Jillian Chantal

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt careful. I am in my new regency-era book.

Check out the other tales here.

Jane slammed her foot down on the top of the foot of the man who grabbed her. As she did, she half-turned, swinging her arm upward. Stopping her hand at his throat. The hand with the knife. “If you want to live, I suggest you let go. Right now.” She poked him a bit, drawing some blood.

Johnny, the man from the bar released her and held his hand up in surrender. “All right. All right. Settle yourself. I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

She did not believe him. Not for one moment. He had seemed harmless and flirty enough when she saw him at work, but following her down a dark street and not identifying himself spoke of illicit and illegal acts. 

For good measure, she lunged toward him again with the knife, hoping it would discourage him from following her any farther since she wanted nothing more than to get to her room and close out the world.

“Careful there, missy. You could slit my throat with that thing. Where did a little lass like you get such a thing anyway?”

“None of your business. Just remember, I know how to use it and I will if you ever get within a few feet of me again.”

“How will you serve me grog if I can’t get near ye?”

Her stomach fell. He was right. She had no doubt it would be she who would be punished if she did not serve him. As a customer—and a man—he was always going to have an advantage over her.

“It seems that shut your mouth, girl.” He laughed in her face, the smell of beer rank and rancid on his breath.

She recoiled and thought for a second. Then it came to her. “Bessie is now your waitress.”

“That old cow? I think not.” John reached toward Jane again. “You are my waitress. Best you remember it, Brandy. Don’t think I won’t make trouble for you if you think you can push me off on that sow.”

Brandy wished he would leave. She glanced around, hoping someone else was in the street by now. Streaks of dawn were at the edge of the sky. Surely some baker or workman would soon be on his or her way to their job. When had the streets of London ever been this deserted?