Charles’ shirt stuck to his skin, moist with sweat, as irritating as his still-damp sock from last night’s dodgy criminal chase. Using all his muscle, he kicked again at the wattle-and-daub wall, this time his foot going straight through to air. He yanked back his boot, and the hem of his trousers caught on a dagger-sharp piece of wood, shredding the fabric. Well. At least now that side matched the other ruined leg.
He reared back for another whopper of a boot bash, and an accompanying crash hit the door. What a race. Those cullies in the corridor would soon be in. If they didn’t kill him, then Jackson would if anything should happen to Kit.
“We’ve got to hurry, Mr. Baggett.” Kit grabbed a chipped chamber pot and began whacking it against the opening in the wall.
“Stand back.” He shooed her away with a swipe of his arm. “Just one”—he punched his heel into the crumbling daub—“more”—he grunted as he landed another strike that juddered up his backbone—“kick!”
Wood snapped. Centuries-old mud crumbled. Daylight poured through a jagged circle roughly two feet in diameter. Charles shoved his head through, assessing. Five feet down was a roof, flat, poorly tarred, and beyond that yet another roof about waist-high above it. Taller buildings towered on each side. They’d be rats in a sky-high maze. Fabulous. He’d hardly recovered from last evening’s mad rooftop dash, now this?
“Mr. Baggett!” Kit’s voice crackled with urgency. “They’re just about through.”
Judging by the next chest-rattling thump, she was right.
He dove through the hole, slicing his jaw on a sharp piece of wattle before landing on his shoulder. Hard. Blast it! He’d give his left kidney for a paperwork assignment like Jackson’s right about now. Staggering to his feet, he wheeled around to catch Kit.
Too late.
She’d already flown through the void, hat gone, hair wild. Her skirts billowed as she rolled to her feet like a cat.
“Well done, Mr. Baggett!” Kit’s blue eyes glimmered, her cheeks radiating an excited flush. Saints above! Clearly the woman loved this sort of thing. He couldn’t imagine Martha scrabbling through a hole in the wall and being pleased about it, as any decent female ought not to be. Occasions such as these made him appreciate the hearth-and-home heart of Martha.
Something boomed inside—the wardrobe hitting the floor, most likely.
He grabbed Kit’s hand. “Time to go.”
She wrenched from his hold. “Don’t work harder, Mr. Baggett; think smarter. Your gun. This is the perfect ambush site.” She circled her hand at the ragged gap.
He shook his head. “I’ve only got one shot, and there’s more than one man that’ll breach that hole. I guarantee it.”
“Then I’ll whack the other one on the head as he emerges.” She pulled out her knife, hilt at the ready.
“Don’t be daft. We have no idea how many men are going to pour out that wall. I will not have you endangered in a bloody brawl on a roof.”
Kit jutted her jaw. “I’ll take the risk.”
“I won’t.” Lunging, he dug his fingers into her arm and yanked her along as he tore off. Wood creaked beneath the layers of felt and tar, all of which was slick with a coating of green slime. It took his years of footwork in the boxing ring to keep from flipping head over behind.
At his side, Kit yipped like an angry pup until they reached the next ridge. Releasing her, he scrambled up then gave her a hand, and as he did so, he glanced over to the maw he’d created. One man had already dropped and was staggering to his feet. Another shimmied through the hole, working to free his broad shoulders. Both were bruisers.
“They’re onto us. Let’s go.” The instant he righted Kit, they sprinted, barely stopping in time as they reached the edge of the roof. A thirty-foot drop—give or take—gaped in front of them. No windowsills to cling to. No awnings to break a fall. Nothing but a sheer plummet to a narrow passage between buildings…and the next building was at least several hands higher than this one.
He snapped a glance over his shoulder, breathing hard. The men’s heads—two, not three—were already crowning over the top of the ridge. He could shoot one then take out the other hand-to-hand; but if he missed his aim, there’d be two raging bulls to manage and he and Kit would lose their distance advantage.
He faced her, and though he hated to ask such a thing, there was no choice. “If I help you, do you think you can leap such a distance?”
Chest heaving, she rolled her eyes. “Who do you think you’re talking to, Mr. Baggett?” She tucked her skirt hem into her waistband as she backtracked several steps, a strange gleam in her eyes. Great heavens! She couldn’t seriously be thinking of trying this on her own.
“Kit!” he yelled as she galloped past him, terrified to let her go yet even more petrified to yank her back lest they both plummet to their deaths.
His blood drained to his feet as her blue gown went airborne.
And he died several times over when she didn’t quite make it.
God, no! Please—
She stretched her arms.
He held his breath.
