Lord of the Privateers

by Stephanie Laurens

  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 chuck
led—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.

  CHAPTER 12

  Ross-Courtney and Neill refused to name the other backers.

  Indeed, they stubbornly refused to admit that they had been at fault in any way whatsoever.

  After parting from Isobel, who left with Katherine to help bring the children back to their beds, Royd joined Robert, and they approached their prisoners. Realizing Royd was the senior commander on the scene, Ross-Courtney barely waited for them to halt before launching into a tale of how he and Neill had been kidnapped by the mercenaries, presumably to be
held for ransom, and despite the testimony of all the other captives, he, Neill, and Satterly, and for all Ross-Courtney knew, Muldoon and Winton as well, were entirely innocent of any wrongdoing.

  Ross-Courtney pompously proclaimed, “We are victims here!” He glowered at Robert, but then his expression turned superciliously superior. “I daresay I might be prevailed on to overlook your brother’s unwarranted behavior—no doubt he was carried away by the heat of battle.”

  Royd looked at Robert. “I can’t recall the last time I saw you carried away by the heat of battle.”

  Robert arched his brows. “Perhaps when I was nine and we staged that pitched battle with the Daweses on the docks.”

  His face turning a virulent red, Ross-Courtney glared. “See here!” He fought against his bonds. “This is an outrage! I’m a Gentleman of the King’s Bedchamber. I demand—”

  “Now, now, Lord Peter.” Edwina halted on her way to the medical hut. “If you keep that up, you’ll give yourself an apoplexy, and you’ll never see London again.”

  Ross-Courtney goggled at her. He stared, his mouth opened and shut, then he croaked, “Lady Edwina?”

  Edwina smiled brilliantly, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “How sweet of you to remember—I’m Lady Edwina Frobisher now.” She paused, then artlessly suggested, “If you would furnish us with the names of your fellow backers, I’m sure the Captains Frobisher could be prevailed on to allow you to be made more comfortable.” She arched a brow and waited.

  Ross-Courtney blinked. He hesitated too long to leave any credence in his eventual blustering, “Backers? I have no idea what you mean.” Lips compressing, he struggled against his bonds again.

  Edwina sighed. “Very well. Have it your way.” She started to move off, then paused to say, “Oh—and in case you’re imagining that your guilt, and that of your colleagues here, will rest solely on the testimony of the captives who were held in this compound, I assure you that will not be the case.” She didn’t declare her intention to bear witness against them, yet her implication was clear. And with that, she swanned off.

  Although Robert and Royd asked again, in several ways, Ross-Courtney and Neill, and the other three as well, refused to say anything more—or, at least, anything Royd was interested in hearing.