The Watchmaker's Daughter (Glass and Steele #1)(15)

"You can't accuse me of stealing when I've nothing of yours," I snapped. "Let me go, Mr. Abercrombie. You're hurting me." The blood had indeed stopped flowing to my lower arm and hand. My fingers throbbed.

Mr. Abercrombie pulled me against him, grinned in my face, and slipped something inside my pocket. I didn't need to look to know that it would be a watch.

"Thief!" Mr. Abercrombie cried. "Someone fetch a constable! I've caught a thief."





Chapter 4





Mr. Abercrombie's cry stoked the shoppers and shopkeepers into action. One woman screamed, another pulled her small child to her hip, and doors shut firmly. Three men, however, charged toward us. One, a butcher going by his bloodied apron, held a knife.

"I'm not a thief!" I shouted, desperately trying to pull myself free of Mr. Abercrombie's grip.

His lip curled into a sneer, and Mr. Glass punched that sneer off his face.

The watchmaker's fingers sprang apart, letting me go. He stumbled to the side with a groan of agony, clutching his jaw. Before I could gather my wits and my skirts, Mr. Glass snatched my hand and hauled me away in a sprint. His other hand pressed against his coat, over his inside pocket.

"Stop! Thief!" someone behind us bellowed.

I didn't dare glance over my shoulder. It was difficult enough keeping up with Mr. Glass's pace, as he dodged around those attempting to stop us and other obstacles in our path. The voices behind didn't grow further away, however, no matter how fast we ran.

And I couldn't run any faster. My blasted corset made it impossible to take a deep breath. My chest ached with the need for air. My face felt like it would explode from heat and my throat constricted. I didn't dare ask him to slow down, however. If I were caught, I would go to prison for God knew how long. London's prisons were little better than lice infested, disease soaked hells.

The pedestrians and obstacles thinned as we left the shopping precinct. We found ourselves in a narrow street filled with stables behind Mayfair's grand houses. Coachmen driving empty coaches glanced down at the men still chasing us but didn't stop to help.

A stable boy stepped onto the street ahead and raised his fists. Mr. Glass could have easily pushed the scrappy lad aside, but he darted left under an archway—straight into a yard with no other exits.

He swore in a strong American accent and called London more confusing than a "honeycomb designed by drunken bees". I would have admonished him for his foul language if I had the breath. As it was, I had to fight for every one. My vision turned black at the edges too, and I had to grip his hand tightly to remain steady. Part of me was relieved to stop, yet I knew it meant the end. We were trapped.

The butcher and two others stood beneath the arch, grinning like foxes. "Got you now," the butcher snarled. With his bloodied apron and monstrous knife in hand, he looked as if he were preparing to carve us into bite-sized pieces.

"Turn around now and no one need get hurt," Mr. Glass said in that low, commanding voice he'd used on Abercrombie. It hadn't worked then and it didn't work now. The butcher and his colleagues approached at a steady pace.

I backed up against a brick wall, Mr. Glass at my side. "Can you run?" he murmured.

My breath had not yet returned and little stars danced before my eyes, but I nodded. I had to run. There were no other choices.

"I'll distract them while you slip away," he said. "Skirt around the edge to the archway. Turn left and then right. Wait for me there."

I squeezed his hand, hoping he would understand that I wanted to ask him how he planned on meeting me with three men in the way. But he didn't understand the squeeze, and only pushed me aside to safety.

The butcher and one of his friends closed the distance on Mr. Glass. The third man prowled toward me. Sweat dampened his face and hair, and he breathed heavily. The look in his eyes wasn't one I'd ever seen before. They were glassy, glazed, the pupils taking over most of the whites. He seemed unaware of the fight breaking out near him, and completely focused on me. There was no point trying to tell him there'd been a mistake. I couldn't reason with someone in the grip of feverish madness.

I stumbled backward, but somehow maintained my balance. With arms out at his sides, he licked his lips and advanced on me. I could try to go around, as Mr. Glass had suggested, but I wouldn't be fast enough. I had to engage him and somehow get the upper hand physically.

My best chance was to trip him over. With any luck, momentum would propel him into the wall behind me. To do that, I needed to encourage him to come toward me at a run.

I picked up my skirts and darted to my left. With a twisted grin, he came after me. I ran a little, looking over my shoulder. When he was almost upon me, I dashed to the side and thrust out my foot.

He fell over but didn't hit the wall. I didn't wait to see if he recovered. I ran out through the arch and turned left, then right, where I pressed my back to a wall and gasped as much air into my lungs as I could.

A moment later, running footsteps approached. I got my foot ready again, but it was Mr. Glass. He held the butcher's knife. Without a word, he clasped my hand again, and we ran together down the street.

No one followed. There were no footsteps behind us, only the sound of my breathing—not his—and the distant rumble of carriage wheels. If I'd not been holding Mr. Glass's hand, I would have run into things. The stars in my vision had turned to black spots. As it was, my shoulder bumped a wall as we rounded another corner.