And the press toward the cages began anew, men shouting and pushing until it was close to a riot.

Knight wouldn’t be able to cover these winnings. They’d paupered him.

Pippa had paupered him.

Because she loved Cross.

Because she cared for his future.

His future, which was bleak indeed without her.

He could not linger on the thought, however, as they were jostled by a wall of gamers pressing toward the cages furiously, desperate for their money. Pippa was carried several feet by the wave of bodies. He reached for her, trying to catch her hand and pull her back, her fingers slipping through his as she fell, swallowed up by the furious crowd.

“Pippa!” he yelled, tossing himself into the fray, pulling men from the place where he had last seen her, tossing them aside until he found her, curled into a ball, hands around her head, a heavy boot connecting with her stomach.

He roared his anger, grasping her unwitting attacker by the collar and planting his fist in the man’s face once, twice, before Temple caught up with him. “Let me have him,” Temple said. “You see to your lady.”

Your lady.

She was his.

Would ever be.

He turned the man over to Temple without a second glance, crouching to uncover Pippa’s face, where one lens of her spectacles had been smashed and a wicked red streak had already bloomed high on one cheek. Suppressing his rage, he stroked his fingers carefully across the place where she’d clearly received a blow. “Can you move?”

She nodded, shaky, and he lifted her in his arms—not caring that he was revealing her as something more than a strange, thin man in an ill-fitting suit—protecting her.

She pressed her face to his neck. “My hat—”

It had been lost in the fray, and her blond hair was loose around her shoulders. “Too late for it now,” he said, desperate for escape.

But there was nowhere to go. Everywhere he looked were angry throngs of gamblers, desperate for their winnings, frustration and greed and his and Temple’s attacks turning them into a terrifying, raging horde.

Moving as quickly as he could, he crouched and pushed Pippa beneath the hazard table where Castleton had started it all, taking a boot to the ribs with a wince before climbing into the space with her, covering her with his body and wrapping his arms about her head to keep her from errant blows.

“Temple—” she said, struggling beneath him.

“Will be fine,” he assured her, adoring the way that she cared for his friend. “He’s a professional fighter—he shall love every minute of this. At least until I have a moment to tear him limb from limb for allowing you to carry out this utterly insane scheme.” He stroked her hair back. “Let me look.”

“It was not insane!” she protested, turning her wound toward him, one hand coming up to test the swelling at her eye. “Ow.”

He ran his fingers over the red welt once more, hating the way she winced. “Gorgeous girl . . .” he whispered, removing her glasses and pressing a kiss to her temple, the corner of her lips, the soft skin at the side of her neck. She was safe. He let out a ragged breath, and said, “I should thrash you.”

“Why me?” she said, eyes wide.

He shot a look at thundering boots beyond the table. “You started a riot.”

“Not on purpose,” she defended, turning to look. “I hypothesized that they would leave, not stampede.”

At another time, when he was less worried for her safety, he would have smiled at the words. Not now. “Well, your hypothesis was incorrect.”

“I see that now.” She paused. “And technically, you started the riot.”

“I thought you were—” He stopped, a chill racing through him. “Pippa, if anything had happened to you . . . You could have been killed,” he thundered, his muscles trembling under the strain of his worry and his desire to do something—to return to the fray and fight until the fear was gone, until she was safe.

“I was with Temple,” she whispered.

“Temple isn’t enough. Temple cannot keep you safe,” he said into her hair, letting himself feel gratitude that he’d found her before all this happened, before Knight or half a dozen other nefarious characters discovered her. “Temple doesn’t love you,” he said.

She stilled beneath him, raising one hand to his cheek. “And you do?”

He wouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t even think it. It would only make things worse. Worse than being trapped in the middle of a riot, alone, beneath a hazard table for God knew how long with the most irresistible woman in Britain. In Europe. On Earth.

Yes. Yes, I love you. Yes, I want you.

“You are a troublesome woman.”

When he opened his eyes, she was beaming at him. “I always have been.”

Before he could reply, Maggie fell to her knees several yards away, pushed over by what looked like another battalion of gamblers. She caught herself on her hands and Pippa gasped, and Cross hesitated, knowing he should go to the other woman and protect her, but not wanting to leave Pippa here. “She’ll be trampled!” she cried, and Cross had just started to move when another came to Maggie’s aid, strong arms sheltering her as the gentleman helped her to safety beneath a nearby table.

It was Castleton.

Cross raised a brow. “It looks as though your fiancé is more than any of us imagined.”

Pippa smiled at the other man, sending Cross’s gut twisting unpleasantly. “He’s a good man.”

I’m better.

How he wanted to say it, but it was false.