Doubts had plagued him all afternoon and into the evening, thoughts of all the things that could go terribly wrong. “Are you absolutely certain you want to go through with this?”
In answer, Miss Parnell tugged on his arm, heading toward the alley behind Toussaint’s town house. He squelched his instinct to take the lead, understanding her need to do so. He stayed alert, ready to face whatever they encountered, do whatever necessary to keep her safe.
“I told you, we can’t involve a third person, and we can’t very well leave your gig and horse unattended. When we’re done, all we need do is walk two blocks in that direction, and there will be any number of hackneys we can hail.”
Alistair looked in the direction she pointed. True enough, traffic in the streets that way was still bustling, even at this hour, and likely would be until well after midnight. Three blocks in the opposite direction lay the waterfront, where the activity level depended on the tide, not the clock. He imagined he could even smell a hint of wet hemp and day-old fish wafting their way.
They hurried through the darkness, clinging to the shadows down the alley. Miss Parnell paused as they reached the carriage house, her head cocked to one side as she listened. Alistair did the same, and heard nothing, not even horses in their stalls.
But of course—Toussaint would have been driven to the gaming hell, leaving the carriage house and stables empty.
She darted forward and tested the latch on the garden gate, which was locked from the inside. Before Alistair could even think to offer her a boost, she hitched up her skirts, found a foothold, and gracefully vaulted over the gate.
Once on the ground on the other side, she turned back to look at him, her eyes just visible over the top of the gate. Coming? She mouthed the word, keeping the silence they’d held since entering the alley.
With a glance back at the direction they’d come, he easily climbed up and over and dropped quietly to the ground beside her.
Rosebushes lined the graveled walk from the terrace door to the garden gate. Miss Parnell stayed on the grass, almost doubled over as she scurried toward the hulking black shadow of the town house. A sliver of light escaped from around the door leading down to the kitchen, but otherwise the house was shrouded in darkness.
Moments later, his heart pounding, Alistair pressed against the wall beside Miss Parnell, feeling the cold grit of the brick against his hands.
“You stay here, and whistle if anyone comes,” she whispered.
“What are you—”
Before he could finish the sentence, Miss Parnell tucked the front of her skirts into the belt at her waist, revealing a pale strip of her thighs above her black stockings.
His breath hitched at the sudden, unexpected delight.
She would probably have slapped him, and rightfully so, had she noticed him staring, but she was intent on finding her first handhold and foothold on the rough brick wall, and then a second, and she kept climbing. She ignored the fragile-looking rose trellis and instead found handholds and footholds in the uneven brick.
His breath caught again, this time because her foot slipped. For an endless moment her leg swung in the air, far above the hard ground. He stretched up as though he could catch her. But she found another purchase and continued her ascent.
What seemed like hours later, she slithered over the balcony railing and disappeared from sight. Sweat pooled at the small of his back, and he was breathing as hard as if he had been the one climbing.
A rustling sound in the back of the garden caught his attention. He pressed his back against the wall and searched the shadows, straining his eyes and ears. Probably just a cat hunting its dinner.
Hunter and prey. Bad imagery to conjure up at the moment.
He squinted, hoping the excellent night vision that allowed him to see faint stars would enable him to separate the shadows in the hedge along the back fence.
Something larger moved. A dog, perhaps?
Up above, a candle flared to life.
“Run!” Miss Parnell’s pale face appeared as she leaned over the balcony railing.
Like hell. He wasn’t leaving her behind.
Something large and heavy fell from the sky, and hit the ground just a few feet away from Alistair. It turned out to be a man, who immediately got up with a guttural curse and ran toward the garden gate. Another man emerged from the shadows at the back of the garden, and the two got in each other’s way as they both tried to climb over the gate at the same time.
Alistair looked up just in time to see Miss Parnell leap over the balcony railing and hit the ground with a grunt. She rolled over once and sprang to her feet. “Run, you daft man!” she called over her shoulder, already heading for the gate. Alistair sprinted after her.
“Thieves!” came the shout from a man stepping out onto the balcony. The candle he held aloft revealed his enormous nose. “Get back here!”
The first two men had just managed to clear the gate when Alistair bent down and boosted Miss Parnell over. A pistol barked. She yelped as she went over the top, and he heard a slight tearing sound. A torn dress was the least of their worries at the moment.
Hoping Toussaint didn’t have a second pistol at hand, Alistair followed her over. He grabbed her arm to pull her to her feet, and they took off down the alley at a dead run. The other two men ran only a few yards ahead, their boots echoing loudly on the cobblestones. At the end of the alley they turned left, toward the busy streets.
Behind him, men shouted and cursed, and lit lanterns swung about wildly.
“This way!” Alistair tightened his grip on Miss Parnell’s hand and tugged her to the right, heading in the opposite direction, hoping their pursuers would follow the much noisier pair.
She tried to keep up with his longer strides as they ran, one hand holding up her full skirts, the other securely in his grasp. When he judged their pursuers to be near the end of the alley, he pulled up short and hid behind one of the massive oak trees lining the square, shielding her between the tree and his body.
