She huffed a laugh, her smile smug. “I don’t miss.” She raised the knife in her left hand, keeping her elbow bent as she poised it above her head. And then she flung it forward, where it landed with a thud in the wall just above the assailant’s head.
The man’s head snapped back to her as he dropped his hands from Leonard. Honora kept her gun trained on him as she jerked her head toward the door. “Time for us to go, Leo.”
Leonard didn’t move at first, his wide eyes bloodshot and his mouth hanging open again.
She really should recommend he see a doctor about that.
“Leonard,” she quipped. “The door. Now, please.”
He stepped around the men, or limped, rather. Honora backed up until they met halfway to the door. She kept her gaze ahead with the gun trained on anyone who dared move. “Do not follow us,” she said. She stepped back until Leonard was forced out the door behind her.
Chapter Eighteen
The cool night air hit him like a slap to the face. His skin was hot, making the change in temperature from indoors to outdoors even more startling.
“We need to go,” Honora said, putting her gun to her side as she grabbed him by the shoulder. “At least one of them will be stupid enough to try and follow us.”
He nodded mutely, following after her.
They began their escape, taking turn after turn down the dark alleys of London, lit only by the dim light of the moon. Their feet splashed through minor puddles, and once or twice he stumbled on a cobblestone. But as they continued, his eyes adjusted, making the way easier to see.
“How much longer do we need to run?” Leonard asked, his breaths short and quick.
Honora slowed, looking him over. Whatever she saw must have been enough for concern, as she said, “I think we should probably stop.”
His feet slowed, and he put a hand to the brick of a nearby building. “Goodness, my lungs are on fire.”
Honora was breathing heavily as well, but he was a bit frustrated by the fact that she seemed less out of breath than him. He tried to force his breaths to be steadier, straightening his back, but he immediately winced and doubled over.
“What is it?” Honora asked, rushing over to him. She put a hand on his back.
“It’s nothing.” He waved her off, but his entire body ached. He just didn’t want to admit it to her. Not after all the things she already thought of him. Lazy. Grumpy. Bitter. He didn’t really want to addweakto the list.
She took him by the sleeve of the jacket. “Sit down.” She pulled him down until he sat on the damp street and leaned against the rough brick of the building behind him.
“Ah, yes,” he said, trying not to grimace at the pain but utterly failing. “It is so much better to lean against a hard wall and sit in a dirty puddle of water.”
But she was already crouching in front of him, her eyes assessing his condition. “Well, I know you are at least coherent if you are well enough to make sarcastic remarks. I am relieved.”
“I’m fine,” he began, but her glare cut him off from saying more.
“I will be the judge of that.” She set to work, her fingers prodding his hands and arms. He watched, horrified and yet not caring enough to stop her as she undid his cravat and pulled it from his neck. She lifted it to his cheek, pressing it to staunch the flow of blood. He attempted to lift his hand to take it from her, but suddenly, he was too tired to care—or try.
The moonlight seemed to be playing tricks on his mind. It cast her face in shadows, accentuating her features in a way that held him mesmerized.
“Where does it hurt most?” she asked.
He held in a groan. “Everywhere.”
She smiled, a breathy laugh slipping from her lips. “I am sure it does. You took quite the beating this evening.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Have you?” She looked up from the cloth on his cheek, meeting his eyes.
When he couldn’t bring himself to lie, for he had not had worse, he lifted a shoulder, which only made him wince at the ache.
“Goodness,” Honora said, shaking her head, “I feel well and truly awful. This is all my fault.”
