“Did the coroner store the victim’s coat here?”
Mr Barker shook his head. “He took it with him, along with the gent’s boots, watch, and purse.”
Gabriel thanked him, left his calling card and asked to be informed should anyone else show an interest in the deceased. He pushed a few sovereigns across the desk, steel in his tone when he said, “If the resurrectionists take him, I shall hold you personally responsible.”
The watchman blanched. “No one’ll lay a hand on him, my lord.”
Outside, a breath of cold air carried the river’s chill. The haze had thickened, stealing the last of the daylight and casting the street into shadow.
The press of Gabriel’s hand at her back did little to quell the sudden prickle of dread. The horses shifted and snorted, restless in the gloom. Fog was a friend to fiends and footpads. Having spent countless hours peering through a gap in the curtains, she knew that better than most.
“You sense it too?” Gabriel said, quickening his step and guiding her swiftly towards the muted glow of the carriage lamps.
“Yes. Where fog creeps, wickedness thrives.”
Unease coiled in her belly as she gave voice to the fear.
A twig snapped somewhere behind them.
Something shifted in the dark.
Or perhaps it was only her nerves.
“Kincaid?” Gabriel said, his gaze fixed on the hulking figure atop the box.
“Aye, my lord. Best take care. There’s movement in the kirkyard, and I’ll warrant it’s nae ghost.”
A sharp click broke the silence—a pistol hammer drawn back. She prayed it was Mr Kincaid priming his weapon.
But Gabriel cursed. “Forgive me if I’m rough, but there’s no time.” He caught her by the waist and pressed her to the closed carriage door, his body a wall of heat and strength, the breadth of him blocking out the threat. She held her breath, her cheek grazing the coarse weave of his coat, the rapid thud of his heart close to her ear, his thighs anchoring her fast.
“If I’m injured, you run. You do not look back,” he growled against her ear. “Daventry will help you.”
Her heart lurched—a sudden ache at the thought of losing a man she barely knew. She clutched his waist. “Trust me. We’ll be home within the hour.”
She spoke too soon. A rustle from the shrubbery, a stranger’s ragged breath, then: “Stand and deliver.”
“Have a care, laddie,” Mr Kincaid warned. “You’ll be dead the moment yer finger twitches.”
A shot rang out. Gabriel jerked against her, the impact driving her harder into the door. For a heartbeat she couldn’t breathe. He’d been hit. She was certain.
“Gabriel!”
The acrid tang of gunpowder filled her nose. The crack had roused the watchmen. Mr Barker gave chase, shoutinginto the fog and whirling his rattle, but she barely registered it.
Gabriel was hurt.
He stepped back, but her trembling hands were already on him, smoothing over his waistcoat, his chest, the hard plane of his shoulders. Heat radiated through the fine wool, too alive for a dying man.
“Are you injured?” There had to be blood. Where was the blood?
His gaze locked on hers, breath unsteady as her touch searched for wounds that weren’t there.
“Gabriel. Answer me. Where are you hurt?”
He caught her wrists, stilling her frantic exploration. The slow circle of his thumbs burned against her skin. “The fool missed. I heard the shot strike the carriage.”
Relief hit hard. “Thank heavens.” She should have stepped back, but couldn’t. Her back was still pressed to the door, his hands still holding her, his thumbs tracing that maddening circle. “In the history of eventful wedding days, this must surely top the list.”
