Accompanied by Tara and Holly, Melody ran through the narrow alleys, toward the house where she knew Samantha was being held. She was passing The Devil’s Tail at the heart of the rookery when Tara held up her hand, alerting them that something might be amiss.
Melody paused. They all did. Frozen in place, they listened for any sounds that might seem foreign. Sounds that could alert them to potential danger. O’Leary could have laid a trap, besides which they knew Croft was likely nearby as well with his own plan to save his wife.
It was imperative that they reach Samantha before he did, before he could do something stupid or foolish to halt them in their mission.
Melody turned, a beam of moonlight bathing her face and placing her at risk of discovery should anyone be watching. So she dipped her chin as fast as she could, but it was too late. She’d already heard it — the unmistakable intake of breath.
Heart pounding, she turned, her gaze seeking the presence lurking nearby as every muscle prepared to react — to fight a potential foe. But as her attention slid to the right and she found the figure who stood in the shadows, her stomach dropped. Even silhouetted as he was, his body partly concealed by the corner of a building, she knew this man.
Edward Pryce, Earl of Marsdale.
His gaze snared hers and held it. Although she could not see his expression, it was likely full of surprise. Questions would follow — questions she had no time to address in the moment.
There was much to accomplish, and she could not let him or anyone else get in her way. Already, another figure on the opposite side of the alley in which Edward stood was peeling away from the darkness.
“Go,” Melody hissed at Tara and Holly, launching into a sprint. She felt their bodies keeping pace, listened for any hint of Edward or his companion giving chase, and relaxed when no sounds followed.
Pushing him from her mind, she focused on completing her mission. Stealth was imperative. If Edward was part of Croft’s operation, other friends and associates of his might be around. Men who might not be as willing to let Melody and her companions slip by. She feared Croft would not. If he had his own plan in place, he wouldn’t want anyone else interfering.
This meant that if she, Holly, and Tara were to succeed, they would have to get out of the street. They would have to reach the house where Samantha was held before anyone else noticed their approach. Finally, they would have to get Samantha away from Finn O’Leary’s dangerous grasp.
Before Croft ruined their chances, as Melody feared he might.
They were technically on the same side, but Croft had a history with O’Leary and the kind of attachment to Samantha that threatened to cloud his judgement. Melody had no doubt he’d try to kill O’Leary for what he’d done, and that was the kind of single-minded anger that put everyone’s life at risk.
She and the others entered the alley parallel to the one which led to O’Leary’s headquarters. They slowed, falling into a casual gait while taking a breath to assess their surroundings.
“Two females ahead,” Tara whispered, drawing attention to the women who approached. Whores, judging from their appearance. The cheap kind who could barely afford to get by.
“Care fer a bit o’ sport?” one of them asked when they came within speaking distance.
“Not tonight,” said Holly, her voice low and gruff.
The women snorted their disapproval and continued past, in the general direction of Covent Garden.
“A man,” Tara muttered a few seconds later when the alley snaked to the left. “Guard up. Could be trouble.”
Melody slipped one hand to the hilt of the dagger she kept in a sheath attached to her belt. She swallowed a breath, felt her heart leap in her breast as she curled her fingers around the weapon, and readied herself for potential battle.
Too soon.
If they fought this man now, the noise could alert O’Leary.
She hunched her shoulders, attempted to look like a regular bloke who belonged in these parts.
They closed their distance and Melody dipped her chin, pretending to ward off the rain and the chill in the air.
“State yer business,” said the man, his voice gruff.
The prompt command made her stop. Tara and Holly too. Melody raised her gaze and peered up at the tall figure. Broad shoulders, a solid stance, and an angular jawline filled her vision.
“We’re headin’ to The Mad Bull,” Holly told him, once more sounding like a young man.
“Not through ’ere ye ain’t.” He crossed his arms.
“An’ why’s that?” Melody asked.
He shifted his gaze in her direction. A snarl curled his lips. “’Cause I says so.”
