Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(76)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Sinclair had something bulky and black in his hand. There was a roar of noise, a flash, a stench of pistol shot. One of Devlin’s henchmen cried out.

“You brought your pistol,” Bertie shouted.

“Excellent observation,” Sinclair said in his biting tones. “Now get through there.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Yes, you are. Go, before I shove you through with my foot on your backside.”

The men in the room, blinded by their own lanterns and the gunshot, took a moment to readjust. Bertie knew that when they did, those who were armed would open fire.

“Bertie, damn you to hell.” Sinclair started for her. Which would leave him exposed, and Devlin was shouting at his men to douse their lanterns.

Bertie dove through the opening. She’d done such a thing many times as a girl, throwing herself through windows for her dad, or through holes in walls to escape the approaching bobbies. She landed on a pile of bricks, mud, and slime, hearing the drip-drip of water from a pipe somewhere in the room.

Light flared as a hand thrust a lamp at her, then the hand was gone. Bertie was alone in a cellar full of damp, rotted timbers, and the beady eyes of rats. Behind her, noise filled the room she’d left, and voices.

James’s fury. “Get her!”

Devlin, annoyed. “He’s got a shooter, you daft Irish bastard.”

“How many bullets can he possibly have?”

“Five,” Sinclair said clearly. “I have five left. There’s five of you, and I’m a dead shot. Want to wager on me missing any of you?”

Bertie froze, unable to move. By the light of her lamp, she saw that the cellar she stood in was small, and about an inch of water covered the floor. A wooden stair on the other side of the room led up to a door. Locked, probably, though it looked flimsy.

Had Devlin sent men around to the other side to wait for them to pop out? Possibly, but then, would Devlin know which house it was? The warrens around here were tricky.

Sinclair was ready to shoot all those men, and risk that he could before they shot him back. Run! Bertie’s mind screamed at her. Bring help!

That would be sensible, but her feet wouldn’t move. If she went for help, she’d never be able to get back in time to save Sinclair. Devlin or James would have killed him by then.

What do I do? What do I do? Bertie had only one weapon in her arsenal, the post she held. Unless she could command the rats to attack—Bertie had one giddy vision of the rats swarming in to terrorize Devlin, before her eyes alighted on her second weapon.

Sinclair fired, and another man grunted in pain. “Make him stop!” James cried.

“Damn your hide,” Devlin snarled, though whether at Sinclair or James, Bertie couldn’t tell.

Bertie ran across the room and up the stairs. She didn’t like rats, but she didn’t fear them—they were simply trying to survive like the rest of London.

The door at the top was closed fast, but as Bertie yanked at it, she found it was only latched. Another yank tore the latch from the wall on the other side, the piece of metal clinking onto a stone floor beyond.

Bertie opened the door and peered into the passage. All was dark and quiet, but that did not mean the house wasn’t inhabited.

Bertie didn’t much care at the moment. She raced down the stairs again and snatched up her lamp, rushing back toward the hole.

Sinclair fired again. This time James shouted and cried out. Whether Sinclair had hit him fatally or only grazed him, Bertie couldn’t tell, but she had no time for assessment. I’m a dead shot, Sinclair had said, with chilling conviction.

Bertie scrambled back through the hole and grabbed Sinclair, who was crouching behind his barricade. The look on his face was that of a grim soldier who knew he would likely fall to his enemy, but who would take as many as he could down with him.

He glared at Bertie when she tugged him, but she didn’t wait to explain. Rising, she lifted her lamp high and threw it at their pursuers.

Devlin swore, as did his one thug left standing. Bertie caught up the second lamp and tossed that one as well. The lamps were nearly empty, but there was enough kerosene in them to catch and burn.

Sinclair rose. He fired another shot, then he grabbed the remaining lamp and tossed it into the blaze. It burst with a puff of flame, and then fire and smoke filled the tiny space.

Sinclair’s fingers latched around Bertie’s arm, and he shoved her back toward the hole. Bertie paused a split second to snatch up her precious hat, then she climbed through. Sinclair followed, turning around to fire one more time before he dove after her.

He landed and rolled, as Bertie had, but instead of leaping to his feet, he groaned and slipped down to the muck. Bertie ran to him. She got under his arm and lifted him, half dragging him to the stairs. Behind them, she heard Devlin yell, “To hell with this. Get up there and around. I want them.”

Bertie pulled Sinclair up the rickety wooden stairs, praying they wouldn’t give way. Sinclair tripped and staggered, his body heavy on Bertie’s. She’d left the door open, and she reached it, but Sinclair fell at the top of the stairs.

Sobbing, Bertie got him to his feet. He was half unconscious, snapping awake again as Bertie drew him into the hall beyond.

She slammed the door, though there wasn’t much point, and limped with Sinclair down the hall toward where she thought the front door must be.

Halfway along, Sinclair stopped her. “Bertie.” His voice was a little stronger. He turned her to face him. “Bertie, I love you.”

Before Bertie could answer, he hauled her to him, every bit of gentleness gone, and kissed her. She was ground against him, Sinclair’s hands hard on her, the kiss fierce, savage. He smelled of sweat and blood, fear and worry, but his mouth was a place of heat in the cold darkness.

His teeth scraped her lips as he opened her mouth with his. Bertie sank her fingers into his coat, the hat she’d jammed on her head sliding sideways as Sinclair raked her hair from her face. If she let go of him, she knew, she’d tumble into a mire of despair and never be free. Sinclair was her world now, and Bertie would hold on to him through madness and terror, up again into the light.

The kiss turned deeper, as though Sinclair drew all his strength from Bertie. His strength fed her in turn, fires heating her in the bitter chill of this last day of the year.

Sinclair grunted, faltering, and he broke the kiss. Bertie looked up to see pain in his eyes, his strength depleted, the strain of his wound taking the fight out of him.

“We’ve got to go,” she whispered.