Page 2 of A Duke's Keeper
Until the bastards ran the knife across her throat, she’d fight.
She shifted her stance a second time to accommodate her hurt arm, the movement familiar but alien, as with every detail her mind remembered when her body held no memory.
“Come now, chicken.” Hawkins offered a hand in a bastardized mimic of a gentleman’s escort, his black, moleskin coat and trousers lessening the intimidating height and muscles underneath and drawing immediate attention to the man’s uncapped head of ginger hair. “No need to be afraid.” Greasy strands of orange hair fell forward into too-bright eyes. “You gave us a merry chase.”
Another of the men, Grey, laughed. With his dark hair and light coat, he was Hawkins’s opposite. “Look at her face. She ain’t done.”
Hawkins’s smile was reptilian. He licked his lips. “I like a chicken with some fight.”
Camille steeled her nerves and gripped the small rock in her hand.
Rolling the rock over, she faced the worst of the edges outwards.
She would survive. She’d been born in a gutter, raised in a gutter; she refused to die in one, not without doing enough damage to scar.
Her mind knew the maneuvers. Her body, even battered and tired, was lean and strong. The lapse in speed between her mind and her body’s reaction was immense and frustrating, as she knew from experience, but the basics were easy: Stay balanced and go for the squashy bits.
Her breath came in shallow pants of fear and anticipation.
Camille tucked her good arm behind her back. She’d have one opportunity for a surprise knock to the head. Coming up on her toes, she angled her body towards Hawkins, knowing exactly which head she’d bash first.
They closed in.
She held her breath.
“What do we have here?”
The low voice rumbled in her chest like thunder.
Camille whirled to see a man half-covered in the shadow emerging from the third alley, impeccably dressed in a black suit, and closing in with unhurried steps. Her stomach dropped.
A fourth man.
Her mind went into a frenzy of calculated risk and reality. How had he gotten so close without her noticing? There wasn’t a chance he hadn’t seen her crude weapon hidden behind her back, not with the lone lamp shining down on her like a damn spotlight.
She’d shown her hand without making a single play. Her shoulders hunched in defeat, but the immediate, blinding pain pulled her back on task. Sidestepping, she divided her attention between the two parties, still resolved to make the first move.
“Hey, now.” Hawkins jabbed his chin towards the harbor. “There’s a tavern along the water, friend. Go find your own fun. This chicken is ours.”
He wasn’t one of Hawkins’s men? Camille’s body flushed with premature hope.
“The Cock ’n Hen, yes. I just came from there.” The man came into the light of the lamp.
He was young, tall. His hair was a rare shade of blond, like spindled gold or sun-kissed wheat. He turned, and a shocking pair of desert-colored eyes fixed on her face.
Camille gulped, unsure if the rush of heat to her belly was from fear, or from something far more dangerous.
“Chicken, you say?” The man took in her injured arm—and what must have been a mushed knot of auburn hair around her pale face—and shook his head. “She doesn’t appear amused by your game of fight and fowl, sir. Hawkins, wasn’t it?”
Hawkins smiled, an unfriendly twist of the mouth. “You a fan?”
“I’ve seen you fight on occasion.”
“Then you know I don’t leave my opponents standing.” Hawkins took a threatening step in the newcomer’s direction. “I said to move along.” He cracked his knuckles. “You’ll find more trouble than you can handle otherwise.”
Camille had an uncharacteristic pang of concern for the stranger’s well-being. She had enough on her conscience without adding the death of a young man. Well-intentioned, or looking for a bit of sport himself, he had intervened and offered an opportunity for a distraction.
Like some damn knight sent to save her.
