Brass Carriages and Glass Heart - Nancy Campbell Allen Page 0,2

she appreciated the effort people seemed to be making to avoid hitting her with it. The crowd cheered her on, but just as she drew back her fist again, hoping to smash the window entirely and truly make an impression on the vile people inside, an arm clamped around her waist from behind and hauled her away.

“Miss O’Shea!”

“No!” she shrieked as she struggled against his hold. “Let me go, Detective!” She clutched at the carriage, grasping and missing as his other arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her against his chest, which she knew from experience was unyielding as an oak tree. “You have no idea what that cretin is attempting!”

“I have every idea,” his low voice growled in her ear, “and you are not helping your cause! Cease immediately!”

“No!” Her anger spilled over as she struggled against his arms, and she finally opened her mouth wide to sink her teeth in.

“Do not even think about it!” He jerked his arm away as he dragged her along.

“Unhand me!”

“Miss O’Shea, you are under arrest—blast, do not bite me!”

With dizzying speed, he spun her around and hauled her up and over his shoulder, clamping one arm behind her thighs like a sack of potatoes, a move that had served him well multiple times in the past. He gripped her right wrist in his other hand, bending her arm at an impossible angle. When she tried to straighten up or wriggle free, he simply pulled on her arm. He had her trapped, and she knew it.

She pounded ineffectually on his back with her free fist and cursed herself for neglecting to have her cousin, Isla, teach her defensive maneuvers against such a predicament. Her nose bounced uncomfortably into his back as he shoved through the crowd. The mayhem escalated to a fever pitch. She turned her head to protect her smarting nose, and her breath was expelled in grunts as he began to jog.

“Put . . . me . . . down . . .” she managed.

“Emmeline O’Shea, you are hereby under arrest for instigating a riot and assault on government property,” he ground out as he continued dodging and twisting through the crowd.

“I am about . . . to lose . . . my dinner,” she shouted in spurts.

“Lose your dinner!” he shouted back. “I have another suit of clothing in my office!”

“You live in your cursed office . . . I wager!” She grunted. “No decent neighborhood . . . would . . . have you!”

He shouted something in return, but his words were lost as the crowd shifted, jostling them violently from the side and nearly sending them sprawling. He barked an order to a constable, and Emme saw a blue blur in her periphery before Reed turned a corner and slowed marginally.

He whistled through his teeth, and Emme heard the hiss of steam and crank of gears signaling the arrival of one of the Yard’s horseless brass carriages. The brightly polished brass body with its black ornamental fixtures set the vehicles apart from others and were easily recognizable as police conveyances.

Reed slowed and finally bent down, shifting her from his shoulder. Before she could secure her footing, however, he tossed her into the carriage with what sounded suspiciously like a curse. She landed on the worn, black upholstered seat with an inelegant thump, and the little air she’d managed to suck into her lungs was expelled in an equally inelegant grunt.

She breathed heavily and put a hand to her midsection, truly wondering if she were about to cast up her accounts. She leaned forward and looked out the open door, considering her odds of successfully slipping past Reed and escaping down an alley before he could catch her.

His hand clamped on the door, and she sat up straight.

“—follow with anyone else accosting either government property or individuals,” he directed his officers. “I shall be at the cells.”

The detective gave orders to the driver and climbed inside, sitting across from her and slamming the door so hard the glass rattled.

Emme clenched her jaw shut to keep from screaming, but her breathing was still too labored to comfortably manage through her nose. It was just as well, because she had plenty to say. “Detective, you have no idea—”

“Stop!” He held up a hand and froze her with a look. “Not. A. Word.”

Emme’s mouth dropped open. “You cannot keep me from speaking.”

“I can, and I shall. Unruly prisoners are often gagged.”

She froze him with a look of her own before turning her