Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(17)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“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.

“They say she was slit open,” the woman whispered. “Slit from top to bottom, her innards all strewn about.”

“Dear God,” Mrs. Dews gasped. Her grasp on the woman’s hand must have loosened. The little woman turned and opened the door, darting into the house.

“Wait!” Mrs. Dews cried.

“Leave her,” Lazarus said. “She’s told us what we needed anyway.”

Mrs. Dews opened her mouth as if to argue, but then closed it into a flat line. He waited a moment to see if her ire would win out over her control, but she simply stared at him.

“Someday you’ll break,” he murmured. “And I pray to God I’m there when it happens.”

“I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” He turned and placed his boot deliberately on the chest of the man he’d stabbed. With a grunt of pain, Lazarus withdrew his short sword from the body. The man lay facing upward, the light from a nearby window reflecting off his open, sightless eyes. He wore a leather patch over the place his nose should’ve been. Had he thought that the day might end with him lying dead in the filth of a street gutter? Doubtful.

But then only a fool mourned the death of his own assassin.

Lazarus bent to wipe the blade on the man’s coat before sheathing it in the other half of his black walking stick. He glanced at Mrs. Dews. She stood watching his movements with concern in her wide eyes. “Best we get you back to the relative safety of your home, madam.”

She nodded, falling into step beside him. Lazarus walked rapidly, his stick held firmly in his right hand. He had no desire to look like an easy mark to their attackers should they return—or to any other predators who might be prowling the streets of St. Giles. The night was black as pitch, clouds hiding the moon. He made his way by instinct and the inconsistent light of the buildings they passed. Mrs. Dews was a slim shadow by his side, her pace not slowing him. He had a reluctant admiration for her. She might’ve refused his command earlier, but she hadn’t flinched at either the fight or the news that he was wounded. In fact, she’d had the forethought to bring along a weapon, even if it had been useless.

“You need to practice if you’re to carry a gun to protect yourself,” he said. He felt her stiffen beside him.

“I think I was quite capable when I fired.”

“You missed.”

Her face swiveled toward him, and even in the dark, he could sense her outrage. “I fired into the air!”

“What?” he halted, catching her arm.

She tried to jerk away again and then seemed to remember his wound. Her mouth thinned with irritation. “I fired into the air because I feared hitting you should I aim at your assailants.”