Keeping to her usual pace, Kate walked beside Tilly in the wake of the four over-excited children. The foursome saw the other children filing into the hut under Harriet’s and Gemma’s watchful eyes and pelted ahead to join their fellows.
Not exactly normal behavior at bedtime, but Dubois, Arsene, and Cripps weren’t on the porch, and the four who were—Satterly, Muldoon, and the two newcomers—wouldn’t know enough to grow suspicious.
“Girl. You there!”
Tilly’s steps faltered.
Oh no. Kate recognized Ross-Courtney’s voice. She halted beside Tilly and, with the girl, turned to face the porch steps.
Ross-Courtney stepped down to the dirt of the compound. His gaze locked on Tilly, his expression benign, yet with a far-from-avuncular gleam in his eye, he smiled as he walked toward them.
Kate might as well have been invisible.
The closer Ross-Courtney drew, the more she could read of his intent in his face; the image of a slavering satyr rose in her mind. Oh no, no, no.
Tilly started to tremble.
Ross-Courtney halted in front of Tilly. His pale eyes sharp, his gaze bored into her.
Kate glanced at Tilly; the girl had lost every vestige of color and looked ready to faint.
Ross-Courtney’s smile deepened. “My dear girl, I believe I require your company for a few hours.”
Tilly was shaking so hard, she couldn’t even speak.
Kate’s mind raced. They were less than an hour from rescue! They had to keep everything and everyone calm—no fuss, nothing to alert Dubois—but too much could happen to Tilly in even half an hour.
“I do believe”—Ross-Courtney’s eyes gleamed more definitely, as if Tilly’s fear excited him—“that you’ll do very well for the nonce.”
Before Kate could speak, Ross-Courtney’s hand snaked out and closed about Tilly’s elbow. “Come along—”
“No!” Tilly recoiled, struggling vainly to twist free.
Shocked, Kate looked at the men on the porch; they were closest—they could see and hear—but while all three found the scene distasteful, none were about to lift a finger to help.
“Let me go!” Tilly shrieked.
Kate looked back in time to see Ross-Courtney’s mask fall. His features distorted; he shook Tilly and snarled, “So you like it rough, do you?” He started to drag Tilly away. “That suits me—”
Kate flew at him. “Let her go, you beast!”
Ross-Courtney yanked Tilly to one side and struck Kate a backhand blow. “You forget yourself, woman!”
Kate staggered and fell.
And a whirlwind swept past her.
Her hand to her cheek, she blinked—and saw Ross-Courtney sprawled full length on the ground, and Caleb, fists clenched, standing over him.
“Arrêté! Remain as you are!”
The bellow came from the porch. Kate glanced dazedly that way and saw Dubois, followed by Arsene and Cripps, all armed, come leaping down the steps.
Kate pushed up into a sitting position. Tilly stood nearby, gulping in great lungfuls of air between harsh, tearing sobs.
Then other hands grasped Kate, and Lascelle and Hillsythe helped her to her feet.
“Restrain him.” Dubois waved at Caleb.
Arsene and Cripps stepped around Ross-Courtney. They gripped Caleb’s arms and pulled him back—and Caleb let them.
He glanced across his shoulder at Kate, then his gaze lifted to Lascelle’s face. “Get out of here. Go!”
The words were quiet, but they held invincible authority.
Kate glanced at Lascelle; his expression grim, he nodded once. “Come,” he whispered to Kate. He led her to Tilly. Kate gathered the shaking, sobbing girl into her arms, and under Lascelle’s direction, the three of them crossed to the women’s hut.
Harriet and Gemma, as white-faced and as shocked as Kate, were waiting on the porch. Gemma drew Tilly into her arms and steered the girl inside. Harriet reached for Kate, but she turned toward the barracks.
Lascelle stepped into her path. “No.” His dark eyes were hard. “You heard what he said. If you want to save him, you have to stay here and let me go and do what I have to do. If you want to save him, you won’t detain me.”
Go! Caleb had told Lascelle to start the distraction.
Kate nodded. “Yes. Go quickly.”
“I intend to.” Lascelle glanced at the group before the porch, then swiftly scanned all around.
Everyone’s attention—including that of all the guards—was focused on the unfolding drama.
Lascelle melted into the shadows around the side of the women’s hut.
* * *
Held securely between Arsene and Cripps, Caleb saw no reason to struggle. He had to let this play out; there was no other way.
Satterly and Muldoon—the cowards—had followed in Dubois and his lieutenants’ wake. They crouched on either side of Ross-Courtney; as he started to regain consciousness, they helped him to sit.
