Page 57 of The Swan Detective (The Swan Syndicate #2)

It wasn’t long before she heard the telltale sound of blades on blades. The building was too small for the number of men with firearms, especially when it took time to reload.

She’d just loaded two bolts in the crossbow when someone crashed into the stack of crates she was hiding behind.

They didn’t topple, but the force had been enough to knock two pieces of jewelry to the ground.

She turned her head in time to see one of the captain’s bodyguards rushing in from her right, his eyes locked on the jewelry.

Oh, no, he wasn’t. She aimed the crossbow at center mass, but Michelson nudged her at the last minute as he backed up.

Her shot went low, though not wide enough to entirely miss.

The bodyguard dropped when the bolt hit his upper thigh, and though his mouth opened in a scream of pain, she couldn’t hear it through the shouting, sword fights, and firing weapons.

The horses tethered to both wagons were having none of it, and they raced toward opposite doors, wanting nothing more than to get out.

Though from her position, it appeared the drivers were just as eager.

Reality kicked in when she caught blood on the shirt of both of Hensley’s men as the wagon rushed past on their way out the doors.

The first bodyguard crawled toward the crate, not willing to give up. The other one, who’d moved with Leclair to hide behind a row of barrels, made a move toward her—or, more likely, the jewelry.

Stella grabbed the diadem that managed to stay on top of the crate and fussed with fitting it into the pouch.

She reloaded the crossbow and lifted it just in time to fire at the bodyguard.

He’d just passed his friend, who was still crawling toward her, and a blind man could have hit him; he’d been that close.

Yet, instead of hitting him in the chest, the bolt slammed into the man’s right side.

She probably hadn’t killed him, but he still dropped as his left hand grabbed the top of the crate before he slid to the ground.

She waited a beat to see if he’d get back up, but he rolled around, clutching his side.

Stella scrambled on her knees, swearing as she stopped to pull up her dress to get it out of the way. Unsure what to do with the pouch that was too big for her pockets, she lifted her dress higher to tuck the bulky item into the waistband of her drawers, not giving a fig about modesty.

She winced each time a knee landed on a pebble, but her eyes were locked on Elizabeth’s necklace.

When the crawling man reached it at the same time, she dropped the crossbow, pulled out her dagger, and stabbed him in the hand as it covered the necklace.

He screamed as she tugged to release the blade.

Once it was freed, she grabbed the necklace, hoping she hadn’t gotten any blood on it, and shoved it into a pocket.

She held onto the dagger and all but lay down as she stretched to reach the last stolen piece—the second brooch. Before her fingers touched it, she looked up into Leclair’s fiery gaze. He was inches from her.

“What have you done?” he yelled.

“Those aren’t my men. I thought they were yours.”

The captain nudged closer, his eyes on the brooch. She grabbed it before he had the chance and was just as stunned as he was by her quick reflexes.

“Here’s my deal.” She had no idea what possessed her to say that, other than the fact she was holding all the stolen jewelry.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Michelson focused on the skirmish.

It would be pretty simple for Leclair to toss her over his shoulder and escape while everyone was busy.

She checked her first pocket, which was filled with jewelry and crossbow bolts, and after issuing a quiet curse, switched hands with her dagger. She fished around and pulled out a swan, disappointed by its misshapen wings.

“If you’re interested in completing this deal, give this to that messenger at the pub where I met the thief.

My ship still leaves at first tide, but a couple of my men will be staying for several more days.

I’ll have one of them visit the pub during that time.

He’ll also have a swan. They’re my calling card.

He can negotiate a time and place to deliver the firearms. I want this partnership to work. ”

“You think these other men are associated with your husband?”

They obviously weren’t, but if he was willing to believe it, why not run with that? “If you weren’t expecting them, I don’t know who else could be that angry with me.” Her brows scrunched together, thinking about Cheval. “Not unless one of us has a spy in our midst.”

There was no time to hear his response as she was pulled away by two strong hands. The captain didn’t look pleased, but he backed away when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It looked like everyone was trying to get the hell out.

Beckworth and Michelson had a hand on each of her arms, and they bent low, covering her like secret service agents as they rushed her toward the back of the building.

They’d made it a few feet before Beckworth lost his footing, but he regained it before falling.

If he said anything, it was impossible to hear over the continued shouts and weapons fire.

Men sprawled on the ground, trying to stand, crawl away, or simply lying still. Several were being helped out, and though she couldn’t be certain, they appeared to be sailors from the Daphne . She saw little else as Beckworth held her head down as they continued their crab walk to the door.

The last thing she saw as they moved into the dark of night was someone dragging an unconscious, or possibly dead, Fitz.

O nce outside, there was no reprieve from the chaos.

The team had managed to stop the horses harnessed to the empty wagon, and she caught a glimpse of two men on the bench.

She didn’t know what happened to the captain’s men, but they were no longer with the wagon.

She recognized one of the sailors who held the horses steady with the reins.