Two of the bobbing lanterns moved closer.
His lungs burning, Alistair tried to slow his harsh breathing. Miss Parnell buried her face against his chest, muffling the sound of her panting in his cravat. She hadn’t cried out or complained. She hadn’t even cursed at the disastrous turn of events, which was what worried him the most.
“This way, you fools!” Toussaint shouted, and the bobbing lanterns reversed direction.
Alistair risked a peek around the tree trunk, and saw four shadows heading after the first two men. “We’ll give them a count of five to get a little farther away, and then take off again.”
Miss Parnell nodded her assent, though she didn’t lift her face or loosen her grip on his lapels.
The other men were now far enough away that Alistair could no longer make out their conversation, the light of their lanterns getting dimmer. “Let’s go.” Needing to keep hold of her in the darkness, he grabbed one of her hands, and they set off at a brisk, soundless walk. As soon as it was safe to do so, they would run, but now stealth was more important than speed. Once they had a safe distance separating them from the ruffians, he would let her rest. Find out what happened up on the balcony.
They encountered a rough patch of ground, and Miss Parnell grunted. Up until now she had been silent except for her labored breathing. Her grip on his hand was firm, almost painfully so at times.
Her continued lack of conversation was worrisome—he at least expected her to rail about her failure to secure the snuffbox. He remembered the report of the pistol, and his stomach clenched. Surely she’d have said something if she’d been hit. “Are you injured?” he whispered.
“’Tis nothing,” she said, her voice tight. “Keep going.”
After a few more blocks they turned another corner, with street lamps up ahead. Alistair headed straight toward them. She was noticeably limping now, but voiced no complaint or plea for a rest. She must have landed badly when he boosted her over the gate. Remembe
ring her much shorter legs, he slowed his pace as much as he dared.
They drew a few stares from other pedestrians as they hurried past a brothel and a tavern, light and noise spilling from their doorways. Despite the cool night, perspiration beaded on her upper lip.
He halted under the street lamp at the intersection, as likely a place to catch a hackney as any, and whirled to face her, looking for any outward sign of injury. “What happened back there?”
Miss Parnell freed her hand from his and bent at the waist, resting her palms on her knees, and took deep breaths. “When I got up to the study, the fellow that broke into Melisande’s room last night was already there, rifling through the desk. Toussaint came in with one of his henchmen, each of them holding a candle and a pistol.”
Two men, each with a pistol. They could have easily fired a second shot. With better aim.
Muscles twitched in the center of his back. “How can you be sure it was the same man as last night? Melisande’s room was dark. As was the alley tonight.”
She straightened, hands now on her hips, though her chest still rose and fell with heavy breathing. Quite a lot of rising and falling, and he belatedly realized much of the movement was because she wasn’t wearing stays. He forced his gaze upward.
From this angle, her bonnet’s brim cast dark shadows upon the top half of her face, but the sweat on her upper lip glistened in the lamplight. “Same tobacco scent that kept blowing our way last night. Smelled it when he ran past me, almost knocked me over. Hoped he’d at least break his ankle when he hit the ground.” Her breathing was still too harsh.
“Is yours broken?”
She held out her right foot, revealing a trim ankle, and rotated it. “See? I’m fine. Now all we need do is hail a hackney, and you can take me home. Tomorrow we’ll figure out when to try again.”
“Do that with your other foot.”
With a sigh of impatience, she lifted her skirt and raised her left foot just high enough to rotate it before setting it down. She couldn’t quite mask a groan of pain. “As I said, I’m fine.”
Stubborn wench. “You’re not fine, and this is no time to play Twenty Questions. What is the nature of your injury?”
Color flared in her cheeks, but she kept her chin raised high. “If you must know, I think I may have bruised my…hip…when I went over the gate the second time.”
Alistair winced. He’d thrown her too hard, given her too much of a boost. Though it was illogical, since he couldn’t possibly see the bruise beneath all her clothing, he walked in a circle around her, needing to see that everything appeared normal.
Something glistened on the back of her skirt.
He tugged her closer to the street lamp and squatted down behind her, struggling to see details in her dark gray velvet skirt. There was a strip of white showing down near her knee, her shift visible through the tear he’d heard. More troubling was a narrow section of skirt in back that appeared black, from just below her hip to the middle of her thigh. Damn. He brushed his fingers against it, his gut twisting in dread.
She glared at him over her shoulder, fists on her hips. “Just what in blazes do you think you are doing?”
The warm, sticky dampness on his fingers made bile rise in his throat. He held out his hand, showing her the crimson stain.
“I believe you’ve been shot.”
Chapter 10
“Oh.” The color that had risen in her cheeks suddenly disappeared.
Alistair straightened and fished his handkerchief out to wipe off his bloody hand. It couldn’t be a life-threatening wound, since she was still standing there, seemingly debating if she should smack him for taking such liberty with her person. Seeing how pale she’d gone, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders.
“Fancy that.” Her voice was a breathy wisp.
