Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

All too quickly, the man was up and after them, cursing with rage. His heavy footfalls were coming closer and closer…

Caro whirled and flung her missile at his forehead. Thank God for the games of hunting skill she had played with the tribal children in Crete. Hours of practice had honed her aim to a lethal accuracy.

Whomp.

The rock smashed into his right eye, drawing a pained howl. Half-stunned, half-blinded, he staggered on, fists flailing wildly.

As she dipped and dodged the blows, Caro decided that the only hope in escape lay in trying one last, desperate measure. Ducking low, she darted straight at him and brought her knee up hard between his legs.

Very hard.

The brute dropped like a sack of stones, his curses turning to a mewling whimper.

“Run!” she called again, seeing that Isobel had stopped and was staring in open-mouthed shock. The trick had bought them more time, but when he recovered, he would be out for her blood.

“How—” began her friend.

“Never mind that now,” she said, shoving Isobel into action. “We must fly like the wind.”

But they hadn’t gone more than several strides when two more figures appeared from the shadows up ahead.

“Bull!” shouted the one in the lead. “Wot’s wrong? Why ain’t ye grabbed ’em?”

A pack of abductors?

The thought sent a spike of fear through her.

Things looked rather hopeless, but Caro wasn’t yet willing to go down meekly.

Think! Think!

A quick glance around showed one last chance. Grabbing Isobel’s arm, she pushed her off the road and toward the woods. The tangle of brush and trees might slow down their pursuers.

“Try to lose yourself in the darkness,” she hissed. “I’ll see if I can distract them for another few moments.”

“But—”

“GO!”

To her relief, Isobel had the good sense not to waste precious seconds in further argument.

Scooping up a handful of rocks, Caro peltered the new assailants with a quick barrage, then turned to seek safety in the shadows.

With luck…

But luck chose that moment to desert her. Her shoe caught in a rut and she tripped, entangled in her skirts.

Cursing the constraints of female dress, she twisted free of the fabric, scrambled to her feet, and was moving again within the space of several rapidfire heartbeats.

Quick, but not quick enough.

The first trees were only a stride away when the one of the men snagged her trailing sash and whirled her around.

“Poxy slut,” he snapped.

Caro blocked the first slap and countered with a punch that bloodied his lip. The second blow caught her on the side of the head with a force that set her ears to ringing. She tried to pull away but he yanked her back, and then his fist drove the air from her lungs.

The ground began to spin and blur.