When she was allowed to straighten, she noted men loading the injured into the back of the wagon.

She didn’t see anyone who didn’t have bright crimson staining their clothing.

Some of the men limped but continued to assist others who were worse off, while others pointed rifles in various directions, watching for anyone attempting to ambush their retreat.

Then she was being dragged away toward the carriage as Beckworth and Michelson kept firm grips on her. Barrington stood near the open door. She glanced behind her, sickened by what she saw.

How many were dead? All of this for a bag of stolen jewelry. Then she reminded herself it was much more than that. It was about stopping a smuggling network.

She tried to wrap her head around what had happened and when it had all gone wrong, but all she could see was an unconscious Fitz being dragged away.

“Beckworth!”

The men turned in unison, dragging Stella around with them to see Jamie racing up.

She blanched when she caught sight of Beckworth’s face for the first time since scrambling out of the building.

His cheeks were blotted with red patches, and there was a raging fire in his eyes.

He was angrier than she’d ever remembered seeing him.

“What the hell was that?” Beckworth yelled.

Jamie shook his head. He appeared more devastated than angry, but she imagined that would change once he’d cared for his men. “I don’t know. We caught two men who tried to ambush us and take the wagon. We don’t know who broke up the exchange; they might have been more of Leclair’s men.”

“Chester’s crew should have seen them.”

“That’s who told us there was trouble. From what the old man said, it appeared the men were hiding in a nearby building. But that needs to wait for now. I have three severely injured men, and several others needing medical attention.”

Beckworth nodded at Michelson. “Go with Jamie, we’ve got it from here.” Michelson was the Daphne’ s medic, and the sailor didn’t question the order.

Michelson raced off, but Jamie remained, deep concern in his gaze.

“Michelson won’t be able to help the gravest of them. We need Bart.”

“How many?” Beckworth asked. He rubbed his forehead. “Three, you said?”

Jamie nodded.

“We can make room in the coach,” Stella suggested as she handed the crossbow to Beckworth.

He hesitated for only a second before agreeing. “I can ride on the bench with Barrington. Get them in quickly before the watchmen decide to make an appearance.”

Stella wasn’t prepared when the first injured man the sailors brought over was Fitz. He was still unconscious, but at least he wasn’t dead. Not yet.

No. Don’t think it. Don’t even say it. Focus.

“Let’s get him loaded.” She was surprised by the command in her tone, but they just needed to get to the manor.

Bart would fix this. She recognized the second sailor but couldn’t remember his name.

The third man, she wasn’t as sure about.

He had one of those common faces with no scars or anything that made him stand out.

Even his hair, as blood streaked as it was, was a common brown.

One of the men who’d carried him over held a bloody shirt over the man’s belly, and he carried a second shirt under his arm. Without another thought, she tugged the man out of the coach.

“I’ll take care of that.” She took the clean shirt he offered and climbed in. Blood seeped from the man’s belly, and she applied pressure on the wound. “Let’s go.”

The door slammed shut, and moments later it lurched forward as Barrington maneuvered their way out of the alley. She hadn’t seen Lando and hoped he was alright. That everyone would be alright.

She kept her hands on the shirt for several minutes before gathering enough courage to check the injury.

It pulled away with a slight suction sound.

There was so much blood. She couldn’t tell if he’d been shot or skewered with a blade.

She replaced the bloody shirt, packed the clean one over it, and reapplied pressure.

She stared at the crimson puddle forming beneath him.

The memory of her shooting Gaines, Gemini’s man, came to mind, but someone had quickly moved her to a sofa, never allowing her to see the results of her actions.

Cheval had bled from the crossbow bolt, but he’d been lying on soft sand with the tide washing over him.

Whatever blood there’d been had washed away with the waves.

The man behind her mumbled, and she turned to make sure he wasn’t moving. The last thing she needed was for him to roll off the bench. His bandage was blood-soaked as well, but they’d been able to tie shirts around him to keep it in place.

“It will be alright.” Words of encouragement slipped out without any thought. “You’re safe. We’re taking you to get medical attention.” She shook her head. He wouldn’t understand that. “Help. We’re getting you help.”

She looked down at the man underneath her. Then stared at her sticky hands. So much red.

She continued the pressure. Even though she was on the floor and all but sitting on the man’s legs, she forced herself to stay upright each time the carriage made a sharp turn, barely slowing. The only good thing was the late hour. The streets would be empty of traffic.

She glanced at the man on the bench when he moaned again. His head rolled back and forth, and she couldn’t imagine how much pain he must be in.

She took a deep breath before finally screwing up the last of her courage to look at the third passenger.

Fitz.

His face was gray. He didn’t move.

She found a single spot where, in the dark, she imagined the slight rise and fall of his chest. Her focus remained on that spot all the way to the manor while she maintained pressure on the man beneath her and ignored the growing puddle soaking into her dress.

All she could do, all she was willing to do, was repeat the same mantra over and over.

“You’ll be alright. You’ll be alright. You’ll be alright.”