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But the other figure? Braden shook his head, as if to clear his vision. That person was slender and not very tall.
“Dougal, that be a girl,” Mangled Nose said.
No, a young woman, Braden guessed.
Dressed in a black riding habit, her hair tucked under a brimmed cap, she carried a walking stick and matched her companion’s steps with easy, confident strides. The mystery man and woman both wore dark scarves wrapped around their lower faces, effectively disguising their features.
“What the hell?” Parson growled, facing the pair.
Braden snapped out of his astonishment. “Tough luck, old man. Good Samaritans have come to my rescue.”
Parson threw him an ugly sneer. “Some doxy and a bloke who just shot his bolt? I’m ready to piss myself with fear.”
He began to stalk toward the pair. As the silent man reached into his pocket, the woman darted forward, whipping up her walking stick.
Except the stick was actually a long, lethal-looking blade. When she deftly slashed it across Parson’s cheek, he roared with pain and reared back, clapping a hand to his face.
“Oy,” yelled Mangled Nose, charging forward, machete held high.
Another shot boomed out, fired from a second pistol the man in black had pulled from his coat. Shards flew up from the cobblestones, directly in front of Mangled Nose. With a shocked cry, he turned on his heel and staggered back up the alley. Quickly, he disappeared into the night.
Parson was made of sterner stuff. He held his ground, holding his bloody cheek and glaring at the woman, who slid over to stand beside Braden. Her companion joined them, a silent, threatening guardian.
“I should kill the whole lot of ye,” Parson snarled.
Braden cocked his head. “I just heard the night watchman blow his whistle. He probably heard the shots and is calling for a constable. You’d be wise to follow your friend, Parson.”
A string of truly vile oaths ensued as the bastard shot a final glare at Braden. Then the man took to his heels, following his partner in crime.
For a moment, Braden and the others stood frozen in a silent tableau, listening to Parson’s footsteps fade away. Then Braden reached to doff his hat to his rescuers before realizing he’d lost the bloody thing in the bloody alley.
He smiled instead. “Thank you. I’m hoping you didn’t save me just soyoucould rob me.”
The big man simply shook his head, while the woman huffed an impatient breath from behind her black silk scarf.
“Then you have my sincere gratitude for your excellent timing,” Braden said. “I doubt my skull would have survived the encounter with Parson’s club.”
The man shook his head again before gesturing toward the lights of Cowgate. He and the woman then strode off in that direction, leaving Braden to both mentally and physically catch up.
“Can I know your names, so I can properly thank you?” he asked, coming up behind them.
The woman didn’t even glance back.
Braden almost laughed in disbelief. This was turning into the most bizarre night of his life. And given his family’s history, that was a very high hill to climb.
As he followed close behind them, a flicker of movement caught his attention. The woman’s gloved hand moved in gestures that looked practiced and precise. Braden’s amazement grew as her companion responded with a few sharp motions of his right hand.
They were communicating with some sort of sign language.
“So, I take it you are not going to talk to me,” he commented.
The pair continued to ignore him as they gained the entrance of the alley. The woman reached out and grabbed something. She slid her blade into the slender wooden sheath that she had leaned against a wall. Instantly, her lethal weapon was transformed into a genteel walking stick.
Braden felt as if he’d fallen into a dream or some sort of upside-down fairy tale, one where the mysterious princess did the rescuing.
They led him out into Cowgate, and Braden had to blink against the flare of gas lanterns lining the street.
His silent escorts stopped and turned, calmly perusing him from behind their extremely effective disguises.
