With dizzying speed, he spun her around and hauled her up and over his shoulder, clamping one arm behind her thighs like a sack of potatoes, a move that had served him well multiple times in the past. He gripped her right wrist in his other hand, bending her arm at an impossible angle. When she tried to straighten up or wriggle free, he simply pulled on her arm. He had her trapped, and she knew it.
She pounded ineffectually on his back with her free fist and cursed herself for neglecting to have her cousin, Isla, teach her defensive maneuvers against such a predicament. Her nose bounced uncomfortably into his back as he shoved through the crowd. The mayhem escalated to a fever pitch. She turned her head to protect her smarting nose, and her breath was expelled in grunts as he began to jog.
“Put . . . me . . . down . . .” she managed.
“Emmeline O’Shea, you are hereby under arrest for instigating a riot and assault on government property,” he ground out as he continued dodging and twisting through the crowd.
“I am about . . . to lose . . . my dinner,” she shouted in spurts.
“Lose your dinner!” he shouted back. “I have another suit of clothing in my office!”
“You live in your cursed office . . . I wager!” She grunted. “No decent neighborhood . . . would . . . have you!”
He shouted something in return, but his words were lost as the crowd shifted, jostling them violently from the side and nearly sending them sprawling. He barked an order to a constable, and Emme saw a blue blur in her periphery before Reed turned a corner and slowed marginally.
He whistled through his teeth, and Emme heard the hiss of steam and crank of gears signaling the arrival of one of the Yard’s horseless brass carriages. The brightly polished brass body with its black ornamental fixtures set the vehicles apart from others and were easily recognizable as police conveyances.
Reed slowed and finally bent down, shifting her from his shoulder. Before she could secure her footing, however, he tossed her into the carriage with what sounded suspiciously like a curse. She landed on the worn, black upholstered seat with an inelegant thump, and the little air she’d managed to suck into her lungs was expelled in an equally inelegant grunt.
She breathed heavily and put a hand to her midsection, truly wondering if she were about to cast up her accounts. She leaned forward and looked out the open door, considering her odds of successfully slipping past Reed and escaping down an alley before he could catch her.
His hand clamped on the door, and she sat up straight.
“—follow with anyone else accosting either government property or individuals,” he directed his officers. “I shall be at the cells.”
The detective gave orders to the driver and climbed inside, sitting across from her and slamming the door so hard the glass rattled.
Emme clenched her jaw shut to keep from screaming, but her breathing was still too labored to comfortably manage through her nose. It was just as well, because she had plenty to say. “Detective, you have no idea—”
“Stop!” He held up a hand and froze her with a look. “Not. A. Word.”
Emme’s mouth dropped open. “You cannot keep me from speaking.”
“I can, and I shall. Unruly prisoners are often gagged.”
She froze him with a look of her own before turning her eyes to the world outside. The crowd’s noise faded as they drove away, and soon the only sounds were the mechanics of the carriage. Her anger had gone from a bubbling inferno to a slow burn. “You have no idea what that man is trying to do.”
“I know that man a sight better than you do, so do not lecture me. Furthermore, regardless of what he is trying to do, you cannot accost him in his carriage or do damage to government property. I should think you would know that by now!” His shout echoed through the vehicle. “How were you even privy to details about a clandestine government meeting?”
“I have a confidential informant.”
He gaped. “You have a confidential informant? On the inside?”
She lifted her chin, defensive. “You do! You have an entire network of informants all over the city.”
“Lady, I am a detective!”
“You have no heart! You are . . . you are heartless, Detective. You are a heartless detective with no concept of the suffering—”
She gestured angrily, and his gaze narrowed on her hand. His nostrils flared as he reached into his pocket. He withdrew a handkerchief and thrust it at her. “Your hand is bleeding.”
She paused in her tirade and looked at her hand, which was smeared red. She frowned. “Tomato?” No. Once she forced herself to take a breath, she felt the pain in her palm and along the side of her hand where she’d pounded on Bryce Randolph’s carriage window. She wanted to refuse Reed’s offer, but the blood steadily dripped, so she snatched the cloth from his fingers and wrapped her hand with it.
Something caught on the fabric, and she sucked in a breath as another sharp pain pierced her hand. Unwinding the cloth, she saw a shard of glass imbedded in her skin. She pulled it out with shaking fingers, her energy wearing down to numb shock as the carriage rolled along the streets.
She sniffed in satisfaction. “I did break the glass.”
She didn’t look at the detective but imagined she could hear his teeth grinding. The sound of a ringing bell came from the bag she still had slung across her body, but when she reached for the opening, the detective lunged forward.
“What are you doing?”
“My telescriber,” she enunciated as though he were a child. “I am going to see who has sent me a message. Perhaps it is news of the fete from which we bolted.”
He leaned back in his seat but watched her, unsmiling, unsympathetic.
She reached again for her bag and slowly withdrew the handheld messaging device, holding it up dramatically. “May I check for messages?”
He eyed her evenly and
