“You don’t care very much about me, do you?” he said.
Zan turned her gaze from the carriage window to look at him. “Why do you say that?”
“Most of the time, you’re angry or annoyed.”
“You seem to be quite amused when I’m angry or annoyed. You like it when I’m angry or annoyed. So why are you complaining about it?”
“Because I’ve seen you when you weren’t angry or annoyed.”
She gave a small sigh when the carriage rolled to a stop and she put out her hand to unlatch the door. “I suppose I should thank you for the ride home. Is it a habit of yours to see unaccompanied ladies home or are you only doing this in an attempt to annoy me further by following me?”
“Or maybe, I just want to see you home.”
She didn’t respond to that remark as she stepped off the carriage and quickly made her way across the sidewalk to the stairs leading up to 42 Warden Street. At the door, she retrieved her keys from her reticule and looked up and frowned at the door. It was slightly opened.
Disturbed, she put a hand against the door and it swung inward an inch before it suddenly slammed open and two dark figures shoved her aside as they exploded out from the door. The reticule and the keys flew out of her hands and landed on the neighbor’s front landing with a thump. The force that one of the figures pushed her to get away was great enough to send her crashing, back first, down the stairs. Brief jarring pain lanced through her shoulders as she heard the figures shout in deep, harsh voices, and their feet thundered over her as she heard the door to the carriage bang open and Caradon shouting.
Zan rolled over onto her feet crouching and she shook her head as she saw Caradon moving toward her. She pointed toward the dark figures and then sprinted toward them despite the restriction from her heavy mourning dress. The petticoats shortened her stride, but she adjusted the number of her steps. Her hearing and smell sharpened and she felt her gloves tear at the fingertips. She mentally sighed as she finally caught up with the ruffians—another pair of gloves destroyed. Mrs. Philomon would be livid.
Caradon and his driver—a mustached, gaunt man—had actually caught up with the housebreakers before Zan. The driver grabbed onto the end of one man’s coat as Caradon took hold of the collar of the other housebreaker and grinned fiercely, showing teeth. Caradon reached back and punched him. The man’s head lolled back on his shoulders. When her patron let go of his neck, the ruffian fell onto his knees.
Meanwhile, the driver had taken a blow from the first housebreaker and was crouching on the ground gasping. As the housebreaker raised a hand to deal the driver another blow, Zan kicked him in the back of the knees and tore at his hair. The man cursed and reached for her throat. With a quick swipe, she raked his face with a fistful of claws. The man howled and suddenly let go of her in favor of clutching at his face.
“Zan! Get away from there!”
She turned her head at Caradon’s voice. The expression on his face was both fierce and something else that made a bit of fear flicker through her. She tried to mouth a question, but he was already moving, his hands thrust out in front of him as tried to push her away from her position. She saw the man that she had just clawed, hands on his face. And then she saw the man that had fallen to the ground from Caradon’s blow. The second villain was clutching his belly with one arm. In his other hand, he held a gleaming pistol.
Zan opened her mouth to yell, but Caradon was already on top of her, pushing her to the ground.
A shot rang out and the air near them exploded.
Caradon rolled with her to the side of the street and slowly, they came to a stop, breathing harshly in each others’ ears. They stayed frozen in position as the footsteps of the housebreakers broke out into a run. The echoes of those running footsteps faded as the paralysis of shock slowly wore away from her bones and muscles. She raised a hand to push Caradon away. He grunted as he rolled off her.
The view of the street finally cleared in her head and color began to trickle back into her vision. She looked at Caradon, his eyes still wide, pupils still slitted, and smelled something odd—something salty and metallic. She flickered her gaze over him and saw a red seeping stain on the upper arm of his coat.
“Zan, are you all right? You look a bit pale.”
She bit her lip as she came to her knees. “Actually, I should ask you that question. You’re the one who’s been shot.”