Caleb viewed the blood seeping from Ross-Courtney’s nose with a violent sense of satisfaction.
Ross-Courtney swiped his sleeve across his face. He looked at the blood, then he looked up at Caleb. Unadulterated hate filled Ross-Courtney’s gaze.
Caleb returned the favor in full measure. He let his lip curl. “You despicable excuse for a man.”
Ross-Courtney’s eyes flared. His face flushed an unbecoming puce as he struggled to his feet, then he lunged at Dubois, grabbing for the mercenary’s pistol.
Dubois fended off Ross-Courtney, thrusting him away. “Get back, you...” Dubois’s mouth worked as he swallowed the word he’d been about to utter.
Without taking his gaze from Caleb, Ross-Courtney demanded, “Give me your pistol. I’m going to shoot this cur where he stands.”
Dubois looked at Ross-Courtney. For one instant, Caleb entertained the hope that Dubois would shoot Ross-Courtney. Watching Dubois consider it, Caleb realized the enormity of what, from Dubois’s perspective, Ross-Courtney had done.
He’d broken Dubois’s edict.
He’d shattered Dubois’s long-standing method for controlling the captives.
The captives knew rescue was less than an hour away, but Dubois didn’t; all he would see was his relatively comfortable arrangement—his effective and easy control over his captives—blown to kingdom come.
Dubois would want revenge. Retribution.
Be that as it may, as Dubois slowly turned from Ross-Courtney to Caleb, Caleb understood that it wouldn’t be Ross-Courtney who would pay for his transgression.
Caleb would.
Dubois looked at Caleb, and it was the monster inside who stared through Dubois’s eyes. The monster who considered and weighed the prospects—the options—and chose.
Arsene, helping to hold Caleb, shifted uneasily; Arsene could see what Caleb could and wanted to be elsewhere.
Slowly, Dubois’s lips curved. “I have a better idea.” The words were quiet, almost serene, and directed at Ross-Courtney. “You can watch.”
Ross-Courtney frowned, but even he had sufficient primal instinct not to argue with Dubois.
Focused on Caleb, Dubois mused, “I always thought you were somehow trouble.”
Again, Caleb felt that wasn’t the Dubois he normally met talking.
Dubois stepped back and waved toward the end of the porch closest to the mine. “String him up from the last post.”
Caleb considered making that order harder for Arsene and Cripps to obey, but the distraction should break out at any moment, and once it did, he needed to be able to function, so he did nothing more than pull back against Arsene’s and Cripps’s holds, making them wrestle to haul him along.
They got him to the post and backed him against it. One of the guards brought a length of rope. Arsene forced Caleb’s arms down, and Cripps bound his wrists together with one end of the rope. Then Cripps tossed the rope’s other end over the porch rafter at the corner, caught the rope, and hauled—stretching Caleb’s arms above his head.
Cripps tied off the rope, forcing Caleb to stand on his toes with his heels against the post’s base to keep his weight off his arms. He couldn’t move in any direction or kick out. Cripps had even tied the rope so Caleb couldn’t grip it and pull himself up.
Dubois had disappeared into the barracks. Muldoon and Satterly had remained by the steps. Ross-Courtney stood closer and glowered at Caleb. As for Neill, he’d remained in his chair on the porch throughout. His expression distant, he sipped his drink and silently observed.
Caleb could see his fellow male captives spreading between the barracks and the gates, forming a line from the fire pit to the corner of the women’s hut.
Dubois emerged from the barracks. He, too, saw the men. Two mercenaries were closing in, intending to push the men back to their hut. “No!” Dubois called. “Let them come closer.” He waved the men nearer and looked at Caleb. “I want them all to see what happens to those who cause me trouble.” Dubois’s gaze flicked to Arsene. “Tear off his shirt.”
Arsene and Cripps grabbed handfuls of Caleb’s shirt, yanked, and tore the flimsy material, pulling the tatters away to expose Caleb’s chest and arms.
That was when Caleb glimpsed the thin knife Dubois was expertly twirling in his fingers. A flaying knife.
Instinctively, Caleb tensed, hands fisting against his bonds. Come on, Phillipe.
Dubois approached, a strange smile on his face, an almost euphoric look in his eyes...the monster was well and truly in control.
Caleb had finally given Dubois a chance—a reason—to allow the monster out.
Caleb’s stomach felt hollow as he focused on the knife.
Flaying, he reminded himself, was a lengthy process.
Dubois halted to one side. Almost lovingly, he laid the blade just beneath Caleb’s right nipple.
Then he sliced.
Caleb locked his jaw and endured. He’d be damned if he gave Dubois any satisfaction...but damn, the long, slanted, slicing cut stung well-nigh unbearably.
