a better grip than the flimsy footwear. She braced herself for the swing to the trellis, but before she could move, a low whistle cut through the night.
She froze. It was clearly a signal, but by whom and for what? The sound came from down the alleyway, but she saw nothing except gray shadows. She waited, her body tense as she half hung out her window.
Nothing.
Then it was repeated, this time more shrill, more insistent.
Twisting, Gillian watched the doorway to the mews open and a small figure slip out. The person carried something large and heavy, but he still managed to move smoothly and silently through the night, slinking from shadow to shadow. It took a full minute before the figure crossed a slim finger of moonlight and Gillian recognized his face.
Tom. Carrying one of the earl's saddles.
Gillian did not stop to think. She managed the slight leap to the trellis and climbed nimbly down, heedless of the flower buds she crushed along the way. She could not let Tom escape. She needed him. And from the looks of things, he needed her, too. Only a fool would run away from an opportunity in the earl's household, and Tom was no fool. That meant he was in trouble—whether from the earl's servants themselves or from someone else.
Whatever it was, Gillian was determined to stop it.
She jumped the last couple feet to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the chilly cobblestones. Now she wished she wore her slippers to shield her toes from who knew what slimy things she stepped in.
Suppressing another shudder, this one from the cold seeping through her feet into her very bones, Gillian slipped around the corner following Tom's path. She caught up to him quickly. The huge saddle was heavy and slowed him down considerably. She glanced around, looking for the person who had whistled.
No one.
She took a breath to call out to Tom but stopped as a large, hulking figure stepped out of the blackness. Tom stopped and dropped the heavy saddle with obvious relief.
" 'At all?" The two words were gruff and businesslike, their very callousness sending chills up Gillian's spine.
"Couldn't carry... nothing else," came Tom's panting response.
The dark figure bent down and easily hoisted the saddle. "I got this. Git some flash from the 'ouse."
"No," came Tom's urgent response. "The earl's still awake."
"Do as I say, boy. Quick-like."
"No—Ow!"
Gillian had been creeping closer, trying to hear better, but Tom's cry of pain launched her into action. She surged forward, landing a swift blow to the huge man's midsection as she bellowed at him.
"Let him go, you brute!"
She threw another punch, and like her first blow, it landed solidly and squarely in the man's chest—to no noticeable effect.
With a saddle in one hand and Tom's ear in the other, the huge man could not defend himself, so he merely stood still while Gillian tried to hurt him.
"Well, well, wot 'ave we 'ere? A litde mouse for my den?" In one swift movement, he released Tom and grabbed hold of Gillian's upper arm, hauling her backward far enough that she could not kick him anymore.
"Let go of me!" She tried to spin out of his hold, twist or drop in unexpected ways to loosen his grip, anything, but he was too strong. She succeeded only in hurting herself as his fingers dug deeper and deeper into her arm.
"Pipe down, little mousy, afore I squash ye."
"Run, Tom!" she cried. Then the brute dropped the saddle and clamped his meaty hand down over her mouth and nose. The scents of dirt and gin were overwhelming as he hauled her backward against his body. Then, abruptly, he released her mouth, wrapping his meaty forearm across her throat, giving him both a better hold on her body and a way to choke off any of her cries.
She tried to struggle, but as before, he was too large, too overwhelming, and Gillian experienced a moment of sheer panic. She could not even stand straight, since her feet kept slipping on the slick cobblestones. Her one hope was that Tom had escaped, but
She froze. It was clearly a signal, but by whom and for what? The sound came from down the alleyway, but she saw nothing except gray shadows. She waited, her body tense as she half hung out her window.
Nothing.
Then it was repeated, this time more shrill, more insistent.
Twisting, Gillian watched the doorway to the mews open and a small figure slip out. The person carried something large and heavy, but he still managed to move smoothly and silently through the night, slinking from shadow to shadow. It took a full minute before the figure crossed a slim finger of moonlight and Gillian recognized his face.
Tom. Carrying one of the earl's saddles.
Gillian did not stop to think. She managed the slight leap to the trellis and climbed nimbly down, heedless of the flower buds she crushed along the way. She could not let Tom escape. She needed him. And from the looks of things, he needed her, too. Only a fool would run away from an opportunity in the earl's household, and Tom was no fool. That meant he was in trouble—whether from the earl's servants themselves or from someone else.
Whatever it was, Gillian was determined to stop it.
She jumped the last couple feet to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the chilly cobblestones. Now she wished she wore her slippers to shield her toes from who knew what slimy things she stepped in.
Suppressing another shudder, this one from the cold seeping through her feet into her very bones, Gillian slipped around the corner following Tom's path. She caught up to him quickly. The huge saddle was heavy and slowed him down considerably. She glanced around, looking for the person who had whistled.
No one.
She took a breath to call out to Tom but stopped as a large, hulking figure stepped out of the blackness. Tom stopped and dropped the heavy saddle with obvious relief.
" 'At all?" The two words were gruff and businesslike, their very callousness sending chills up Gillian's spine.
"Couldn't carry... nothing else," came Tom's panting response.
The dark figure bent down and easily hoisted the saddle. "I got this. Git some flash from the 'ouse."
"No," came Tom's urgent response. "The earl's still awake."
"Do as I say, boy. Quick-like."
"No—Ow!"
Gillian had been creeping closer, trying to hear better, but Tom's cry of pain launched her into action. She surged forward, landing a swift blow to the huge man's midsection as she bellowed at him.
"Let him go, you brute!"
She threw another punch, and like her first blow, it landed solidly and squarely in the man's chest—to no noticeable effect.
With a saddle in one hand and Tom's ear in the other, the huge man could not defend himself, so he merely stood still while Gillian tried to hurt him.
"Well, well, wot 'ave we 'ere? A litde mouse for my den?" In one swift movement, he released Tom and grabbed hold of Gillian's upper arm, hauling her backward far enough that she could not kick him anymore.
"Let go of me!" She tried to spin out of his hold, twist or drop in unexpected ways to loosen his grip, anything, but he was too strong. She succeeded only in hurting herself as his fingers dug deeper and deeper into her arm.
"Pipe down, little mousy, afore I squash ye."
"Run, Tom!" she cried. Then the brute dropped the saddle and clamped his meaty hand down over her mouth and nose. The scents of dirt and gin were overwhelming as he hauled her backward against his body. Then, abruptly, he released her mouth, wrapping his meaty forearm across her throat, giving him both a better hold on her body and a way to choke off any of her cries.
She tried to struggle, but as before, he was too large, too overwhelming, and Gillian experienced a moment of sheer panic. She could not even stand straight, since her feet kept slipping on the slick cobblestones. Her one hope was that Tom had escaped, but
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