streets. There was no sign of Lottie’s brightly coloured straw bonnet anywhere.
He fought against the sudden stab of concern.
Lottie had gone looking for him. He would find her more than likely with the parish constable. He would keep her safe. Then they would marry. All would be well.
A woman’s scream rent the air. Tristan raced towards it.
‘Let me go.’ Lottie twisted away from the evil-smelling man and screamed again. Her sleeve tore slightly as she elbowed the man hard in the stomach. His hands loosened as he doubled over in pain.
‘Why did you have to do that? I didn’t mean no harm, did I, Den?’ the rough unshaven man said to his companion.
‘No, Fred, you didn’t,’ the companion said, sticking his hands in his pockets and giving a low whistle.
‘I doubt the truth of that statement.’ Lottie kept her nose in the air; her stomach was in knots as she struggled to breathe. She wished her corset was not so tight, then she would have been able to run, but as it was, she could not draw sufficient air.
If she walked quickly, perhaps she would come to the constable’s box…if it even existed, if the woman had been correct in her directions, something Lottie was beginning to have her doubts about. She should have never gone down this alleyway. She should have never trusted that old woman. She should have stayed in the coaching yard until nightfall and then demanded the constable be brought to her. That would have been the sensible thing to do.
Her slippers resounded on the cobble stones. Only a few more steps and she’d be back in the open. She’d be safe. One more step. Lottie resisted the temptation to turn around and see where the men were. The back of her neck pricked, but she forced her feet to move. They had to let her go.
‘Playing hard to get, me little golden-haired beauty? Thinking yourself all prettified in those togs? Above the likes of me and me pals? Way aye, I have the measure of you.’
Rough hands grabbed her waist again, dragged her back into the alleyway, away from the light, and back into the dark. The scent of alcohol wafted over her. Lottie gagged and kicked backwards. But the man had lifted her off the ground and her slippers only encountered thin air.
‘Not this time.’ He wiped a dirty paw down her face. ‘You won’t get away so lightly, but I likes it when they plays rough, I do.’
‘Let me go, you—you monster!’
‘We will go somewheres quiet. You, me and Den. I knows a good game we can play.’
‘Unhand me this instant or I will call the constable.’ Lottie fought against the hands, saw her handkerchief, reticule and satchel fall to the ground and with them all her money. She gave a little cry of despair. But the arms continued to hold her tight. She kicked backwards and screamed.
‘And what is the constable going to do about it, my pretty?’ His companion laughed. ‘See here, Fred, see if you can wake him from his box. Or is he snoring his head off?’
Lottie’s throat went dry as she prayed for a miracle. She should never have gone off out of the yard. She should have stayed and waited. She whispered a prayer.
‘The lady is with me and not with you.’ Tristan’s voice cut through the man’s banter. ‘Release her. Or I won’t be held be responsible for what happens.’
Lottie froze as hope bubbled up inside her. Tristan. He was here. He had not abandoned her. He had found her. She turned her head towards the sound, hoping against hope that it had not been her imagination. He stood at the entrance to the alley, large and solid, formidable, his lips turned down in a furious expression.
‘Tristan! I am here! Thank God you are all right. I thought something must have happened to you.’ Lottie struggled against the imprisoning hands. ‘Help me.’
‘I said let the lady go.’ Tristan advanced forwards. ‘I am in no mood to repeat myself. No mood at all.’
‘Why should I?’ The man stood there, hands imprisoning her. ‘I caught her first. Prove she’s yours.’
‘In the interests of your long-term health…release her.’ Tristan’s voice was calm and cold as if he were passing the time of the day. ‘A friendly warning, if you like.’
‘How so?’ the man’s companion asked. He advanced towards Tristan, brandishing his fists. ‘Fred found her, plying her trade. You best be about your business, you jumped-up Englishman. I’m a professional boxer, like. My punch is harder than a sledgehammer. Den Casey, Sledgehammer of the North, they calls me. Won five straight.’
A loud thwack resounded in the street as Tristan’s fist connected with the man’s jaw. The man tumbled backwards, lay on the ground. ‘Remind me not to bet on any of your fights, then.’
‘Den down?’ Lottie’s captor looked at his prone companion and back at Tristan. ‘The Hammer is on the ground. Dead to the world. Felled with one punch. I ain’t never seen the like.’
‘Who is next?’ Tristan straightened his stock. ‘I want the lady released. Unharmed. Immediately.’
‘It were only a bit of sport, your worship. We did not mean no harm.’
The hands were withdrawn so suddenly that Lottie stumbled forwards and encountered Tristan’s hard body.
She gasped slightly at the sudden contact, but her feet refused to move as her entire body trembled. Safe. She longed to lay her head against his broad chest. Her knees refused to support her. She clung onto his arm and pushed all thoughts about what might have happened to her had Tristan not come by when he did out of her head.
‘I…I…’ Her throat closed and she found it difficult to speak. She swallowed and tried again, her voice barely audible. ‘I should have stayed at the inn. I went looking for you. I was worried that something might have happened and that was why you didn’t come back. I wanted to get help.’
‘Are you unhurt?’ His arm went about her waist, supporting her. Lottie gave into temptation and rested her head against his shoulder, felt his strength. She closed her eyes and breathed in his crisp, masculine scent. She was safe. He put her away from him and looked her up and down. ‘Have they harmed you?’
‘My…my reticule has vanished.’ Lottie straightened her bonnet and shook out the folds of her gown. She glanced at the rip in her sleeve, winced, but it could be mended. ‘My bag.’
‘Give the lady back her reticule. And her bag,’ Tristan said in the same deadly quiet voice to the man who was standing over his fallen companion, staring at them with fearful eyes.
‘Look what you done to our Den. There ought to be a law.’
‘There is and you are on the wrong side of it.’
‘What you mean? The wrong side?’
‘I have no little doubt the constable will be interested to learn of your whereabouts.’ Tristan held out his hand. ‘The bags. Now. And I might allow you to go.’
There