He had to hold on. It couldn’t be long now.
It couldn’t be.
He closed his eyes and felt his head rise, neck muscles straining as he fought against the searing agony as Dubois made another cut, this time all the way down the left side of his chest.
Pain shivered through him. His muscles quivered. How much longer—
“Fire!”
The hail came from the tower.
Dubois blinked, then spun away. “Where?” he barked.
“Supply hut!”
Every mercenary, as well as Satterly, Muldoon, and Ross-Courtney, swung toward the supply hut. Neill rose and came down the steps to look.
Pushing aside the lingering pain, Caleb craned his neck, but he couldn’t see the supply hut itself—only the smoke billowing out.
A series of popping explosions sounded, and he saw flames reflected on pans in the kitchen.
Dubois cursed and swung back to Caleb.
He forced himself not to notice—to keep looking toward the hut and the guards racing toward it and not meet Dubois’s gaze. He didn’t need to challenge the monster.
“Bah!” Dubois tossed his bloody knife onto the porch. “You will keep.” He strode for the supply hut. “Arsene! Cripps! À moi!”
Pandemonium ensued.
The captives hung back. Those unskilled in fighting drifted to the mine’s entrance and the picks and shovels stored there. Caleb’s and Lascelle’s men formed a knot between the milling mercenaries and the door to the women’s hut. Through the thickening smoke, Caleb thought he saw a dark figure slide out of the shadows and join the group before the women’s hut. Presumably Phillipe, so that group had at least one commander.
Everyone was in their assigned position—except Caleb. He swore, gritted his teeth, and tried to loosen Cripps’s knots.
* * *
At the first shout from within the compound, a section of the palisade behind the women’s hut had silently fallen outward.
Isobel had led the way through, Edwina and Aileen at her heels. They’d decided the women and children would be more reassured by other women, and had delegated the sailors assigned to their enterprise to direct the captives as the ladies sent said captives out.
The first face Isobel saw when she pulled open the hut’s rear door was Katherine’s.
Her eyes impossibly wide, Katherine stared, then she grabbed Isobel and hauled her inside. Katherine pointed toward the barracks. “That monster has Caleb—he’s strung him up, and he’s cutting him!”
Isobel seized Katherine and pulled her to the side, out of Edwina’s and Aileen’s path. They rushed past and started sending the other women and children out.
After one glance to ensure all was happening as it should, Isobel turned her attention to Katherine. “Royd is here—he’ll get Caleb free. Royd always gets Caleb out of trouble. Meanwhile, we stick to the plan.”
That was one thing she’d learned through her years of running with Royd—it was always better if everyone stuck to his plan. She looked into Katherine’s wide eyes. “We’ll rescue Caleb, but right now, we have to get the children out and to safety.”
Katherine blinked, then hauled in a breath, held it, and nodded. “Yes. You’re right.” She turned and joined the other women in reassuring the children and sending them out in batches, each batch with one of the women to watch over them.
The children had been ready to bolt; it was more a case of keeping them in some sort of order than having to urge them to move.
In less than three minutes, the hut was cleared. Of the captives, only Katherine remained. Isobel exchanged a glance with Edwina and Aileen.
Katherine had gone to the hut’s main door. Peering out, she frowned. “There’s so much smoke, I can’t see...”
Her lips firming, Isobel headed for Katherine. Edwina and Aileen followed.
* * *
Caleb was swearing ever more colorfully and twisting on the post, trying to get his fingers to the knots securing the rope, when he heard footsteps coming up behind him. He froze.
Royd said, “Hold still.”
Caleb heard a solid thunk, and the rope gave way. He slumped onto his heels, then Royd was there with a dagger, slicing through the coils binding Caleb’s hands.
He shook the remnants free and massaged his wrists.
Royd glanced at his chest. “How deep are those?”
“Not deep enough to slow me down. He’d just got started.”
“Dubois?”
Caleb nodded.
“Hey—squirt!”
Caleb looked up at the well-remembered hail—in time to pluck the dagger Declan tossed him out of the air.
“Stick to the plan,” Royd ordered and ran forward into the developing melee.
Caleb looked around. Frobisher sailors were pouring into the compound, sliding down ropes suspended from makeshift yardarms from three different points on the cliffs above, dropping directly inside the palisade, swords in their hands and daggers between their teeth.
Robert appeared, a company of men at his back. He flicked Caleb a salute and handed him a sword. “Where are the three from the settlement and Ross-Courtney and Neill?”
Caleb tipped his head toward the barracks. “In there.” He grinned. “Waiting for you.”
