘Of course.’ She raised her eyes, moving up the length of him.
‘Has anyone ever twisted your arm behind your back? Your sisters in play?’ His voice was flat.
She didn’t move, afraid to commit. ‘I should think it doesn’t hurt very much.’
‘Turn around.’
‘I think that might be breaking your first rule.’
‘Turn around.’ His eyes darkened and his voice roughened.
She studied his face and nothing inside her warned her about him. She turned around.
He put a light touch on her shoulder, only touching her with two fingertips. No other part of him neared her. His hand slid forward and down an inch. Sensations jumped inside her, tightening her stomach. Heat. Warmth. And a shiver from his breath on her neck. ‘Now, let me—’ His left hand touched her wrist, slowly clasping to hold her in a gentle vice.
She swallowed.
‘Relax.’ He shook her wrist a bit. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
She gasped.
‘Tell me when it hurts and I’ll stop.’
Gently he began pulling her arm behind her back. She tiptoed with the pressure. Then words rushed out. ‘Stop.’
He released her. She stumbled forward and then turned. He watched her.
She rubbed her arm. ‘You must have been around a lot of toughs in your youth.’ She spoke softly, slapping down the inner warning voice. The one her mother had instilled. ‘At the brothel?’
His head turned, as if he’d not heard her correctly. And his jaw relaxed. He seemed to have a moment finding words, but his eyes reflected humour.
‘Those were the good people.’ He laughed, his head falling back, and his eyes locked on the ceiling for a moment. The rumble of his voice stirred into her insides, causing a flutter.
‘Yes, I was around a lot of toughs. On a daily basis.’
He pushed up one sleeve and moved to the light. A scar ran the inside of his arm. She turned her eyes away. The man had a lot of skin.
‘It’s just a small one. Grandmama’s poker got me.’
She steeled herself and looked. A small indention. ‘Your grandmother cannot have been as bad as you claim.’
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