Page 109 of The Scot Who Loved Me
She raced across the narrow room and flew down the steps. Mr. Baines grabbed a barrel lid and used it against a tall man with black and gray hair neatly clubbed.
Will advanced on the whiney-voiced man who tripped over a lantern. The candle touched Bavarian pine that should’ve been too green and too damp from her riverside warehouse to catch fire. But unlike the previous, rainy months, August had been hot. Pitch glistened in the bark and flames sprang to life, which was close enough to her open door. The door, so old and sun bleached, didn’t stand a chance.
Mr. Little, a mean-eyed ginger, drew a flintlock that had been tucked in the back of his breeches and pointed it at Will’s back.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Will struck the whiney-voiced man. Theirs was a fight of fists which didn’t last long. Will landed Mr. Whiney on the ground, and the man gave up, curling like a babe, both arms covering his head.
The warehouse door was ablaze. Outside, wharfmen made a line, passing buckets to put out the fire. He whirled around and yelled, “Anne.”
He couldn’t see her in the smoke but he heard the crack of a flintlock fired, its ball whizzing past his ear. Its trail left a sting. He ignored it, searching for Anne in the smoke and melee. He found her crouching beside a man with a knife in his back. Anne’s knife. A foot away was a flintlock on the ground.
“He was going to shoot you,” she said, a dull quality in her voice.
He’d wager Anne had had her share of fights, but taking a man’s life was a first. Cold fear moved him. The fire was nearly out but the Night Watch would soon be upon them.
“We have to get you out of here.” He dragged Anne upright.
“Wehave to get out of here.” She looked lively now.
“Mr. Baines,” he yelled.
The bloody-lipped wherryman picked himself up, his fight a draw with the black-and-gray-haired man. The criminal’s eyes darted with rat-like assessment. Smoke was clearing, more wharfmen were coming. When his gaze landed on Will, the criminal cuffed blood off his mouth and ran out the door.
Mr. Baines picked up his hat, coughing. Smoke hung heavy and acrid.
“Take Mrs. Neville to Cecelia MacDonald’s house,” Will said. “Do not let her tell you to do any different. Otherwise you’ll answer to me. Do you understand, Mr. Baines?”
“Yes, sir. I do, sir.”
Will nudged Anne forward. “Go with him.”
“No. Come with me,” she pleaded.
He advanced on Anne, steered her roughly around a fallen log. She let him guide her, her steps faltering. She didn’t want to go. He felt his face twist into a harsh scowl. There was no time to dither.
Mr. Baines approached, but she brushed his hand off her arm.
“Will—”
“Go,” he bellowed and pointed at the door.
Anne paled under smoke tinged cheeks.
Mr. Baines murmured something to her, enough to put sense into the woman and let him drag hertoward the door. She was an odd sight, green silk petticoats and her hair a mess. Anne looked every bit like one of the lost souls who inhabited St. Luke’s. She was wildness itself, clutching the unburnt part of doorframe.
“This is not the end, Will.”
Her cry ripped through him. He stood and watched until the doorway was empty of nothing but light and smoke. He got a whiff of lavender on his shirt. It would be enough. It had to be.
Full of resolve, he walked to the man with the knife in his back. Instinct made him kneel beside the man and check him. The criminal sported aTbrand on his thumb but with so many men with branded thumbs, it was nigh on impossible to know if this man had visited Anne’s warehouse before.
Still kneeling, he scanned the warehouse. The gold baffled him. It wasn’t here?Mermaid Brewerybranded barrels had been upended. The Jacobite gold wasn’t in a single one. He was searching the man’s pockets, his boots, when the Night Watch came. Questions would need to be answered. Anne could not be the one to answer them. Hands resting on his knees, he braced himself for what would come. Prison. Again. That was why he was here and not Anne. He couldn’t bear the thought of her in a cold, dark prison cell.
Two of the Night Watch approached, one an older man, former army by his bearing. The other young and mean, with fists and jowls like hams. Despite his appearance, the young man was respectful.
“That your knife, sir?”
