She watched as the heavyset man walked away. Of course Stiles had set a trap—she should have expected it. And Rafferty would expect it as well—he knew Stiles of old. He wouldn’t just walk into the night to be shot. Maybe he wouldn’t come at all, leaving her to her fate.
It would simplify his life, after all. She was just a tedious responsibility, one he was tired of. He was sick of her following him around and looking at him with calf’s eyes. Martina had had it right—“he doesn’t want you,” she’d said, and those words had been a death knell in her heart. Maybe she didn’t care if Stiles cut her throat after all.
Yes, she did. Because Martina was wrong. When it came right down to it, and she was staring death in the face, she couldn’t believe that he didn’t want her. Oh, he might not love her—she was inconvenient, silly, smitten. But as for not wanting her, that was blatantly untrue. He wouldn’t have kissed her. He wouldn’t have... She blushed at the memory, feeling it warm her cramped body.
His hands on her—she could still feel them. The feel of him inside her, his mouth on hers, the wall of the pantry against her back. He would rescue her, and he would fall in love with her. She would make it happen. At least if she was going to her death, she was going to believe that with all her heart.
The hours passed in a blur of pain and misery, but she didn’t cry, tempted though she was. Now was not the time for despair. She had to keep her wits about her if she was going to survive the night and not get in Rafferty’s way. When they finally cut the ropes that were binding her ankles and pulled her to her feet, she fell, collapsing to the floor to the great merriment of those around. Stiles hauled her up again.
“Time to go, missy. Your lover awaits.”
Her feet felt numb, her ankles screamed with pain, but she had no choice. With her hands still bound in front of her, she stumbled after him, his hand heavy on her arm, out into the midnight air, the hulking man beside him.
It was a good thing he was too greedy to share the money—the two of them would make better odds for Rafferty. Unless the man did as Stiles told him and shot from the shadows. She still had the gag around her mouth, but she suspected she could scream anyway, make some kind of warning noise. The smartest thing she could probably do was trip and go flat on the filthy street. Unless she was going to be a true heroine and leap in front of the gun, exchanging her life for Rafferty’s.
It was a lovely thought for a brief moment. He would weep over her body, in despair that he hadn’t realized how much he loved her and now she had died for him, but she dismissed the idea. Touching though it was, she wouldn’t be around to enjoy his remorse, and she staggered after Stiles in the cold night air, trying to think of some other way to warn him. The night was still and quiet, and they passed few people as they made their way through the filthy neighborhoods. That, or everyone gave them a wide berth. She had no idea which was Landon Bridge, but it turned out to be a small bridge crossing an offshoot of the Thames, and he placed her in the shadows.
“You’ll be a good girl, now, won’t you?” he said cheerfully, a light in his eyes. “I’m looking forward to this. Oh, not the money, though I’ve waited long enough for that. No, Rafferty’s been an itch on my arse for too long now, and I’m finally getting rid of him. As for you, I’ll give you your choice. You can join my girls, or I can cut your throat. I’ll make it fast if I can—no one ever said Billy Stiles wasn’t a thoughtful bloke.”
There was no way she could answer him. She really didn’t want to bleed to death on a filthy London street, but at the moment she was more worried about Rafferty.
She didn’t see him, but Stiles knew when he was there. “That you, Rafferty, my boy?” he called into the darkness. “Aren’t you going to show yourself?”
“And give you a perfect target? What kind of fool do you think I am?” came his disembodied voice.
It happened so fast she didn’t have time to fight. Billy grabbed her and pulled her against his stocky body, and she felt the sting of the knife against her throat. “I can finish her in a trice, Rafferty, if you don’t show that pretty face of yours. And you’d best have my money.”
“I’ve got it,” came a familiar voice, but the young man who stepped into the small pool of light was a stranger. He was carrying a heavy box and he set it down on the ground where he stood.
“It’s my old friend Martin,” Billy cooed. “Should have known he’d bring you into it. Bring the box over here, there’s a good lad.”
“Let her go, Billy,” came Rafferty’s voice from the darkness.
“Not a chance. You’d shoot me as soon as look at me. Don’t you trust me, Rafferty, my boy? After all we’ve been together?”
“Let her go,” he said again, his voice like steel.
“I don’t think—” An explosion rent the night air, and fire spat out from beneath the bridge as Billy’s accomplice shot into the dark. She tried to pull away, but Stiles held her tight.
“That Jonesy?” Rafferty’s voice came floating back. “He never could hit the broadside of a barn. See to him, Martin.”
The young man headed for the bridge, a small gun in his hand, and in the still night air, Georgie could hear footsteps as Jonesy ran away.
“That just leaves you and me, Billy,” Rafferty said in an amiable voice. “Why don’t we end this now?”
“You’re forgetting I have the lady.”
“I’m not forgetting. Let her go and you can have the money.”
“But we both know that’s not Belding’s cache. He would have at least twice as much money tucked away there, which you should have been able to find.”
“It’s not there,” Rafferty said flatly.
“Then whose money is this?”
“Mine.”
“Not enough.”
