Page 27 of The Lady’s No Angel

The fellow went sprawling and Hart threw himself atop, driving his fist into the man’s ribs—once, twice—hard enough to hear him grunt. The devil was solid though, and he cursed, trying to throw Hart off him and swearing when he received another blow—to the jaw this time—for his trouble. He cursed, and this time unseated Hart, who rolled away and surged to his feet in the same breath. Blood pumping, primed for the next round, he caught the bastard by the front of his coat, yanked him in, and brought his forehead down in a short, vicious butt.

Bone met bone. Hart, too wrought up to feel a thing, watched as the man reeled, stunned. Not shy about taking advantage, Hart shoved him hard, following the move with a stunning right hook to the jaw.

Whoever the oaf was, he went down like a felled ox, crashing onto his side.

Well. That was all right, then. Big, lumbering fellows tended to go down easily. It was the sly, quiet ones that would put you in the ground.

Hart shook his right hand, clenching and unclenching the fingers. The brute had a jaw like an iron bar.

Letting out a ragged breath, he heard his horse, an agitated sound, then—a soft footfall behind him—and turned too late.

A blade sliced through the darkness, straight at him. Hart raised his arm to protect his face, steeling himself for the slash of metal. A gunshot exploded in the darkness, and the hand jerked away. A curse of pain was followed instantly by the skitter of metal upon cobbles and the sickening, coppery stench of blood—everything happened in an instant.

Startled, Hart staggered back, looking towards the inn where a shapely form stood silhouetted in the doorway. He blinked, hardly able to believe his eyes, and yet—of course it was.

“Miss Baxter?”

His voice sounded odd, breathless, unlike his own. He was so stunned he did not hear heavy footsteps running into the darkness.

Hart stared at her in bewilderment, but she began gesticulating, her voice taut with frustration. “Don’t just stand there, he’s getting away!”

“Oh. Right,” he said stupidly before setting off in pursuit.

Angel stood in the doorway, trembling.

It turned out there was a great deal of difference between shooting a target and shooting a man.

Behind her, the sound of the clientele of the taproom heading her way to investigate shook her out of her stupor. She did not wish to be involved in a scene that would call in the local magistrate and heaven alone knew who else.

Slipping into the darkness, she made her way across the yard, hugging the back of the building.

The felled assailant moved, groaning softly, and Angel hesitated, biting her lip. She wanted to know who the hell he was, why he and his confederate had attacked Mr Cleaver, but it wasn’t as if she could interrogate the brute. The uneasy feeling that she was responsible made her stomach curdle, but there was nothing she could do at present.

Moving swiftly, she turned the corner just as those inside surged out into the yard. Hurrying around to the front of the inn, she let herself in by the front door.

Milly was halfway down the stairs as Angel came in. Her face was stark white with fear, and she gave a little cry upon seeing Angel.

“Hush,” Angel said, pressing her finger to her lips.

Running up to join Milly, she urged her to turn and go back to their room.

Closing the door, she ran to the bed, snatched up the dagger and wrapped it and the gun together again. She gazed about the room, searching for a hiding place.

“Up the chimney,” Milly suggested, her voice a harsh whisper as she reached out to take the bundle.

Angel nodded, distantly aware her hands were shaking as she handed it over. Wrapping her arms about her middle, she watched as Milly got to her knees, feeling about for a ledge or indent in the brickwork before pushing the bundle into it.

A moment later, there was a sharp knock at the door.

Milly gasped, her hand going to her mouth. Angel, who had been expecting it, took a deep breath and smoothed her skirts with a hand that was none too steady.

“I’ll deal with this,” she told Milly, hoping she sounded more confident that she felt.

She walked to the door and pulled it open.

The proprietor, a greasy little man by the name of Dawkins, gazed at her.

“Apologies for the disturbance, ladies, but as your room looks down on the yard, we wondered if p’rhaps you saw what happened down there. We heard a gunshot, but the only fellow we saw ran away before we could speak to him, and there’s no sign of anyone else.”