Robert grinned back. “I’ll take good care of them. Any mercenaries with them?”
“I don’t think so.” Caleb looked toward the cloud of smoke obscuring the supply hut. “I think they all ran toward the fire.”
With a nod, Robert strode for the porch steps. An instant later, he raised a boot, smashed open the barracks’ door, and, with his men at his back, plunged in.
Shouts and yells followed, but no gunshots.
Caleb looked down at his wounds. They were still bleeding, but it was more of an ooze than a stream. Dubois hadn’t got to lifting the skin, so the cuts were just cuts and not anything worse. They still stung, but with his senses distracted by the mayhem around him, he had to think to feel it.
Deciding the cuts could be left until later, he raised his head and scanned the action. Declan had led his men to join the group before the women’s hut; after they passed around weapons, their task was to ensure no mercenary got through and seized any hostage, or escaped through the gap in the palisade behind the hut.
Royd had marshaled his men into a cordon that was inching up behind the mercenaries, corralling them between the barracks and the supply hut, which was now aflame.
Enveloped in smoke, the mercenaries hadn’t yet realized they were under attack. At ground level, the billowing clouds were thick enough to screen the advancing forces, and the lookouts in the tower were fully absorbed trying to escape the flames, which, courtesy of Phillipe’s planning, were also licking higher and higher up the tower’s frame.
For the first time when fighting with his brothers, Caleb had been named coordinator; Royd had ceded him the role on the grounds he was most familiar with the battleground and the enemy. He searched for weaknesses and spotted several.
Movement on the porch drew his eye. Robert’s men hauled Satterly, Muldoon, and Winton out of the barracks, followed by Neill and Ross-Courtney. All five prisoners had met with rough handling. Their arms were tied behind their backs, their clothing was torn and askew, their hair disheveled. Robert’s men weren’t gentle as they pulled them off the porch.
Robert paused beside Caleb. “We’ll keep them between the ore piles as planned.”
Caleb nodded. “Keep an eye on the rear of the barracks in case any of the bastards tries to get out that way.”
Robert nodded. “Will do.”
Caleb thumped Robert on the shoulder, and his brother strode after his men.
Hillsythe, Dixon, Fanshawe, and Hopkins were keeping the poorly armed captives back, gathered in a body before the mine. Caleb caught Hillsythe’s eye and nodded in acknowledgment.
Hillsythe raised a hand in reply.
Then came a faint creak...and a wide section of the palisade including the compound’s gates fell in.
It landed with a thump and hadn’t even settled before Lachlan and Kit led their men in.
Caleb grinned. Hefting the sword Robert had given him, the dagger from Declan in his left hand, he ran toward the gates.
Halting as he reached his cousins, he tipped his head to Kit. “You’re on the gates. Can you also send some men to hold a line from the end of the barracks to the ore piles?” He pointed. “Robert will keep an eye on the corridor along the rear of the barracks, but if any mercenaries try to get out that way, he’ll also need to hold his prisoners.”
Kit saluted. “Consider it done.”
Lachlan was scanning the increasingly smoke-fogged compound. “Where’s Royd?”
“This way.” Caleb couldn’t suppress his reckless grin as he headed toward the impending melee.
* * *
Enveloped in smoke, Royd held his men in position and waited for the mercenaries to realize they were under attack.
He hadn’t thought it would take them so long, but then neither he nor, he suspected, any of their planners had expected this density of smoke. But this was equatorial Africa; everything was damp. And setting fire to damp things invariably led to smoke—lots of it.
His men had foreseen some degree of smoke so had come prepared; all had dampened kerchiefs tied over their noses and mouths. The kerchiefs were also a reasonable badge of identification.
The mercenaries’ confusion had been compounded by the tower catching alight. That had been an inspired touch. As water wasn’t in ready supply, the mercenaries had grabbed hessian bags from the kitchen and attempted to beat out the flames.
By the time they’d realized that wasn’t going to work, smoke was everywhere, blocking their view of the rest of the compound, then the flames on the tower had flared and roared, and they’d got caught in the mayhem...
In truth, only a few minutes had passed since the first shout of “Fire.”
But Royd had felt the thump as—he assumed—the gates had fallen. Any minute now, Dubois was going to realize—
A bellow sounded from somewhere ahead. It took a second to decipher; Dubois or one of his lieutenants had ordered the mercenaries to fetch water.
Beneath his kerchief, Royd grinned. With one hand, he signaled his men. They gripped their weapons and slowly advanced.
The first clash came from Royd’s right.
Then it was on. Steel met steel; men grunted and swore. Bodies lurched through the smoke.
