At last reaching that cracked doorway, she let herself in.
To an empty stall.
Reggie blinked frantically in a bid to adjust her eyes to the dimly lit space. There were few places any person could hide here.
“Stephen,” she hissed, venturing forward. The straw cracked and crunched under her feet. “Stephen,” she repeated, peering at the stacks of hay that lined the left-hand side of the stall. She reached them in two quick strides, leaning over.
Furious eyes met hers. “Oi said get the hell outta ’ere.”
“No,” she clarified. “You said what you were doing here had nothing to do with me, which it doesn’t. It does, however, have to do with you, and because I care about you, I choose to be here,” she said practically, using her most matter-of-fact tone. Having known this boy well enough since he’d been an orphan, she knew he’d reject any kindness or gentleness shown.
“Care about me?” he scoffed. “You’re just looking to court my family’s favor.”
“You’re wrong. I do care. And you know that. Even if you are too stubborn and angry to admit it,” she said calmly, refusing to give rise to his baiting. “We have to leave.”
Fate interjected in the form of a horse’s hoofbeats.
Oh, blast.
Reggie rushed around the stacks of hay and dropped onto the ground beside Stephen.
Her heartbeat throbbed harsh and unsteady against her rib cage. Reflexively, she sought Stephen’s fingers and curled her coarse, callused palm around his. And the same boy who’d always rebuffed any show of affection or human contact clung to her.
The thump of boots striking the stones outside the stable reached Reggie, ratcheting up her panic. Her cheek layered to the floor; the hay scratched at her face, tickling her nose, torturing her bid at absolute stillness.
Go away. Go away.
Time and life’s miseries should have shown her the inherent foolishness in prayer.
Those sure, powerful footfalls came closer, ever closer.
Reggie tightened her grip. Stephen winced, and she forced herself to lighten her hold.
Do not breathe . . . do not move . . . do not breathe . . . do not move . . .
That alternating mantra pulsed in time to the stranger’s approaching steps and the click of a horse’s hooves.
Too often, people believed fear was simply an emotion. But it was more.
With all of an inch between her face and the child alongside her, Reggie felt it pouring from Stephen’s still frame. Smelled it in the faint rasps of his breath.
“Shh,” she silently mouthed, pleading with her eyes.
And this boy who’d seemed to make it his life’s mission to disobey everyone—including the Killoran clan he called family—complied.
Reggie strained her ears. No servant had come forward? Where was the stable hand to take that mount?
The door opened, with the heavier footfalls marking the stranger as a man coming first, then the clip-clop of the horse following him.
She bit down hard on her lower lip, the metallic tinge of blood flooding her nostrils. What gentleman tended his own horse? Especially at this hour. Gentlemen traveling about London now either returned by carriage . . . or rode horses back from the very wicked club that employed Reggie. Those lords left drunk and sloppy, and this man’s smooth, near-silent, methodical movements as he removed the saddle and returned it to the opposite wall spoke of one in complete control.
No, this was no mere drunken wastrel of a patron from the Devil’s Den Stephen had sought out.
This was another sort of nobleman. And a far deeper-seated terror held her in its grip. A drunkard was careless. They were the ones easiest to sneak away from. Composed, clearheaded nobles were the ones who’d never stomach two Seven Dials street toughs sneaking about their properties.
Surely you’re not so dim-witted that you’d believe I’d ever welcome a match between you and my son . . .
Reggie closed her eyes, willing her past back to the grave where it deserved to stay buried. When she opened them, she found Stephen staring back.
“Shh,” she repeated that noiseless reminder.
After an eternal stretch of time, the gentleman took his leave, closing the door in his wake.
They were so close . . . so very close . . .
Elation built in her breast, a thrilling sense of victory that could come only in escaping certain doom. And it harkened back to another triumphant escape.
Her joy was short-lived.
Stephen jumped up and, scrambling over her, rushed to the front of the stable.
“Stephen,” she hissed as she struggled to stand.
The horse, an enormous black mount more beast than stallion, stamped its hoof and whinnied.
Or mayhap he sought to alert the master who’d gone off, unsuspecting that his stables had been invaded by strangers who had no place here.
“Get back,” she pleaded in a frantic whisper.
Either failing to hear or not caring about her admonishment, Stephen layered himself to the front of the stable doors and, stretching up on his tiptoes, peered out.
Squinting, she searched for the object of the boy’s focus. Her gaze landed on a tall, powerfully broad gentleman striding away from them. He cut such a quick path through the mews, his midnight-black cloak whipped furiously about his ankles. Not even the distance between them could hide the high quality of that garment.
A flash of silver glinted in the stables.
The black stallion snorted nervously, stamping his hooves.
Reggie’s gaze locked on the familiar sapphire hilt of Stephen’s dagger.
The boy reached for the handle.
What in blazes . . . ?
She grabbed his collar and yanked him back, hard. The blade sailed to the floor, flashing a shadow about in its descent, until it landed with a muffled thump upon the hay.
The stallion squealed, rearing up in the small space.
Reflexively, Reggie pushed the boy down and covered his body with her own. Her pulse thundered loud in her ears, muting the furious whinnies of the horse. She hunched forward, curling her body tight around Stephen.
The creature’s front hooves landed close to her head, trampling errant strands of her hair and tearing them from her scalp. Tears popped up behind her eyes.
And when the world at last righted itself, Reggie straightened.
Stephen scrambled out from under her; his eyes glinted with outrage. “Ya shouldn’t’ve done that.”
Reggie held his gaze. “Yes. Yes, I should have.” For so many reasons. If he wandered deeper down the path of violence and destruction, he’d ultimately be destroyed by it.
The boy glowered, his fury palpable.
Offering a truce, she rescued his dagger and handed it over.
The stallion intercepted her efforts.
A searing agony burnt Reggie’s ear, and she fought back a silent scream. She shot her hand up to apply pressure to ease the throbbing. Something warm and wet coated her fingers. She drew them back.
Blood soaked her palm, the darkness of the stables lending shades of black to the crimson stain.
Horror filled Stephen’s eyes. “Ya’re ’urt.”
“We have to go,” she whispered, yanking the hood of her cloak back into place. Pressing her hand hard against the sore flesh, she sought to staunch the flow once more with the coarse wool fabric. Blood immediately seeped through, coating her fingers. With her spare hand, she took Stephen’s fingers, and he hesitated.
She stared questioningly back.
There was a faint pleading in the proud boy’s gaze. “Don’t tell Broderick.”
“I won’t,” she said, squeezing his hand.
He searched her face. “You promise?”
“You have my word.” The longer they remained, the more they risked discovery at the nobleman’s residence. “Now we have to leave.”
This time, Stephen went unresistingly.
Making a slight crack in the slat, Reggie peeked out.
Empty.
Soon, however, these well-tended stables would be overrun with that nobleman’s staff.
And she had no intention of either her or Stephen being around when that happened.
Chapter 2
You will pay. Not today. Not tomorrow. But when you least expect it . . .
Broderick tossed the reins of his mount to a waiting servant outside the Devil’s Den.