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Or perhaps something else entirely. A doxy, trying to get a client to pay up.
That made the most sense.
Still, didn’t want to see bloodshed. Must uphold the king’s peace and all that.
Not that there was a chance of much blood, the way she was holding that knife.
Still, gentleman and all. Must do what’s honorable. Assist damsels and so on.
He crossed over.
The woman was saying something in a breathless voice. Didn’t sound happy, that much was obvious.
He cleared his throat and was a little delighted when they both jumped.
“Holding that knife all wrong, you know,” he began conversationally, his attention on the woman. He pointed to her blade. “Won’t do much good like that. Easy to disarm. Probably don’t want to stab someone tonight anyhow, really. Witnesses and all that.”
The lady’s mouth had formed a pretty round circle as she stared at him. Everything about her was pretty from what he could see. Which admittedly wasn’t much. Her hood was up and her cloak fastened around her. A few strands of fair hair fell over her face. She had large blue eyes and they were opened very wide right now.
He looked at her and found he could not look away. Deuced strange. Rather hypnotic. Must be the mead. Head a jumble.
In the meantime, Angel realized, the man being accosted was staring at him rather intensely.
Well, Angel was rescuing him, wasn’t he? Made sense the fellow would wish to keep the image of his rescuer in mind. Struck with overwhelming gratitude probably.
“Be on your way,” the man spoke up. Rather coldly, in fact. Not a hint of gratitude, in fact.
Angel raised his eyebrows.
The man’s tone became even more commanding.
“I must insist you go about your business. This is no concern of yours. I have the matter well in hand.”
“Don’t see that you do, really.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The man’s hood overshadowed his face. It was disconcerting speaking to a voice with no face.
Overall, Angel found he did not particularly care for the victim of this plight.
An angry, threatening voice. Must not have been a very pleasant client for the doxy. Thus, the knife.
The man’s hood shifted slightly and Angel caught a glimpse of striking grey eyes. If he wasn’t so foxed, they might even have been familiar, Angel thought hazily.
He shook his head a little. Wouldn’t do to pass out like Hugh had at this juncture. He’d made it this far. ‘Sides, might end up thrown in the Thames with the way these two were going.
“She’s holding a knife. Seems to be interested in poking you with it. Might not know how to use it. Either way, wouldn’t say things are at hand. In hand. The knife is in her hand, yes. But not in your hand.”
The man eyed him disdainfully. “You are drunk.”
“Correct. And you, sir, are standing on a bridge in the middle of the night with a knife to your throat.”
Angel looked at the knife. “Not really at your throat,” he conceded.
He stepped towards the lady. She backed up against the rail. He gently touched her hand. “May I?”
He corrected the knife’s position. “Much better this way. Can thrust upwards now. Or slash across the throat. Very effective. You see?”
