Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(20)

Moving with obvious deadly intent.

She would’ve called a warning to Lord Caire, but there was no need. His eyes sharpened on her face. “Run!”

And then he was whirling, putting her behind him near the building as he faced the attackers. They spread as they came at him, the outer two men going to either side of Lord Caire, the center man raising a knife. Lord Caire hit the center man’s wrist with his stick, deflecting the first blow. He withdrew a short sword from his stick, and then they were on him in a flurry of rapid blows and kicks, three against one.

It was only a matter of time until Lord Caire went down, even armed.

She had her pistol. Temperance hauled up her skirts, fumbling for the sack. She withdrew the pistol, letting her skirts drop.

She looked up in time to see Lord Caire grunt and half turn as if he’d been hit. One of the men staggered away, but the remaining closed in. She brought the pistol up, but the combatants were too close together. If she fired, she might hit Lord Caire.

And if she didn’t, the assailants might kill him.

As she watched, one of the men feinted with a dagger on one side of Lord Caire while another raised a knife on his other side. She couldn’t wait any longer. They were going to kill him.

Temperance fired.

Chapter Four

Once a year, it was King Lockedheart’s custom to give a speech to his people. But because he was a man more used to wielding a sword than a pen, the king made a habit of practicing his speech. Thus one morning, King Lockedheart paced the balcony of his magnificent palace, declaiming his speech to the open air and the caged blue bird.

“My people,” the king declared, “I am proud to be your leader, and I know that you are proud to live under my rule. Indeed, I know that I am beloved of you, my people.”

But, sadly, here King Lockedheart was interrupted—by a giggle….

—from King Lockedheart

The pistol shot came from behind him. A wild fury filled Lazarus’s chest at the sound. They couldn’t, they hadn’t the right to hurt the little martyr. She was his plaything.

He lunged in vicious anger at the attacker to his right, driving his sword deep into the other’s gut. He saw the man’s eyes widen in shocked surprise, and at the same time Lazarus sensed the rush from his left. He whirled, leaving his sword behind, and slammed the other half of his stick against his attacker’s wrist. The man howled, cradling his injured wrist as the knife spun out of his hand. Unarmed, the attacker realized his vulnerability. He swore and skipped back, darting down an alley. He was gone as suddenly as he’d appeared. Lazarus turned to the third man, but he had disappeared as well. Suddenly the night was quiet.

Only then did he look behind him at his little martyr. His Mrs. Dews.

She stood still and prim, a pistol in one hand by her side.

Not hurt, then. Not killed. Thank God.

“Why the hell didn’t you run?” he asked very softly.

She tilted her chin, damn her, in obstinate martyrish dignity. She was quite composed, not a hair out of place—and her mouth was red and inviting. “I couldn’t leave you.”

“Yes,” he said as he advanced on her, “you could have and you should have. I ordered you to run.”

She seemed completely unmoved by his ire, looking down as she shoved her enormous pistol into a pathetic sack. “Perhaps I don’t take orders from you, my lord.”

“Don’t take orders,” he sputtered like an overwrought old woman. One part of his brain was amused at what an ass he was being, while another part found it very, very important that she know that she had to obey him. “Let me tell you—”

He moved to take her arm, but she jerked it away. Pain flamed up his shoulder. “God’s blood!”

Her brows knit. “What is it?”

Where his concern had driven her away, his weakness pulled her closer. Contrary creature. “Nothing.”

“Then why did you cry out in pain?”

He looked up impatiently from peering under his cloak. “Because, Mrs. Dews, I seem to have received a knife wound.” He could feel hot blood soaking his coat now.

She gasped, visibly paling. “Oh, dear Lord. That’s not nothing! Why didn’t you say so? Perhaps you should sit and—”

“Who’s there?”

They both turned to see a crooked little woman peering from the door to the cobbler’s shop. She squinted and cocked her head. “I heard a pistol shot.”

Lazarus stepped toward her, but at his movement, she made as if to withdraw inside. Not damned likely. Lazarus reached around her and shut the door swiftly, cutting off her escape. “We came to see Martha Swan.”

The woman shrank back at the name. “Who are you?” she cried, peering from one side to the other. She was obviously blind or near blind. “I’ll have no truck with—”

Mrs. Dews took one of her hands. “We mean you no harm. We were told Martha Swan lives here.”

Mrs. Dews’s touch seemed to calm her, but the woman’s thin chest still heaved as if she’d take flight if she could. “Martha lived here, aye.”

Mrs. Dews looked disappointed. “Then she’s gone?”

“Dead.” The woman cocked her head again. “She was found dead just this morn.”

“How?” Lazarus narrowed his eyes. His arm was soaked now with blood, but he needed this information.