Page 49 of A Problem Princess

Terror pierced her at the sight of the alley. Stone buildings and tall walls lined both sides, with no place to hide, and the scattering of carriage house doors were all padlocked tight for the night. They were trapped!

“Get behind me,” Clayton ordered and let go of her hand.

She made a frantic grab for him, but he stopped in the middle of the alley, shoved her behind him to protect her with his own body, and tossed back the tails of his greatcoat to reach beneath it. He withdrew a second gun and raised both pistols.

***

Clayton tensed, ready to fight. All hell had broken loose tonight, and he would make his stand here. He would protect the princess or die trying.

The gate flung open, and the two men charged into the alley.

“Halt!” Clayton commanded.

The attackers froze in their steps.

“Leave.”

The two brutes exchanged a look of resolve, and Clayton knew they were just foolish enough to attack despite the pistols aimed at them—or desperate enough for whatever reward Scepter had promised them for killing everyone inside the house.

The man on the right spat on the ground and started toward them down the alley. The muscular monster raised a cutlass menacingly in the air, then let out a ferocious yell and ran toward them. His partner followed a single step behind.

Clayton fired.

The ball tore through the first man’s chest. He staggered back a single step from the force of the shot, then crumpled to the ground.

The other attacker raced on toward them. The second pistol shot caught him in the hip. He screamed with surprise and pain, but his yell was lost beneath the noise that came from the ongoing battle being waged inside the house. He fell back against the brick wall, then to the ground.

Clayton holstered both spent pistols and spun on his heel.

Cordelia huddled on the ground behind him in a little ball, her hands clamped tightly over both ears, her eyes screwed shut. Terror gripped her so hard that she shook in violent spasms.

He had to get her out of here. She wasn’t yet safe.

He swept her up into his arms and ran with her down the alley and into the darkness as fast as he could. She buried her face in his shoulder and gasped for breath as she forced down terrified sobs, but she clung tightly to him, so tightly she nearly strangled him. But he wouldn’t stop. He turned down alley after alley, taking her through the rabbit warren of streets and passages forming a maze between them and the river. Each stride took them farther from the house.

They could no longer hear the sounds coming from the town house, but already the city around them was alive with people who were coming out of houses and commercial buildings to see what had happened. Shouts and calls echoed off the stone walls, along with the pounding of running feet as people scurried toward the Strand.

Confident that they weren’t being followed, he slowed his pace to a walk, but her arms never loosened their hold. He heard her quiet sobs and felt the wet of her tears against his neck as she cried in his arms. But he couldn’t stop to comfort her. Not yet. Not until she was completely safe.

When they reached a main avenue, he stopped at the edge of the footpath and slowly eased his hold on her to lower her to the ground. She inhaled sharply when her hurt ankle touched the ground, but she didn’t cry out in pain.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

She nodded, unable to speak.

He took her hand and led her, limping, toward the street. He raised his arm to signal for a hackney. A rickety old rig stopped beside them. He flung open the door, scooped her into his arms, and set her inside on the bench.

“King Street in St James’s,” he ordered the jarvey. He tossed the man a coin and swung up into the compartment. “Hurry!”

He closed the door, then dropped onto the bench across from her. She huddled in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. She struggled to fight down her tears and panted hard for breath.

His chest constricted with worry. He wanted to pull her into his arms and assure her that she would be fine, but he couldn’t. All he could do was slip his hand up his sleeve for the knife he kept sheathed there in case they were attacked again. As in every battle he’d fought in the wars, he knew not to let down his guard. Time for comforting and grieving would come later.

She lifted her head from her knees, and the terrified expression on her beautiful face nearly undid him. “Why?” she choked out. “Why were we attacked?”

Even in the shadows of the carriage lamp, her eyes haunted him, and he glanced out the broken window. “Most likely it was an assassination attempt.”

Or worse—the elimination of all the king’s ministers in one fell swoop. His blood froze. Was this the signal the Marquess of Hawking had warned was coming, the same signal Burton confirmed?