by Liz Carlyle
“Fourteen, not counting Étienne,” said the captain. “Good hands, all—and happy to fight for the Fraternitas.”
“Thank you, Thibeaux,” said Geoff. “Clouds are gathering to the north. Perhaps the dark will work in our favor?”
“They cannot board what they cannot find,” said the captain. “We’ll light no lamps on deck tonight.”
At last Geoff smiled, though it was tight and a little weary, reminding Anaïs yet again that he had spent half the night and much of the day in the saddle, while she had had the luxury of drowsing, however uncomfortably, in a carriage.
“On the other hand,” Thibeaux belatedly added, “if they do find us, they could be upon us before we know it.”
Anaïs gave an inward sigh. Thibeaux was right. None of them, it seemed, would sleep this night. It would be far too dangerous. Somehow she tore her gaze from Geoff’s face and looked out across the water, but it was already too dark to see much beyond the occasional shimmer of the waves.
“Call all hands, Thibeaux,” Geoff ordered. “With swords and sidearms, please. Anaïs will go below and secure the aft cabin.”
Not for the first time, Thibeaux cut Anaïs a strange look, as if he did not understand why such duties were being assigned to a woman. She still wore her boots and breeches, a fine stroke of luck. She reached the hatch in a few strides, and more or less leapt down the ladder, something she never could have attempted in skirts.
Inside the cabin, Charlotte and Giselle were sleeping. Étienne was still there, unfolding blankets on the other two berths by the light of a single lantern. Anaïs summed him up; he looked quick and smart, and tall enough, too.
“Étienne, viens ici,” she whispered.
“Oui, madame?” The lad came at once.
Anaïs shifted her trouser leg, and tugged her small pistol from her boot. “Do you know how to use this?”
The lad nodded. Anaïs went over it anyway, showing him step by step. “Yes, madame,” he said in perfect English. “I can do eet.”
His round, solemn face looked up at her steadily, and Anaïs believed him. But they went over it again and again, just the same, until the cabin boy was looking up at her in mild exasperation.
“Excellent,” she said. “Now, Étienne, I’m going to go above and guard the aft hatch. A vessel is nearing—the smugglers, perhaps—but they will not cause us too much trouble, I do not think.”
The boy smiled bemusedly. “Non, madame,” he said. “Uncle has a brave crew. But you—pardon, madame, but you are a woman. Do you not wish me to guard the hatch?”
Ah, men were the same the world over, it seemed.
“I think I can manage,” she said, seizing one of the small chairs from the table. “Now, once I am gone, take this chair and wedge it tight beneath the doorknob. Do not remove it for anyone. Not unless you recognize the voice—me, Mr. MacLachlan, or one of the crew.”
“Oui, madame.” He nodded.
She bent, and tucked a finger beneath his chin. “Now, here is the hard part, Étienne,” she said. “If anyone tries to force the door, you must—”
“—shoot them,” said the boy.
“Before they open the door,” Anaïs stressed, showing him again the mechanism. “One barrel through the door as a warning shot. The second only if you must. And brace your back against the wall, or the recoil will knock you down and you won’t get another shot.”
“Oui, madame,” he said gravely. “Uncle has taught me. I can do eet.”
“I believe you can,” said Anaïs, going to their small pile of baggage.
She extracted Monsieur Michel’s counterpane, tucked it under one arm, and left, waiting only long enough to hear Étienne wedge the chair as instructed.
“Alors, madame,” he called through the door. “The water is very calm. Have you the seasickness yet?”
Anaïs froze, set her empty hand to her belly, and smiled. She felt . . . fine. Perfectly normal. And it had little to do with the stillness of the water, not if past experience was any guide. But there was no time to think of it just now.
“No, Étienne,” she said quietly. “Merci.”
Chapter 20
The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the enemy’s not coming, but on our own readiness to receive him.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
It had always seemed to Geoff that night fell with surprising swiftness when one was at sea. This one was no different. He watched up and down the deck as Thibeaux’s men slowly became one with the gloom, until at last he could make out no one save the fellow on his immediate right. Soon he, too, had vanished, and Geoff was in utter darkness with only the soft shush-shush of the sea and the creak of the rigging to bear him company.