While happy to engage with any mercenary, Royd was intent on hunting down Dubois. The mercenary captain needed to die. Any other enemy, he flicked to his left or right, where his men waited to take them on. Steadily, he pressed forward. His men—the most experienced fighters—were the strike force. Lachlan and his men would fall in behind, ensuring no mercenary slipped past, and Kit would hold the gate—a last line of containment.
The mercenaries would fight to the death; for them, being taken prisoner wasn’t an option.
Finding well-armed sailors lurking in the smoke was a surprise the mercenaries hadn’t expected; Royd’s men encountered little difficulty disposing of those who came blundering into them.
The supply hut was aflame. Royd could hear the crackling roar above the shouts and the screams of those trapped in the tower. He could feel the heat, too, surging through the smoke.
A fitful breeze started to waft the smoke upward, allowing him to look around and ahead. He spotted Dubois in the instant Dubois realized there were armed men he didn’t recognize in his compound.
Dubois took a bare second to assess the seriousness of the attack, then he swung and ran toward the women’s hut.
The fire was burning hotter, cleaner; the smoke was thinning.
Dubois saw Declan and his men—and Caleb’s and Lascelle’s—all waiting with swords drawn across his path. He skidded to a halt and reversed direction.
Dubois waded into what was now a melee. Raising his sword, he bellowed, attempting to rally his men—but his forces were already greatly reduced, and those remaining were fully engaged.
His command was outmanned and about to be overrun.
Royd watched that realization sink its claws into Dubois and shake him.
His face contorting, Dubois swung out—vicious and powerful.
Royd started toward him.
The supply hut exploded, flinging everyone to the ground.
Royd coughed, confirmed nothing was broken or badly bleeding, and rolled to his feet.
His men did the same, rushing to get upright and claim any advantage—but the mercenaries were experienced and did the same.
Swords clashed anew, mercenaries and sailors re-engaged, and the fight raged on.
* * *
His hands on his hips, Robert surveyed his five prisoners. All looked distinctly the worse for wear.
He couldn’t find it in his heart to care.
A cohort of his most experienced men were ranged about the five, weapons drawn and ready for anything. Any attempt to even rise would be met with inhibitory force.
From where he’d been pushed to sit on the ground, wedged with the other four between two piles of ore, Ross-Courtney glowered and fruitlessly tugged at his bonds. “You’ll regret this—I promise you.”
Robert looked at him. After several seconds, he advised, “You should never promise what you’re helpless to deliver.”
Ross-Courtney made a frustrated sound.
Beside him, Neill looked daggers—at Ross-Courtney as much as at anyone else. Neill had already tried to bribe Robert—and had inexplicably tripped and fallen. He now sported several bruises and scrapes he hadn’t had before.
The three younger men remained silent—hunched, watchful, and wary. After their protestations of innocence had fallen on deaf ears, they’d given Robert and his men no real trouble. Satterly had stared at Robert enough for Robert to assume the man had recognized the resemblance to Declan, who Satterly had seen when Declan and Edwina had been in Freetown.
Robert turned to his quartermaster, Miller. “Keep them here. Make sure no one attacks them.” He glanced at the mine, then looked at the five prisoners with grim disgust. “Sadly, we need them alive...for the moment.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Miller tapped his blade to his palm and stared down at the five. “We’ll make sure they don’t move.”
Leaving Miller to impress their new station upon the prisoners, Robert directed most of his men into a two-armed defensive cordon. He positioned one group to protect against incursion along the rear of the cleaning shed and the other to cover the approach along the rear of the barracks.
If any mercenary thought to take Ross-Courtney or Neill hostage and came looking, they would come that way.
Satisfied there was no likelihood of matters getting that messy, Robert took his remaining men and went to confer with crewmen from Kit’s Consort. They confirmed they’d been sent to prevent any mercenaries from escaping around the barracks to the compound’s gates.
“Hmm.” Robert considered the dark corridor along the back of the barracks. The space was fitfully illuminated by the flames licking up the guard tower. “Given none of the mercenaries have yet come this way, I suspect Royd and his men are having a good time on the other side.” Robert cocked a brow at his men. “What’s say we join them?”
The men grinned.
Robert smiled and led the way.
But as he rounded the barracks, a man came jogging across from the mine. The man raised his hand. “Hillsythe.”
Robert nodded. “Robert Frobisher.”
“Is there anywhere you need reinforcements?” Hillsythe tipped his head toward the mine. “The men have no blades, but they have picks and shovels—and a score to settle.”
Robert looked toward the gates, then pointed. “You see that woman over there?”
