The man took the words right out of Valentine’s mouth. Surely he didn’t hear that right? Brain whirling, his mouth fell open. Lady Bronwyn was in league with the Kestrel? Had she met with him on the ship? The questions raced through his head like wildfire. Had the Kestrel been one of the young bucks she’d been flirting with, and he’d somehow not noticed because he’d been insensibly distracted by her?

“Never mind,” she said coolly and placed both hands on the table to show she wasn’t a threat, but the man’s aggressive mien didn’t change.

This was going to go sour very quickly.

Just as Valentine made the decision to intervene—he’d come up with some plausible story as to why he was there—the table between them went flying as the lady flipped it, clipping her companion in the face and dousing him in a tankard three-quarters-full of ale. The man shoved upward with a roar, crashing into the man behind him in the process, and within seconds, pandemonium erupted into a bar brawl. Fists and curses flew in tandem.

In the commotion, Valentine saw Bronwyn duck under a meaty arm that reached for her, nearly catching on the back of her coat, as she slid into a narrow servants’ hallway that led to the back of the establishment.

Punching out blindly at the two drunks who tried to block his way, he shoved past the throng of surging, flailing bodies and followed where she’d disappeared into the narrow hallway that lead out to a filthy alley. But she was gone, nothing but a hint of cinnamon and apples left on the wind. Curse his luck that he hadn’t been closer.

Reaching for the pistols clipped into the holsters at his hips, Valentine took off.

She couldn’t have gotten too far.

Six

“Oy, little bunny rabbit,” a voice called from behind Bronwyn. “Where’re you runnin’ to?”

Damn and blast! Of course there would have been others waiting. He’d said as much: We know you have it. Bronwyn lengthened her stride, her lungs screaming in her chest. She’d been smart to put on the gentlemen’s clothing beneath the heavy coat that she had discarded as soon as she’d begun running. She had learned the hard way that a lady’s gown led to much less economy of movement, especially when fleeing for one’s life. And she definitely was doing just that at the moment.

That man from the tavern was most certainly not Miss Mary Richards.