He was prepared for her to faint, or to shriek, or any number of typical reactions when one has been shot. He was not prepared for her matter-of-fact, “Well, I hope a hackney comes along soon.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
She huffed out a breath. “What would you have me say?”
He blinked. “Are you in pain?”
“Considerably more so than I was, now that you’ve so helpfully pointed out that it’s not a bruise.”
He glanced down at her backside again. The dark stain was getting bigger. “You’re still bleeding.”
“And here I thought I was just feeling a cold draft from the tear in my skirt.”
He quickly folded his handkerchief. Since he couldn’t see the actual wound, he let gravity be his guide, and pressed the handkerchief near the bottom edge of the bloodstain.
“What are you doing?” She spoke slowly, her voice low, the same tone one would use to depress the intentions of an encroaching toady.
He followed her gaze to his hand, cupping the left side of her derriere. “Trying to stop the bleeding.”
“Oh. That is probably a good idea.” She nodded, and almost lost her balance.
Alistair tightened his grip around her with his free arm, taking more of her weight. “We need bandages. I can feel it soaking through already. And we need to get you off your feet, lying down. Quickly.”
She twisted, trying to see behind her. “I can’t go home like this. If Steven were to find out, I would never hear the end of it.”
The brothel they’d passed would have beds. He shuddered at the thought of taking her in there.
From a few blocks away came the repeated clanging of ships’ bells, announcing the time. Eight bells. Midnight.
Ships. Or at least one ship in particular. Nick should have arrived on last night’s or this morning’s tide. Which way to get to his ship’s berth?
Miss Parnell looked up at him. “I have an idea.”
Alistair raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
“I know someone who may be nearby, with bandages, who would not ask any questions.”
“In slip number seventy-three?” He hid his smile at her shocked expression. “Can you walk, or shall I carry you?”
“Yes—ouch—I can still walk.”
He watched her take a few halting steps, her jaw clenched, her chest heaving from the effort. Now that the urgent need to flee had eased, her body was protesting the insult of the injury.
He tossed the blood-soaked handkerchief into the gutter, swept her up in his arms, and strode for the docks.
“Put me down.” She pushed against his chest.
“Speed is more important at the moment than your independence.” He wished he could see her face, hidden beneath her bonnet’s brim.
“I only needed a few more steps to work out the stiffness, that’s all. This is entirely unnecessary.”
He paused to shift her to a more comfortable position, the warm weight of her soft, curvy body against his chest, and resumed walking. “Just put your arm around my neck and enjoy the ride.”
Still she resisted.
“You are in danger of pouting, Miss Parnell.” He’d enjoyed their closeness last night up on the roof, his arm wrapped around her while she was tucked inside his coat, and hoped for an opportunity to repeat the experience. This wasn’t what he had in mind, but he might as well make the best of a bad situation. “It’s not like you’ve never been in this position before.”
She drew breath to protest.
“Three nights ago? Hotel balcony?”
Several strides later she heaved a great sigh and wrapped her arm around his neck. Her warm scent of rosewater wafted up. Did she realize she was running her fingers through the hair at his nape? He’d kiss her, if her bonnet wasn’t in the way.
“At least my skirts aren’t bunched in my lap this time,” she muttered into his cravat.
“No, this is much more decorous.” Though there was still a chance they might encounter his father again, even in this seedy neighborhood.
A prostitute with her customer barely spared them a glance, but two sailors seemed intent on mischief until Alistair scow
led at them.
He kept walking. Miss Parnell rested her head against his shoulder, which was pleasant and made it easier for him to see where he was going, but she’d stopped talking, which was worrisome.
He turned a corner, and ships stretched out on the riverfront as far as the eye could see, disappearing into the darkness, the skeletons of their masts raised toward the stars.
“Not far now.” His breathing was more labored, but he had no intention of letting her down. He kept walking.
She patted his chest, her hand sliding under the folds of his cravat and staying there. “Your heart is beating so fast.”
“It would be easier to carry you slung over my shoulder, but I thought you might object to that.”
She giggled. “I ’preciate your concern.”
His stomach knotted at her uncharacteristic response. He walked faster.
They passed hulking shadows looming in the darkness, one dock after another, progress toward their goal agonizingly slow. Perhaps they’d have been better off hailing a hackney and taking her home after all.
At last he recognized the hull a few slips down, and realized they were only a few yards shy of their goal. Thank heavens.
“Ahoy, Wind Dancer,” Alistair shouted when they reached the brig’s mooring ropes. Miss Parnell lifted her head from his shoulder.
Several faces appeared over the railing. “Who goes there?” one called.
“Jonesy, is the captain aboard?”
The first mate held his lantern high. Alistair stepped forward into the weak circle of light it cast. Miss Parnell shielded her eyes.
“Aye, my lord, that he is.” Jonesy turned his head and passed instructions to another crewman.
Miss Parnell pushed at Alistair’s chest. “Let me down. I just needed to rest a few minutes.”
Reluctantly, he set her on her feet, holding his arms out to either side to catch her should she stumble, like a day-old foal. She swayed but steadied herself with a hand against his shoulder.
Shirley Kerr Page 13