“That man is Francis Sinclair!” Maria shouted, pointing. “The man who escaped his hanging!”
Alarm spread briefly over Francis’ features as the crowd around them attempted to reach his horse’s reins.
Without another moment’s hesitation, Maria put a boot upon the edge of the broken hack, and hefted herself upon the horse, awkwardly juggling her satchel and the overly-long reins. The beast sidestepped and shook its head, rejecting her presence on its bared back. But she held firm, absurdly grateful that she still wore her men’s suit of clothes.
The cacophony grew ever louder, and her mount’s eyes grew wide before she nudged it with her legs. They burst into a run, with the driver shouting behind them, and she narrowly secured her satchel upon her lap before it slid off.
Crack!Something whizzed past her ear, and with tumult in her chest, she realized that someone had shot at her. She was in the Strand, for heaven’s sake! Anyone could be injured by a wide shot.
Pressing her hat more firmly on her head, she manoeuvred the struggling mare down the thoroughfare, around carts, carriages, horses, and people, and into Covent Garden. They were close to Bow Street, but not anywhere she could easily lose a pursuer.
With her pulse speeding and her breath coming fast between numb lips, she hooked her satchel’s handle over her wrist and flicked the reins, urging the mare faster. The mare’s eyes were wild, the beast clearly unused to having someone on her back—most particularly bared. Maria, however, would do what she must.
She desperately attempted to avoid passers-by while guiding her horse over the slippery cobblestones, her ears filled with the sounds of people shouting, her panting breaths, and theclip-clopof the horse’s hooves. She rounded a corner onto a narrow street, less populated than the one she’d left, and pushed her mount faster.
Crack!
A small section of the stonework on a nearby building exploded with the force of the ball hitting it, dust falling to the ground.
“Shit,” she breathed.
Sweat beaded beneath the brim of her hat, dampened the fabric along her spine, and between her breasts.
Crack!
Dust flew at her from the other side of the narrow street, and a woman screamed in fear as Maria rode past.
How many pistols did the man have? He could not possibly be loading them while on horseback.
The street let out onto another thoroughfare, and she turned toward Bow Street. She couldn’t lead him to the offices, but perhaps she could lose him along the way. She gave the mare a nudge and glanced over her shoulder just as Francis burst from the narrow street and spotted her.
He was not far, but it was possible to lose him; she would simply have to take the risk of dismounting. It was a matter of timing, of awaiting the perfect moment when he was out of sight. She couldn’t hide from him forever. If she but had time to gather any weaponry aside from her small dagger, she would be grateful.
Her wrist burned with the bouncing weight of her satchel, and she shifted it awkwardly on her lap.
Crack!
That was four pistols. Clearly the man was well armed.
More screams rent the air, and Maria made a quick decision. She tightened her legs’ aching grip around the mare’s girth and led her down a side street. The buildings blocked the dim light shining through the clouds, and there were several vendors with carts selling their wares.Perfect.
With awkward, painful movements, Maria drew to a stop and slid from the mare’s back, landing on the uneven cobbles with a hardclunkof her booted heels. She clapped the horse on the flank, sending it darting between the vendors down the street, while Maria crouched behind a barrel and a vendor’s cart. The man whose space she’d invaded was fortunately too distracted by Francis’ entrance onto the street to give notice to her.
Hoof-beats drew nearer, and Maria withdrew the dagger from her boot, her heart clambering wildly in her chest. Would Francis notice that her horse had no rider? Would he see her? The cold fingers of dread prickled over her skin, creating an icy film of sweat between her palm and the handle of her dagger. She clutched it tighter.
Clop-clop, clop-clop, clop-clop.
“Hyaa!” Francis’ growled demand came from just steps away, before he pushed his horse into a run.
Soon, the sound of his galloping had faded away, and she sheathed her dagger once more.
“Wot ye be doin’ be’ind my cart, lad?” the vendor asked indignantly.
Maria cleared her throat and affected a lower voice. “I beg your pardon, sir.” She withdrew some coins from deep within her inner pocket and handed them to the man as she stood. “I had a need to not be seen just then. I’ll be on my way.”
The man’s eyes lit up at the sight of the coins, and he doffed his hat. “Thank’e kindly, sirrah.”
Biting back a groan, she hefted her satchel and started the short walk toward Bow Street.
