The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,107

deafening scream, pitched high enough to carry to every corner of St. Clement Dane’s churchyard and into the Strand beyond. If anyone was near—Lady Clifford or Daniel, Thelwall, or Tristan—they’d hear it.

The scream had been building in her chest since she’d stumbled over Peter Sharpe’s mangled body, and she gave voice to it now as close to her attacker’s ear as she could manage. With any luck, it might shatter his eardrum.

“Shut yer mouth!”

The man kept his arm pressed tightly to her neck, but the shock of her scream threw his balance off, and Sophia took immediate advantage of it. She slammed the heel of her foot back, connecting with his knee. He let out a pained grunt as his leg buckled, and the arm around her neck loosened.

Sophia tore loose from his grip and fled, her harsh breath drumming in her head as she flew over the uneven ground of the graveyard towards the entrance to the church.

She didn’t get far.

Her attacker was a hardened criminal who’d survived much more powerful blows than hers. He came after her, caught her by the hem of her tunic and yanked her backwards, sending her sprawling into the dirt. Another cry left her lips as her head slammed into the ground with a loud, dizzying thump.

“Bloody little bitch,” he spat, and then he was on her, wrenching her to her feet with a vicious tug on her arm. This time he didn’t give her a chance to scream, but slapped a hand over her mouth with such violence she tasted blood as her teeth cut into the inside of her lip. There was no chance for her to bite him, or even to draw a breath before his forearm jabbed into her throat.

She raked her fingernails over his flesh, clawing him as hard as she could, but he’d snatched hold of her hair again, and now he yanked her head backwards, exposing her vulnerable neck. Sophia kicked and flailed in his grip, but this time her feet didn’t find his knee, only empty air.

“Quit yer fussing, girl. It’ll be over quicker that way.”

His hot breath drifted over her ear, and she just had time to think, this is what happens to wicked little girls before she felt the tip of his blade prick her neck, and she didn’t think at all.

* * * *

Tristan raced across London, his horse’s hooves pounding the streets between Great Marlborough Street and St. Clement Dane’s Church into powder.

But no matter how quickly he flew, it wasn’t quickly enough.

How long had it been since Sophia left his house? An hour? Longer than that? How much time had he wasted, listening to Sampson’s Willis’s lies?

If only he’d told Tribble to send Sampson Willis on his way. If only he hadn’t left Sophia alone in his bedchamber, or returned to her sooner, or caught her before she slipped out the door…

If only, if only…

He leaned over his horse’s head, a mumbled prayer on his lips. He didn’t know what he prayed for, only that his words grew more desperate when St. Clement Dane’s spire appeared in the distance.

Nearly there. Past Arundel and Aldwych, another block further along the Strand…

His heart eased a fraction in its frantic pounding as the entrance to the church and the churchyard came into view. It appeared deserted. He knew Sophia was here, but she would have taken care to hide herself well.

There was no sign of Sharpe, either, but that was little consolation to Tristan, who knew there were far more dangerous men hiding in the darkness than Lord Everly’s cowardly servant.

Men like Richard Poole.

Wily, quick, and a ruthless murderer. He’d ended Henry’s life with a swipe of a blade, and if given a second chance, he’d do the same to Sophia.

Tristan didn’t intend to give him a second chance.

As soon as he made it to the church he leapt from the saddle, drawing in deep, calming breaths as he stole cautiously toward the entrance. A battle would certainly unfold in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard tonight, but by some miraculous bit of luck he seemed to have arrived before it—

“No!”

The high-pitched scream rent the air, shattering the silence. Tristan’s head whipped toward it, his blood freezing to ice.

Sophia. He’d know her voice anywhere.

The scream had come from the graveyard beyond the church. Tristan tore off in that direction, his long legs eating up the ground at his feet. As he drew closer, he noticed a dim light at the base of a white marble