Hillsythe peered, then blinked. “One could hardly miss her.”
“That’s Kit Frobisher. I suggest you take your men and merge them with hers. At some point, the mercenaries are going to try to flee. Tell her I sent you.”
Hillsythe saluted and headed back to the mine.
Robert didn’t wait to see what transpired. He led his men into the dissipating smoke—into the rear of an out-and-out melee.
Two paces in and he found Declan beside him. After dispatching a mercenary, Robert said, “I thought you were over at the women’s hut.”
“I was. But Lascelle’s there, and he’s more than able.” Declan grinned. “I came to join the fun.”
Another mercenary charged; Declan raised his sword and met the man.
Robert swung around to meet another blade. Somewhere ahead of them were Royd, Caleb, and Lachlan. And Dubois. Robert leapt back, caught a low swipe on his blade, and fought on.
* * *
Royd had plunged into the middle of the melee in pursuit of Dubois. But the coward had seen him and kept dropping back behind his men, pushing them into Royd’s path.
Royd’s men had noticed. They started to anticipate Dubois’s next move and step in to free Royd of having to engage with yet another mercenary.
Royd had taken pains to impress on his men—and through his brothers and their officers, on all their crews—that the mercenaries would be especially desperate and would, without fail, fight to the death. He’d instructed all their forces to exercise caution; as they had superior numbers, there was no need for anyone to throw away their lives. He’d lectured them all to fight with their heads, to back each other up, to take whatever time was needed, and not get killed. That said, he strongly suspected his men were meeting the mercenaries’ desperation with anger and righteous fury.
And the bulk of that anger and righteous fury was directed at Dubois.
The melee was starting to fragment and spread as the mercenaries realized they would soon be overwhelmed and that the only way out for them was to flee. As often occurred in battle, that understanding seemed to be reached collectively, and despite having no orders to do so, the mercenaries started to edge away—searching for a route away from the fight.
A mercenary backed into Royd. He caught the man and spun him away, toward another of his crew.
Between one blink and the next, he glimpsed Isobel, fleetingly lit by the crackling flames. But when he looked again, there was no one there.
Yet some inner sense told him what he’d seen was real.
He wanted to follow her, to find out what the hell she thought she was doing, but another mercenary engaged, and he had to pay attention. Dubois was still ahead of him. He’d circled through the fighters. Unlike his men, Dubois appeared to be making for the rear of the compound.
Was there a secret gate? Some other way out? Perhaps in the relatively unused space between the supply hut and the medical hut.
Or was Dubois making for their prisoners?
Royd set his jaw and redoubled his efforts. The thought of Isobel slinking through the shadows in the same area as Dubois sent a chill down his spine.
As expected, the mercenaries were experienced fighters. Putting paid to each took time. Finally dispatching his most recent opponent, Royd whirled—and caught a glimpse of a guinea-gold head. “Damn it!” That was Edwina, slipping through the dark—and there was Aileen!
Royd straightened to his full height and looked for Dubois.
He saw Caleb, several paces behind him, doing the same thing.
Then Royd glimpsed Dubois sliding backward into the smoke still shrouding the supply hut.
The mercenary captain was trying to slip away.
Royd looked at Caleb and whistled.
* * *
Caleb heard the distinctive sound, searched, and spotted Royd.
Royd pointed onward, mouthed “Dubois,” then pointed at Caleb and circled his finger.
Caleb nodded, turned, and charged back along the barracks. Dubois was trying to run.
While he’d been searching for Dubois, he’d seen Phillipe fighting Arsene—which meant Arsene was dead, one way or another. He’d also seen Cripps make a break for the gates, only to find Declan in his path. So Cripps was as good as down, too.
The other mercenaries were being accounted for by Royd’s men and all the others. Which left Dubois. Sword in hand, Caleb rounded the end of the barracks closest to the mine, pushed through a cordon of their men, and raced on.
* * *
Royd stalked after Dubois—and sprang back as the man lunged out of the shadows.
Dubois had feinted and waited for Royd to come after him; only by deft footwork and excellent reflexes did Royd manage to get his blade into position to meet Dubois’s thrust.
Royd fell back, tempting Dubois to come into the open. Out of the shadows, out of the cloaking smoke.
At Royd’s back, the guard tower blazed fiercely; he broke and stepped to the side, drawing Dubois with him—away from the tower in case it collapsed or rained burning debris on top of him.
Dubois paused, then his lips drew back, and he launched a furious attack.
Royd met it, countered it, and smoothly transitioned into a series of slashes and strikes that forced Dubois to pull back and defend. The instant Royd gave him an opening, Dubois flung himself at Royd—several times—only to be driven back relatively easily.
