“Milady! Milady!”
Catherine stifled a groan. Clearly word had spread quickly. “Yes?” she said, glancing to her right. Yet rather than a mob of other undersized flower sellers, a young man appeared and doffed his cap.
“Mistress Linwood,” he whispered quickly, taking her arm so he could speak directly into her ear. “I beg ye, run. These men mean ye harm.”
She froze. “Excuse me?”
“Please ma’am. I’ve been waiting for days. It’s getting about the city, the questions about ye father’s death, and they don’t like it one bit.”
Spinning on her heel so she stood between the two guards and the slender young man, she stared hard at his bearded face, searching for any signs of trickery. But his gaze was steady and open.
“Who are you?” she said urgently, the words barely forming through chattering teeth.
“I’m Robbie Blacksmith, from Guildford. But that don’t matter. What does matter is that it weren’t a fever. There was a fight. Bad one. Two men telling the doctor he was wrong, and if he knew what was good fer him he would shut his mouth. It were summin’ about her ma—”
“Oi!” bellowed one of her guards. “Get away from the lady. Back, or you’ll feel a sword to the gullet.”
“No!” Catherine burst out. “He’s fine. It is fine.”
Both guards ignored her, and Robbie was torn away, his arms viciously jerked behind his back.
“Country scum,” the second guard hissed. “Just you wait. Stocks and irons for you, me lad.”
Robbie struggled hard in the brutal hold. “I saw. I SAW. Doctor Linwood didn’t die of no illness. A knife. He was staaaaaaa…”
Time seemed to stall. One moment Robbie stood on the edge of the cobbled street, the next he flew awkwardly through the air and landed with a sickening thud in the middle of the thoroughfare, directly in the path of a heavily-laden cart.
She screamed a warning, but he didn’t move, and the next sound she heard was the horrifying crunch and grind of wooden wheels shattering human bones.
Bile filled her mouth, and she choked it down. Yet even as a mass of yelling and screaming people pushed past her to stare at the bloody carnage in the street, only Robbie’s fierce words echoed in her ear.
I beg ye. RUN.
Crossing herself and whispering a fervent prayer for his immortal soul, she glanced quickly around for the guards. Thanks to the relentless curiosity of Londoners, there were now at least ten people between her and them. Taking a shaky breath, forgetting every one of the edicts Papa had ever taught about ladylike behavior, she turned, shoving and elbowing her way through the rapidly gathering crowd to run in the direction of the Grand Duke Inn.
Brand was there, waiting for her. He would know what to do, how to make sense of the words she’d heard, the sickening scene she’d just witnessed.
Blindly, she stumbled along the street, pushing past washerwomen, children splashing in puddles, and a group of men huddled around a crate with cards and coins piled on top.
“Mistress Linwood!”
Even as she desperately wanted to ignore the call, her head twisted to see the guards attempting to barrel their way through the throngs of people behind her. Forcing her aching legs to continue forward, she sent another prayer heavenward when she finally saw the familiar high wooden sign of the Grand Duke dangling from a wrought iron hook in the distance.
“MISTRESS LINWOOD! STOP!”
Terror nearly robbed her of breath at the furious roar, but this time she didn’t pause to see how far behind the guards were. The inn was near. So near. Thirty feet at most. If she could just make it inside without causing a stir, Brand would find and protect her.
Some instinct compelled her to slow to a brisk walk—no lady burst into an inn scarlet-faced and panting—and she swiftly reached up to check her elegant velvet hood was still in place. There and secure. Thank heavens. If she looked like a criminal, she would be thrown straight back out on the street—
The thought vanished in a surge of icy panic as two steel-like arms closed around her body. One crossed her breasts, clamping both elbows to her sides and leaving her hands dangling helplessly, the other sliding up so a large palm could seal her mouth, rendering an instinctive cry for help into nothing more than a muffled squeak. Finally, she was spun around like she weighed no more than a feather, away from the relative safety of the open street and into a dark, fetid alley.
Sweet blessed virgin.
They’d caught her.
Knowing he had perhaps a second or two before Catherine’s limp shock turned into complete destruction of his shins, Brand hauled her further into the alley. It was particularly awful, blocked from the weakened sun’s rays, dank and heavy with the putrid scents of piss, vomit, and stale ale. But beggars could hardly be choosers, and it would be perfect for his hastily put together half-plan.
He and Lucas had sprinted all the way here. He’d sent the boy to turn the Grand Duke upside down while he searched the surrounding streets. If he were a man who believed in everyday miracles, he’d be giving thanks for idiot guards who yelled her name as they chased. That he’d managed to get to her before they did, before she entered the inn was a relief beyond words. He had the sickest feeling she might not have left the place alive.
Keeping one hand clamped firmly over her mouth while evading her flailing hands, he put his lips hard against her ear.
“It’s Brand, Carey. Don’t scream. No matter what you were told,
