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Rosco cawed like a goddamn crow.
I shot a what-the-fuck-was-that? look in his direction, and his bony shoulders bobbed with a shrug. We hadn’t planned a signal.
Stupid, on my part.
The stately blond lad froze, his hackles rising.
Dammit.
I emerged from the alley. “Sir Peter Fisher.”
These hoity bastards loved when you called them “sir.” Even though he knew as well as I did that he was no knight. Just a page with a dream.
He spun to me, hand going toward his belt where he had a sword. “Who goes there?”
I raised my hands in surrender, though I knew I looked menacing stepping out of a fucking alley. “Just a messenger, sir.”
“Messenger from whom?”
I took a couple steps closer, and he stiffened.
I stopped, to disarm him a bit. About five feet from the strapping young lad. “The Princess of Wilford.”
His guard fell as confusion crinkled his fine features. Well, fine except for the patch over his eye, and what I imagined was a gaping hole underneath.
Good job, little thorn.
Peter’s hand stayed near his sword. Lazily. “The Princess of . . . Wilford?”
I pursed my lips. “Aye. Use your head, sir. She wanted to offer you this as way of apology for, erm . . .” I trailed off and pointed at my own eye.
He gasped with a wince. Then he took a step toward me. “That bitch heiress?!”
I took out the little bag of pence, jingling it around. Like a shiny lure to a squirrel.
He took another step toward me. Angry this time. “She thinks she can buy her way—”
I closed the gap with two quick steps, dropped the bag on the ground, and hugged Peter Fisher when his eyes dropped to it—
While plunging my dagger in his side with my other hand.
He groaned in my ear, weight falling into me.
“Oof,” I muttered wryly, patting his shoulder, taking on his weight to keep him standing. “I know, I know, you’ve just had a horrid couple days, haven’t you?”
In the distance, shocked gasps from the gutter-rats, and when I looked over they were gone.
Hoisting my shoulder under his arm, I dragged Peter toward the alley. “Let me just tell you, friend”—he croaked, shocked, face paling—“it’s going to get a lot worse.”
I smiled as I patted his cheek, and then hid the two of us in the alley. I sat him down. “Don’t worry, mate, you won’t die from that. Just won’t be able to walk too good, either.”
I hadn’t really thought this part through, admittedly.
Peering around at the empty street, I clicked my tongue. “Now where is Little John? I could use those big fucking arms of his to help drag your ass out of here.”
Chapter 26
Robin
