A Rogue's Proposal by Stephanie Laurens

jaw—and ignited his temper. Regaining his balance, he plowed a fist into his assailant’s gut, then followed with a solid right to the jaw.
    The huge walloper teetered sideways, then back, then crashed onto his back amid the ongoing brawl.
    “Demon!”
    Ducking, he threw his next attacker, managing to shift his feet enough so the bruiser landed against the wall beyond Flick, rather than on top of her.
    A jarvey staggered free of the central melee and swung his way. The man met his eyes and stopped, swaying on his feet, then turned and charged back into the heaving mass of bodies and flailing fists.
    “Stop it, yer mongrels!” The barman jumped up on the counter, laying about him with a besom. To no avail. The brawlers were well away, enjoying themselves hugely.
    Demon looked around. The only door from the snug was diagonally across from their corner, beyond the heaving mass of the fight. The wall to their left hosted two grimy sash windows; thrusting aside tables and chairs, he reached the nearest, forced the catch free, then heaved. After an initial resistance, the sash flew up.
    Turning back, he grabbed Flick by the collar, unceremoniously dragged her from her hiding place, then man-handled her out of the window. She tried to climb daintily out; he grabbed her and pushed. She hissed and batted at his hands—he kept grabbing and pushing. She hesitated halfway out, deciding which foot to place where; he slapped a hand beneath her bottom and shoved.
    She landed in an inelegant sprawl on the grass.
    Flick dragged in a breath; curses burned her tongue, but she didn’t have breath enough to utter them. Her bottom burned, too; her cheeks were aflame. Both sets. She glanced back. Demon was halfway through the window. Swearing weakly, she scrambled to her feet, dusting her hands on her thighs—she didn’t dare touch her posterior.
    The other sash window flew up, and more patrons piled out. Demon appeared beside her; grabbing her elbow, he shoved her away from the inn as others started using their escape route. An orchard rolled down an incline away from the inn—with Demon at her heels, Flick slipped between the trees. The twilight was deepening. Behind them, through the now open windows, they heard shouts, then the piercing whistles of the Watch. Glancing back, Flick saw more of the inn’s customers scrambling through the windows, hurrying to disappear down the orchard’s slope.
    “Come on!” Demon grabbed her hand, taking the lead, lengthening his stride so she had to scurry to keep up. She tried to wriggle her hand free; he flung her a scowl, tightened his grip, and strode on even faster. She cursed; he must have heard but gave no sign. He dragged her, skipping, half-running, to the end of the orchard, to where a seven-foot wall blocked their way.
    He released her as others joined them and immediately started climbing the wall. Flick eyed the wall, then edged closer to Demon. “Is there a gate anywhere?”
    He glanced at her, then nodded to the others scrambling up and over. “Doesn’t look like it.” He hesitated, then stepped to the wall. “Come on—I’ll give you a leg up.”
    Bracing one shoulder against the wall, he formed a cup with his hands. Balancing one hand on the stones, the other on his shoulder, Flick placed her boot in his hands.
    He pushed her up. It should have been easy; The Flynn’s back was nearly as high as the wall. But the top of the wall was hard and narrow, not smooth and slippery like a saddle. She managed to get half over, with the wall digging into her middle, but her legs still dangled down.
    Blowing out a breath, she braced her arms, straightened her spine, and searched with her boots for purchase. But with her hips on the wrong side of the wall, if she straightened too much, she risked falling back down. And if she didn’t straighten enough, she couldn’t reach any toehold. She teetered, like a seesaw, on the top of the wall.
    From beneath her came a long-suffering