He was just beginning to worry about Anaïs again when he felt her warmth at his side. “Here,” she said, her voice husky in the dark, “I brought you one of the épées.”
“Thanks.” Gingerly, he found the hilt and took it, then, having no scabbard, drove it into the wood of the deck.
“Good Lord but it’s dark,” she whispered. “Thank God you’re still here.”
His fingers were laced through the basket of the épée, still warm from her grip. “Aye, still here,” he rasped.
Still here—always here—if you will but have me.
But these were mere thoughts, not words to be said aloud, for it was neither the time nor the place.
On the other hand, they lived in an uncertain world. When would his time be? What was his place? In the universe? In her heart? Good God, he was so tired of waiting. And suddenly the doubts and questions rushed in on him. On a sudden, foolish impulse, he drew Anaïs to him and kissed her soundly in the pitch-black night.
She gave a small, breathless gasp, then opened beneath him, taking his kiss and returning it. And for one fleeting instant, all thought of their mission flew from his head, displaced by the desperate need to know.
The irony of this was not lost on him—not even as her hands slid over him, warm and caressing, and their tongues twined sinuously together—for in that moment of heated kisses and sudden despair, Geoff would have surrendered everything he owned, everything he was, merely to do what he’d always dreaded—to see into the future—their future.
It was Anaïs, however, who broke the kiss, her breath a little shallow as she let her hand skate down his chest, then lower still. “My heavens,” she murmured, brushing the ridge in his trousers seductively. “It’s true what they say. One never knows what dangerous creatures lurk in the dark.”
He jerked her back, lifting her hard against his swelling cock as he skimmed his mouth down her throat. “To hell with the dark,” he rasped. “I swear, Anaïs, when we are out of this, I’m going to make love to you in broad daylight—all day long—and you are going to let me, do you hear?”
“Umm,” she said, pushing a little away.
But he refused to let her go. “Say it, Anaïs,” he ordered. “Say you believe me. Say yes.”
She gave a faint laugh, dropped her hand, and stepped away. “I fear it will be a long night with a promise like that on my mind,” she whispered.
This time, he let her go though he was loath to do it. “Aye,” he gritted, “and longer still if Lezennes catches up with us. A case of unslaked lust will be the least of my problems, I daresay.”
He heard the soft catch in her throat. Felt her hesitation. “Will he?” she finally asked. “What is your sense?”
He knew what she asked. Knew what he had seen, though it had been just flashes of vision. It had been nothing. Nothing, and everything. The weight of it was still upon him.
“He is coming,” said Geoff. “I didn’t precisely see it . . . but I know it.”
“And it’s too dark now to see the hand in front of your face.”
“Thibeaux has the ship’s lanterns at the ready against the first suspicious bump or scrape,” he assured her.
“That should work well,” said Anaïs dryly, “since there’s nary a breath
of wind now to blow them out. What sort of boats did Le Tigre Doré carry?”
He thought on it a moment. “Just a little cutter,” he said. “About twenty feet.”
“Then they’ll likely come aside us in that,” she said, “coasting in the last bit so we don’t hear the oars. By the way, I laid a pair of smallswords and a rapier under a canvas by the aft hatch. A rapier isn’t ideal in close quarters, but—”
They both felt it then. The faintest shudder of the ship, as if it had bumped a wharf.
Or another smaller vessel.
Geoff took Anaïs by the shoulders. “Please, Anaïs, go below. Be safe.”
She tore away from his side, her footfalls rapid into the gloom. But he knew, even then, that she would not run. That she would stay and fight like a man—better than a man, perhaps.
He felt a second sound, a sort of scrape, and Thibeaux barked his order. Just as the first lantern sputtered to life, a grappling hook flew across the bulwark, then thunk! thunk! thunk! came another three. Everything happened at once then, men hurtling over the rail and onto the deck.
Thibeaux’s men were prepared with a volley of pistols. One smuggler screamed and clasped his shoulder, toppling back into the water. Geoff drew a bead on a dark, bearded fellow. He aimed for his leg as he threw it over the rail. The shot missed, but the spray of splintering wood caught the man full in the face. He fell to the deck, clutching his eye.
