“Stitching.” His voice was grim. “And I’d be obliged if you refrained from moving again. This will sting.”

It was all he said in warning before she had the vague impression of something cold hitting her skin, followed by a searing pain that left her gasping. She turned her head away from the overwhelming stench of whiskey, telling herself that was making her eyes water.

“You should have run when you had the chance,” Rutledge said impassively from beside her, leaving Charlotte to guess what he was thinking. “When I told you to.”

“And I told you I wasn’t leaving you,” she gritted. Even though it had become abundantly clear that Flynn Rutledge had been telling the truth when he had said that he could handle himself.

“You could have been killed,” he said.

“I wasn’t.” Her teeth clenched. “Though I hate that I fainted.”

“Shock,” Rutledge said, bending over her shoulder again. “And you bled like a stuck pig.”

“If I had to do it again, I still wouldn’t run.” That was the truth, and for some reason, she needed this man to know it, even though that decision may have cost her everything. But the passive Charlotte who had allowed others to steer the course of her life for far too long had been left behind in London. The Charlotte who had bargained with a terrifying man named King, trusted a baron she didn’t know, and struck out on her own would not apologize for her actions now. Whatever happened from here on out, she would, at the very least, have a voice.

She listened to Rutledge’s steady breathing as he worked. “Tell me your name,” he said finally.

She felt a tug at her shoulder, and fire erupted anew. “Charlotte,” she said through clenched teeth. “Beaumont.”

“Charlotte,” he repeated, and despite the throbbing at her shoulder, a shiver ran through her at the intimacy of her name on his lips.

Rutledge abruptly straightened and drew a sheet over her bound chest. If she thought his use of her name was intimate, this should have been beyond the pale, being exposed as she was. But somehow, this new Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to muster the appropriate horror.

This Charlotte had acted on instinct in a deserted lane, even though she had been terrified. This Charlotte hadn’t run away. In fact, she’d fought back—had splinters in her fingers and burning, aching stitches to prove it—and that had left her with a rash confidence of the sort she had never before experienced.

“I’m done.” She heard Rutledge’s boots move across the floor, and she still couldn’t tell if he was furious or not that she had deceived him.

Charlotte tucked her chin and craned her head to see a neat row of stitches marching across the top of her shoulder. “Thank you,” she said slowly.