Dubois was good. Royd was better.
Royd watched that realization sink into Dubois’s mind.
Along with the fact that Royd was toying with him.
Abruptly, the mercenary captain broke and danced back, into the area between the supply hut and the medical hut. The flames still licking over the supply hut lit the scene in garish splotches, leaving pools of deep shadow untouched. Panting, Dubois crouched. His eyes gleamed white as he desperately scanned this way, then that—hoping, no doubt, for one of his men to rush in and distract Royd.
Royd didn’t bother glancing behind him; he was fairly certain that any mercenary still on his feet would be making for the hole where the gates had been—and he could tell from Dubois’s expression that he’d seen no sign of relief from the area before the supply hut.
Royd smiled and walked forward, twirling his sword, limbering his wrist in evident expectation.
Instinctively, Dubois backed still farther, until he reached the center of the space and halted. That would be his place to make a stand, yet his gaze still flicked sideways, along the apparently unguarded rear of the barracks...
Royd heard Caleb’s stealthy footsteps. They stopped, then his brother walked out of the shadows clinging to the rear of the barracks.
Killing any hope Dubois might have entertained of escaping that way.
“No,” Royd stated. “Here. Now. There is no way out.”
Royd glanced at Caleb as his brother halted by his shoulder. Caleb’s face was set, his gaze locked on Dubois. In that instant, Royd saw the maturity the past months had etched in Caleb’s face and inwardly rejoiced. His tone mild, he asked, “Mine? Or yours?”
“Mine, I believe.” Caleb’s tone was decisive. Without shifting his gaze from Dubois, he gestured to his scored chest. “Definitely mine.”
Wordlessly, Royd waved Caleb on. His youngest brother might not—quite—be his equal with a blade, but Caleb was no slouch—although he liked to let people think he was. Noting the sudden gleam of hope that flared in Dubois’s eyes, Royd suspected Caleb had put on an act for the mercenary captain; that might have been necessary to convince Dubois that allowing Caleb—let alone Lascelle—into his compound wasn’t any major threat.
As, light on his feet, Caleb glided forward to engage with Dubois, Royd stepped to the side, to a position from where he could monitor the approaches to the area. A quick glance at the space before the supply hut showed Declan and Lachlan mopping up there. As Royd swung his gaze back to the circling swordsmen, he glimpsed Robert approaching along the barracks’ rear wall. Clearly, all was well with their prisoners.
Satisfied that all else was proceeding as planned—more or less—Royd settled to watch Caleb extract payment, not just for himself but for all the captives, from Dubois’s hide.
* * *
By the time he got close enough to engage with Dubois, Caleb had it all planned. He circled to place his back to the supply hut—the better to have Dubois lit by the leaping flames while his own face and body remained in silhouette.
Then, quite deliberately, Caleb chuckled—derisively. He made as if to glance at Royd—
Dubois swallowed the lure and launched a frenzied attack.
Caleb defended, then caught the mercenary’s blade on his own, forced it high, and leaned in. And smiled.
Dubois might be heavier, but Caleb was younger, fitter, and at least equally strong. As he fluidly disengaged and attacked, forcing Dubois back, his advantage in reach also showed.
Caleb took his time, deliberately marking the man slash by slash—the cuts increasingly deep.
There was nowhere for Dubois to run. Royd and then Caleb had backed him into the area between the side of the medical hut and the still-burning ruin of the supply hut. The mercenary captain had no option but to face Caleb—to face his fate.
Dubois’s blood was dripping freely from numerous wounds when, in a last-ditch effort, he flung himself at Caleb—only to have Caleb trap his blade again. Close again.
Then Caleb heaved and threw Dubois back—and with a slashing swipe, sent his sword ripping across Dubois’s gut.
Caleb cut deep enough for the wound to be fatal, but not deep enough for Dubois to die any other way than slowly.
Dubois dropped his sword and clutched both hands to his belly. He looked at Caleb, shock and disbelief in his face.
* * *
Dubois staggered back—and tripped over a lump on the ground behind him.
Royd had thought the lump just a shadow. Before he fully registered that the lump was a dead mercenary, Dubois had rolled, snatched up the dead man’s pistol, and scrambled to his feet.
Royd froze, as did Caleb.
As did Robert and Declan in the shadows to either side.
Using both hands, Dubois brought the pistol to bear—on Caleb. Dubois stood with head lowered, obviously concentrating to hold the pistol steady. The click as he cocked it rang in the sudden silence.
Royd stepped forward to a position a yard or more to Caleb’s right. “So,” Royd asked conversationally, “who are you going to pick? Him or me?”
