Page 75 of Disciplined by the Duke
Chaos reigned. Half the crowd in a blind panic to run from the sound of a gunshot and the runaway horse and cart, the other half trying to make the most out of a new opportunity. People rushed to the barrels. Some tried rolling them away, an investment for a later time. Others cracked open their prize right then and there, cupped their hands in the liquid, and brought it to their mouths.
The crowd surged into Liz’s horse, knocked against her legs. Her horse tossed its head, stamped its right hoof, but remained stalwart against the throng.
A hand gripped her horse’s mane, and Marcus swung into the saddle behind her. “Let’s go.”
She nudged the horse forward, but it was slow going. The mob ran in wild directions, making it hard to navigate. The panicked crush of people was a frightening sight, all rational thought gone in their mindless instinct to flee. It took too long to weave the horse through the crowd, around the barrels of ale.
The two guards, Martin and Smuthers, had holed up with their innocent victim on the boardwalk of a nearby building. But with the pandemonium dying down, they would return to their post soon.
“Marcus . . .”
“I know.” Frustration seeped into his voice. Raising an arm, he waved at his friends.
Rothchild saw him, his lips flattening. Clasping the guard’s shoulder, he leaned in close, spoke to him in earnest.
Dunkeld nodded to Marcus. Bending down, he came back up with a knife. He spun the weapon in his hand so the handle faced front, and brought the blunt instrument down on the back of the guard’s head.
The man fell into Rothchild before dropping from sight. Rothchild glared at Dunkeld, snatched the knife from his hand, and strode over to her sister. He cut the rope binding her to the other prisoners, and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. With Dunkeld cutting a path to their horses, they reached the animals quickly. Even with the extra burden, Rothchild easily climbed into his saddle, and gently lowered Mandy to sit before him, both of her legs hanging over his left thigh.
A guard jumped down from the gallows and charged towards the escaped prisoner. Dunkeld stepped into his path, and wrestled the man to the ground. “Go!” he yelled over his shoulder.
Rothchild yelled, “Ha!” to his mount and pounded out of the square.
It took but a moment for Martin and Smuthers to figure out what had happened. Dropping the arms of the young man, they pressed towards the escaping earl, but the crowd pushed back.
“Prisoner escape!” They forced their way through the crowd, making their way towards where Dunkeld and the other guard rolled on the dirt. Dunkeld kicked out one of his thick legs and swept Smuthers’s legs out from under him. His friend ran for a horse. With a roar, Dunkeld slammed his fist into the face of the man he wrestled, and sprang up, leaving the man unconscious at his feet. He tore after Martin, pulled him down from the saddle. The guard swung an elbow, caught Dunkeld in the nose. Fists flew.
Smuthers struggled to his feet, and Marcus kicked their horse’s flanks. Pulling a two-barreled derringer from his pocket, he palmed it. They galloped past the guard, and Marcus slammed the hard metal of the firearm into the back of the man’s skull.
Liz glanced behind her as they rode past. A boy of about ten crept up to the fallen guard and began unlacing his boots. When the man awoke, he’d likely be stripped bare by the scavengers. She spared no guilt over his fate; he had been willing to hang a man without benefit of a trial. She wouldn’t waste that emotion on him.
Pulling their horse to a stop beside the guards’ horses, Marcus untied their reins from the hitching post, smacked each horse on the rump, and sent them running. He scowled at Dunkeld. “Will you stop playing around and finish it? We need to go.”
Dunkeld smiled, and took another blow to the jaw. The man’s face was already red and puffy; blood trickled from both his nose and split lip. It was the happiest Liz had seen Marcus’s friend in their short acquaintance. With a shrug, he landed an uppercut to the guard’s chin, and the man’s eyes rolled back in his head. He folded to the ground.
Dunkeld tracked down his horse, mounted. “After you, Your Grace.”
Marcus hesitated, his eyes tracking to the young man he’d accused. The boy slid into the crowd and up a side street. Pressing his mouth to her ear, Marcus whispered, “Hold on,” and jerked on the reins, kicking his heels into the horse’s flanks.
The horse reared, its flailing hooves parting a space in the crowd before it. Marcus took advantage and drove the horse through. People jumped out of the way. Some hollered after them, fists shaking. Most ignored them in favor of the ale spilling into the street.
Marcus found the young man a few blocks away. Circling the horse in front of him, Montague raised a hand. “Calm down. I’m not here to take you in.”
The boy shifted onto the balls of his feet, ready to run.
“What’s your name, lad?”
He hesitated. “Paul Coachman.” His voice was quiet, but dignified.
“Mr. Coachman, I apologize for my mistake. You’re not the man who assaulted this woman.”
The boy narrowed his eyes, but remained silent.
Marcus tightened his grip on her waist. “If you come to my home tomorrow I’ll see that you are more than recompensed for your troubles. I am most sorry I involved you in this.”
Slowly, the young man nodded, but the suspicion didn’t leave his face. The chances of him showing up on the duke’s doorstep Liz figured to be about fifty-fifty.
“I’m at Berkeley Square,” Marcus said. “Until then.”