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“Behind you,” Joe warned.
Marguerite whirled around. Joe was too busy reloading his gun to help her. Closing her eyes, she lifted the gun with a shaking hand and pulled the trigger again.
The loud bang of it exploding didn’t bring her any reassurance, but it had the effect she needed. When she opened her eyes, the space where the man had been was now empty. She didn’t bother to look for him. She didn’t care where he had fallen as long as he wasn’t chasing after her.
“Come on,” Joe demanded, grabbing her with one hand while he shot at one of the gunmen with his other hand. “Get out of the gates and turn to the right at the road. If anything happens to me keep running and don’t stop until you can be sure that you are completely on your own. Understand? Whatever you do, don’t trust anybody. Go to the War Office. Tell Sir Hugo that Joe, and Ben, have been hurt. He will know what to do.”
“The War Office?” she repeated dully.
Did he mean it? Did he work for the government? She almost wept with relief.
“What are you going to do?” she demanded suddenly, unsure whether it was safe to leave him.
“Stay with you, hopefully.” Joe grunted when he stumbled over a headstone on the floor he hadn’t seen. Once he had regained his footing, he pushed her through the gate. Together, they then turned to face the street.
“Damn it all to Hell,” he swore when another man, also dressed from head to foot in black, appeared in the middle of the street several feet away.
Behind him was a large, black, and awfully familiar carriage, clearly waiting for their arrival.
“It appears your boyfriend is waiting,” Joe murmured.
“He is not my boyfriend,” Marguerite protested.
Joe half expected her to turn on him then. For her to drop her pretence and claim that she was Sayers’ doxy. He wished he hadn’t opened his mouth and given her so much detail a moment ago as he had, but it was too late to go back now.
When Marguerite didn’t do anything but merely stood staring at the carriage in horror, Joe looked at her.
“You are not with him are you?” he murmured, convinced that he was right.
“Of course not,” she huffed. “I have told you that about a dozen or so times.”
“Thank God for that,” Joe replied fervently. Before he could say anything else, a man appeared in the graveyard’s entrance behind them, his gun drawn. Joe cocked his pistol and took aim. Before he could shoot Joe in the back, Marguerite lifted her gun, she pulled the trigger but, to her horror, nothing happened.
Joe’s gun was reloaded, though. His bullet hit the man in the head, and he fell to the ground with a heavy thump. Fortunately, the loud boom of the gun exploding made the horses pulling the carriage dance about nervously. They drew the coachman’s attention for several moments when he had to soothe them to stop them from running away. Joe took advantage of that momentary distraction.
“When I say, run,” Joe whispered, his gaze locked on the man in the middle of the street.
He had one shot left. As long as the coachman wasn’t armed they still stood a fighting chance of getting out of the area alive, but they had to be quick before the men in the graveyard caught up with them.
“Which way?” Marguerite demanded.
“To the small alley behind the house to your left,” Joe murmured quietly. “Whatever happens, don’t stop for anything. I will be right behind you but there will be gunfire.”
“Do you have any more bullets for this gun?” she asked. She had no idea if she could it again but would feel so much safer now knowing she was armed.
“No. We don’t have the time to reload them. We will be set upon before we do. I have one shot left and we need to save it.”
Joe looked at her. He looked deeply into her eyes, assessing her for panic or distress, but all he saw was steady calmness he could only describe as impressive.
“Ready?”
Marguerite nodded. She didn’t have to think twice about it. “Ready.”
“Now,” Joe murmured when the horses began to jostle in protest at the tight hold the coachman had on them.
Marguerite didn’t hesitate. She raced to the narrow alley to the left of them as Joe had told her to. She didn’t need to look behind her to know he was there. The heavy pounding of his boots on the cobbles was wonderfully reassuring.
As he had predicted, gunfire shattered the silence behind them. Shoving the now useless gun into her pocket, she lifted her skirts clear of her knees and ran. Her long legs ate up the distance to the narrow alley with ground eating strides. The wall of the house exploded in front of her as it was hit by bullets but she didn’t stop. She didn’t care what happened to the wall as long as she got out of sight.
