Page 7 of The Duke's Daring Bride

The footsteps halted at the front of the alley.

Drat.

“Lovie, we know ye’re in there,” the same voice called. Another, gruffer, managed, “We don’t wanna hurt ye.”

There was a sound from another man, words which caused some laughter, then the sounds of them stepping into the alley.

Olivia dropped her head back against the brick wall behind her and squeezed her eyes shut.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Perhaps they wouldn’t see her.

“Which one of us gets to go first?” The harsh whisper seemed to reverberate through the alley.

“Ye went first last time. I want a go.” This voice was more of a whine. “I haven’t wet my wick in a month!”

“Ye might have a better chance if ye washed it!”

This apparently passed as great wit, judging from the laughter.

“See, lovie?” the first man called in a sing-song voice. “We just want to play. We know what a gal like you is looking for.”

She wasn’t able to stop her whimpered, “No.”

The footsteps stopped, although they sounded far too close. “What was that?” the deeper voice called. “Ye want two of us to spread yer legs at once?”

Oh God. Olivia swallowed, her eyes still shut. They knew she was here. “G-Go away!”

Another chuckle. Her bravado hadn’t worked.

“Oh no, lovie. We’re just getting started, the boys and me.”

She opened her mouth to call out something biting and witty—what, she hadn’t figured out yet—but almost bit off her own tongue when a hand reached down and grabbed her by the arm, yanking her to her feet.

Her scream was involuntary, but when he pulled her against him she screamed again, very much on purpose, and began kicking and scratching and punching anything she could get her hands on.

Oh God oh God oh God—

Her attempts seemed to only amuse her attacker. With a chuckle, he pushed her away, and before she could get her feet worked out, she landed against another man, even smellier than the first. His grin was more of a leer, visible even in the gloom, and he pawed at her chest.

Just as one large hand closed around her left breast, another one of them yanked her away, pulling her back against his chest and wrapping his arms around her while his mouth found the back of her neck.

This seemed the prime moment to kick backward.

Her heel landed a desperate blow between his legs, but when he howled and bent forward, the first man grabbed her again, saying something about “a gal with spirit” which she decided was so cliché she could ignore it.

Besides, she was too busy fighting for her life.

This man was holding her by one wrist, his grip as tight as—well, she’d just decided to ignore all clichés, so she wasn’t going to say iron. But it was really quite tight.

There’d been a story she’d written, several years ago, about women who learned to protect themselves. She’d visited one of their classes and could remember very little, except for one thing:

When someone bigger than you gripped your arm like that, you could twist like this, then turn and duck, and twist again, and…

She was free.

Without bothering to do something as time-consuming as breathing, Olivia hurtled up the alley, away from the group of men and toward the questionable freedom of Bethnal Green.

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