The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,5

intense interest. He ambled along, whistling tunelessly, utterly at his ease.

Whatever criminal enterprise was about to unfold, the whistler wasn’t a part of it.

No, he was its victim.

She held her breath as the whistler drew closer to the archway where Lord Everly’s man was waiting. Even from this distance she could see the villain was already creeping forward, ready to pounce on his victim like a rat on a crumb of bread.

Then, just behind him, Sophia saw a flicker of movement in the shadows. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she strained to make it out. For a moment it had looked as if there was someone else there, lurking behind the church door, but she couldn’t be certain.

Her head snapped back toward the man coming down the Strand. He was moving steadily toward the front of the church, still whistling cheerfully, unaware of the mischief that awaited him.

It was pure foolishness for her to try and stop it now. She’d only expose herself, and put her mission at needless risk. Even so, Sophia’s mouth was opening, a cry of warning rising in her throat.

She never got the chance to voice it.

Just as it was about to burst from her lips, a gloved hand came down hard over her mouth. Sophia gasped in shock, but even when a long, muscular arm snaked around her waist, she kept her wits about her. This wasn’t the first time she’d been grabbed, and she wasn’t the sort of lady who succumbed to hysterics.

No, she was more the sort of lady who bit anyone foolish enough to put their hand over her mouth, and that was what she did now. Without any hesitation, she sank her teeth into the closest finger. She got a mouthful of an exceptionally fine kid glove for her trouble, but she clamped down onto the knuckle like a hunting dog with a bird locked between its jaws.

Her attacker didn’t think his glove fine enough to be worth saving, because he tore it off and let it drop into the dirt between them.

When the bite failed to secure her release, Sophia landed a practiced kick to his shin, her lips curling in a savage grin when her heel hit bone with a satisfying crunch. The arm around her waist went slack for an instant, but he seemed to have a good deal of experience attacking people, because he didn’t release her. Anyone else would have, but he held her fast, a muttered curse escaping his lips.

So she kicked him again.

He let out a pained grunt. “You’ll regret that soon enough.”

Before she could land a third kick, he jerked her off her feet and dragged her backwards into the shadowy graveyard behind St. Clement Dane’s.

Someone had been following her, and now he’d caught her.

Chapter Two

The kick found its mark as surely as if Tristan had a bullseye painted on his shin. It was a swift, vicious blow, and unexpected enough it might have secured the boy’s release if Tristan had been anyone other than who he was.

As it happened, the lad was out of luck. Tristan had been kicked by every blackguard in London, most of whom were stronger and burlier than this meager slip of a boy. Still, for all his flimsiness, he was fierce enough to have spoiled a rather nice glove with those sharp teeth of his.

Tristan left the glove in the dirt where it had dropped and grabbed the scuff of the boy’s neck with his bare hand. “Struggle all you like. I have you now.” He pinned the boy’s arms to his sides, wrenched him off his feet, and dragged him into the gloom behind St. Clement Dane’s churchyard. “Ah, here we are, lad. We’ll transact our business in the dark, shall we? We won’t be disturbed here, and I can question you for as long as I choose.”

A sound burst from the boy’s lips. Given his current predicament a cry of fear was to be expected, but this wasn’t fear. It was a cry of wrath. In an instant he was struggling again, his slight body thrashing and twisting like an enraged fish on the end of a hook.

An exceptionally sneaky fish.

If he managed to squirm free, Tristan had no doubt he’d scramble up the nearest column and vanish in an instant. “Enough!” He tightened his arms around the boy. Not so tight he’d hurt him, but tight enough to hold him still. “You’re wasting your strength, lad, and trying my patience. You’re not going