Men charged one another, boots thundering across the deck, blades slashing and glinting in the lantern light. But Thibeaux’s men had the best of it; all around them smugglers were staggering back, caught unawares by the sudden flaring of light.
Pistols were inaccurate and short-lived. Almost at once they were flung aside. Blades came out, metal clashing against metal. Caught in the thick of it, Geoff saw a flash of light. He dodged left just as a cutlass whizzed by his right ear.
“Alors, mon ami,” a gruff voice boomed. “We meet again!”
The Tigre’s captain. Sabot’s beefy, sunburned face grinned in the gloom.
Geoff feinted right then left, warding off his blows with Anaïs’s épée. “This is not your fight, Sabot,” he said, striking back with a flurry. “Go whilst you can.”
Sabot’s grin deepened. “Ah, but a man’s word is his bond.” He struck back, again and again, his blows heavy but effective.
Geoff’s blade circled Sabot’s. “Lezennes’ word is as good as a boot full of piss,” he said. “Take his money, and forget it.”
But Sabot just laughed, his rotten front teeth like black pits in the gloom. For a time, both of them struck and parried, heedless of chaos about them. Geoff tried not to think of Anaïs; he was of no use to her dead. Instead he drove Sabot back with a flurry of rapid blows, pushing him almost to the rail. Sabot began to grunt with his exertions but did not relent.
All around them, men were fighting. Two gave it up, and went over the side, but Sabot was undaunted. He laughed wickedly and swung a wild arc, the cutlass narrowly missing Geoff’s throat. “Ah, mon ami,” he rasped, “are you ready to die?”
“Only your men will die,” he gritted, driving the captain back again. “Lezennes lied, Sabot. He’s led you into a trap.”
Then Geoff saw his opening, and went for Sabot’s throat.
At that moment, however, Thibeaux’s master rigger drove one of the smugglers between them. Thrown off balance, Geoff raked the tip of the épée across Sabot’s windpipe. He drew blood, but not much. Sabot’s man was reeling, the poor devil tripping over his captain’s foot.
Too late, Sabot jerked back his cutlass, slicing the man across the shoulder. The sailor fell between them, bleeding. They eyed each other over the groaning body, both of them panting now. Then Geoff chose his moment and lunged, leaping over the wounded man, and driving Sabot back against the mizzen.
Sabot caught his blade and threw it off. Geoff feinted, then struck hard, catching the flat of Sabot’s blade. The cutlass flew from his hand, clattering to the deck. Geoff shoved him against the mast and set the blade to his bleeding throat.
“You have not gained the element of surprise here, Sabot,” he said, panting. “And you are outnumbered. Your men know it, even if you do not.”
And it was true. Moreover, they had no loyalty to Lezennes; one could see it in their faces, now pale in the wavering lantern light. Sabot cursed him, but Geoff could sense his uncertainty. He had been told, no doubt, that they could take the ship unawares, and snatch the child before any alarm was raised.
Now, however, there was a skirmish to Geoff’s left, just beyond his sight, otherwise the whole of the ship had fallen silent. “Order your men off, Sabot,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do it now!”
The captain hesitated but an instant. “Arrêt!” he shouted, his voice carrying across the deck. “Stop! We are done here!”
But Geoff did not remove his blade. Already men were vanishing over the side almost as quickly as they had come. “Lezennes is a greater scoundrel than the whole of your crew together,” he said. “I want the bastard, Sabot. Now.”
Sabot’s grin returned, his mouth turning up slowly. “Et voilà,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the hatch. “You may have him, mon ami—if there is anything left when the woman is finished.”
Only then did Geoff turn to see what the rest of the ship was already watching.
Anaïs had Lezennes backed up nearly to the forecastle, a smallsword in her left hand, her beloved rapier in her right. She met him blow for blow, parrying easily, using the smallsword for nothing save balance. Geoff started toward her, then checked himself, though it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.
But he would do nothing save throw off her balance and sight. And he simply was not needed. Already Lezennes’ expression was gritted, like that of a rabid dog; as if he did not believe his own eyes.