Dubois blinked and looked at Royd—and the pistol barrel wavered. Dubois was close to weaving, yet as he corrected his aim, this time to shoot Royd, it appeared steady enough for his purpose.
“Or what about me?” Robert came to stand on Caleb’s left, again with a yard or more between them.
Dubois started and took another step back. He blinked several times; he was sweating profusely.
“Or even me.” Declan appeared on Royd’s right, giving Dubois a choice between four similar-looking brothers.
Confusion was gaining on Dubois; the pistol barrel swung wildly from one brother to another. Then Dubois hauled in a pained breath, held it—and brought the barrel back to point at Caleb’s chest. “You.” His voice was a croak. “You brought them here—it’s you I choose.”
“Put it down, man,” Robert advised. “You’re done for, and you know it.”
Royd was unsurprised when Dubois tried to smile—a tortured effort—and said, “But I’ve got the chance to take one of you with me.” Again, Dubois focused on Caleb and nodded. “Him.”
“For the love of the Almighty, how stupid is that?” The words were delivered in a scathing tone only a duke’s daughter could manage as Edwina marched out of the shadows on Dubois’s left, like a character taking the stage in a play.
Dubois started; the pistol barrel swung wildly.
Royd heard Declan curse beneath his breath.
Halting, her hands on her hips, Edwina scowled at Dubois. “Put that gun down at once!”
Dubois’s eyes had widened to saucers. He stared, but failed to comply.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you horrible man.”
Everyone’s gaze swung to Dubois’s right, where Aileen Hopkins had somehow materialized. When Dubois focused on her, she glared at him. “It’s entirely pointless to shoot anyone. You could at least have the grace to die without creating any further fuss.”
Dubois gaped.
Royd glanced at his brothers and found all three as grim-faced as he. What the devil did these harpies think they were doing?
Then Katherine Fortescue appeared out of the shadows even farther to Dubois’s left—and Dubois jumped and stumbled back a pace, the better to face her and also keep all the rest of them in view.
Katherine eyed him coldly. “You’re worse than any beast. The world will be a much better place without you—so go. Just go.”
Dubois had been bleeding steadily throughout. His complexion was now ashen, and he looked utterly bewildered.
Then he drew in a breath that cut off on a gasp, gritted his teeth, and, once more, forced the barrel of the pistol into line with Caleb’s chest.
“For heaven’s sake!” A dark shadow reared behind Dubois, and Isobel brought a long-handled cast-iron frying pan down on the mercenary captain’s head.
They all heard the crack; she hadn’t held back.
Dubois’s eyes rolled up, his hand went limp, and the pistol barrel dipped.
Quick as a flash, Isobel reached around him, swiped the pistol from his nerveless fingers, and eased back the hammer.
Dubois slumped into an ungainly heap at her feet.
Royd looked around the circle. All the women were now smiling broadly, clearly congratulating themselves on a job well done.
He drew a long, deep breath—filling his lungs and dispelling the constriction that had clamped like a vise around his chest. He glanced at his brothers; they were doing the same. He watched as, having apparently regained some semblance of control, they each walked to join their respective ladies.
He waited for a second longer, studying Isobel as, the frying pan dangling from one hand, the pistol in the other, she looked down at Dubois very much in the vein of him being some strange insect she thought to study before she obliterated him completely.
Royd approached her and smiled easily. “Thank you.” He reached for the pistol.
She glanced at him, let him take the pistol, then calmly replied, “It was entirely my pleasure. We all agreed you were taking too long to bring this”—with her chin, she indicated Dubois—“to an appropriate end.”
Royd thought about that, then murmured, “Not just an Amazon but an impatient Amazon.”
She grinned and looked around.
Royd looked, too. The fighting was over. The sounds of battle had been replaced by shuffles and grunts and quiet exchanges—the sounds of the living making sure of the dead.
Beside him, Isobel stirred. “Where’s Ross-Courtney?”
Her tone reminded Royd of her earlier declaration.
Sure enough, she went on, “I vowed I’d have his balls if he touched that girl, much less Katherine.”
Some might imagine she was speaking figuratively. He knew better. “You’ll have to rein in your ferocity—at least until Ross-Courtney and Neill give us the names of their fellow backers.” He glanced around, then met her dark eyes and her disaffected frown. “One thing I’m sure of is that the captives here—indeed, everyone involved—will want all those responsible to pay.”
She sniffed, but didn’t argue.
Instead, she slipped her hand into his, let him close his fingers firmly—tightly—about hers, and they walked side by side after the others to where their prisoners awaited them.