Time and again, he came at her madly, clashing his blade against hers. But Anaïs gave him only what distance she wished, retreating elegantly—almost mockingly—then executing a neat thrust to his throat or his flank, but never quite striking; moving always as it pleased her, playing him as a cat might a mouse.
“Stupide pétasse!” Lezennes cursed, thrusting furiously but unwisely.
Laughing, Anaïs caught the blow, circled his blade, and threw him off, very nearly throwing off his balance, too. The men had backed away. Space was no constraint to her long blade now. Behind him, Geoff could hear the last of Sabot’s men bumbling their way back down their ropes, retreating while they could.
Lezennes, however, would not be leaving any time soon. He had doubtless begun this battle of blades with great confidence. But he was going to finish in blood.
No man moved to help Anaïs, nor did Thibeaux order it. They seemed to know, as Geoff did, it would be wasted. Again and again, she played the vicomte out, then drove him back. Again he attacked, driving at her furiously. She parried and cleverly threw him off. Lezennes swung wild, catching a run of clew lines with the tip of his blade and slicing it through. Somewhere above a sail billowed, then dropped, swinging crookedly down behind him like the curtain in a cheap Punch and Judy show.
In response, Anaïs leaned in, pinking him neatly—and quite deliberately—in the temple.
Lezennes screamed with rage. His expression was wild now, blood trickling down his cheek. “You English bitch!” he bellowed again. “How dare you?”
“You’re done for, Lezennes,” she said calmly, driving him all the way back this time. “You meant to kill Charlotte—now I should like to kill you.”
Lezennes panicked then. He beat at her furiously, to no avail, retreating inch by inch, until at last he leapt onto a pile of folded canvas, and hitched up against the gunwale.
It was a fatal error. The wood caught him hard at the back of his legs. Lezennes’ arms wheeled, his face a mask of horror. His blade clattered to the deck as he made one last attempt to save himself. Too late. He toppled backward, and over the edge.
A moment of stillness fe
ll across the deck, followed by a loud splash.
Only then did Geoff realize he was almost shaking. Thibeaux’s men broke into cheers, one of them turning to shake Anaïs’s hand, but they were cut short. A great ba-boom! came from below, echoing ominously through the ship, as if something in the hold had exploded.
His heart still in his throat, Geoff leapt for the hatch, catching the lip on his hands, and swinging himself down. He dropped below and bolted toward the aft cabin, Anaïs on his heels.
On the other side of the mizzenmast, he drew up hard. The pockmarked man named Navarre lay spread-eagle in the narrow passage, covered in shards of wood, one leg twisted awkwardly beneath him. The cabin door had a hole the size of a cricket ball blown in it.
Anaïs leapt over the body. “Étienne!” she cried, reaching through the hole and shoving something aside. It hit with a clatter, and she threw open the door. Eyes wide, Étienne Thibeaux still stood with his back to the wall, holding the pistol.
He dropped it at once. “Bonjour, madame,” he said. “C’est fini.”
Geoff flicked his gaze up from the supine smuggler. Above, on the topmost berth, Charlotte cowered on her knees, Giselle thrust behind her as if to protect the child. She collapsed upon seeing Anaïs, one hand pressed to her heart. “Oh, thank God!” she cried. “Oh, thank God!”
Geoff knelt over the body and pressed two fingers pressed to Navarre’s throat. Étienne stepped gingerly over the body, his expression curious.
“Is he dead, monsieur?” asked the boy calmly.
“No,” said Geoff, feeling for a wound. “No, I think he just struck his head.”
“Oh,” Étienne’s small face fell. “Tant pis!”
Chapter 21
Bestow rewards not required by law; impose exceptional governmental orders. Direct the masses of the Three Armies as though commanding one man.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
The Reverend Mr. Sutherland was, above all, a man of faith. A strict traditionalist, he believed that the hand of God could be seen in many things that man was not destined to understand in this lifetime, and Sutherland placed the Fraternitas squarely into that category. That said, the good Preost believed strongly in the Brotherhood, and understood that one must occasionally sacrifice for the righteousness of its cause. And on those rare occasions when he found his personal tenets in conflict with his natural inclinations, it troubled him.
