for his contact to show in the morning, when the cultists had almost certainly already followed them there, had been looming as his worst nightmare. “Thank you for waiting.”
“Well, of course.” St. Austell’s gaze shifted to Linnet. “Paignton and I are keen and eager to start our part in this adventure.” Then he arched a black brow at Logan. “But what happened to you?”
“The cult spotted me the instant I disembarked in Lisbon, so I had to take ship immediately, earlier than planned. Unfortunately, I was shipwrecked off Guernsey. More fortunately, I survived and made it to shore. This is Captain Trevission, captain of the
“And the cult now has even greater reason to want you”-St. Austell’s shrewd gaze flicked to Linnet-“both of you, dead?”
“Precisely.” It was a relief to work with quick-witted people, but from all he’d heard of the legendary Dalziel, Logan had expected his operatives to be top-notch.
“In that case, I suggest we repair to the carriage I have waiting to whisk us to Paignton Hall and safety.” St. Austell waved them toward the rear of the inn. “We can go out the back way. Here”-he took Linnet’s bag from Logan-“let me carry that.”
They went down a narrow corridor and out of the inn’s rear door. St. Austell led the way across a tiny yard and into the lane beyond. “This is the oldest part of town-it’s a maze of lanes too narrow for a carriage. Best if we keep silent until we’re through it. It’s not that far, and then we’ll be-”
The lane they’d been following opened into another yard; when St. Austell broke off and halted, Linnet peeked around him-and saw men in an odd mixture of Eastern and English clothes materializing out of the gloom. All wore black scarves wrapped around their heads.
All held naked blades in their hands.
She, Logan, and St. Austell had no real option but to stand and fight. Their only retreat was the narrow runnel at their back, and they’d never make it. But there were… she counted nine cultists. She hoped they weren’t the assassins Logan had mentioned.
St. Austell shifted to her right. A sliding hiss had her glancing his way. The edge of a saber like Logan’s glinted in the weak light; he held it in his right hand, hefted her bag in the other.
She felt Logan brush past, glanced the other way and saw him take up position on her left, likewise with saber drawn, his bag in his other hand.
Dragging in a breath, she took a step back and drew her cutlass from its sheath.
The unexpected movement, the appearance of a third defending blade, made every man- the two flanking her as well as their attackers-hesitate. She didn’t need to look to sense the swift exchange of glances that passed over her head between St. Austell, his black brows raised high, and Logan, who grimly nodded and refocused his attention on their attackers.
Slightly crouched, Linnet kept her gaze on their opponents as they spread across the small yard, cutting off any way forward. Suddenly realizing their vulnerability-the runnel at their back-she could only applaud when St. Austell stepped further to his right. She shifted smoothly, too, as did Logan, circling as one, enough to get their backs to solid wall.
Their attackers suddenly realized they’d lost a possible advantage. Savage whispers passed back and forth, then one raised his sword, yelled something incomprehensible, and rushed at St. Austell.
He held his ground until the last minute, then jerked Linnet’s bag into his attacker’s chest, neatly followed with his saber, and that was one attacker less.
Even before the first man fell, Logan had accounted for another with the same move, the same efficiency, but the other seven followed in a concerted wave.
Sabers flashing to Linnet’s right and left, Logan and St. Austell held them back-but just. From her position between the men, Linnet had hoped to have a chance to slip her blade in, but they each had three blades to counter, and that left one cultist to smile a ghastly smile and come directly for her.
She met his first strike, beat it back with one of her own, sensed his surprise that a woman could actually wield a blade. But that wouldn’t last; surprise wouldn’t save her.
She didn’t like to kill, but she’d been taught, schooled, and had learned her lessons in time of war, in the heat of battle. She’d learned to suppress everything but the instinct to survive, to forget about fighting fair and fight to live.
Fit and active though she was, most men were stronger than she. Plucking one of the knives from its sheath in the high top of one of her boots, she countered the cultist’s next strike with her sword, then tempted him to strike high. He did, and she met his sword with her own, held it high, stepped forward, and slid her knife between his ribs.
Stepping back, she let him fall, her attention immediately going to the cultist to her right, who, seeing his comrade fall, uttered a shriek and came at her.
She already had her other knife in her hand; all she needed to do was deflect his crazed thrust, step inside, and place her blade. The second cultist slumped on top of the first, creating a barrier. One glance to her right and she saw St. Austell drop one of his remaining opponents, leaving him fighting one on one. From what she’d already seen of his handiwork, he’d be finished shortly.
Unsurprisingly, the strongest and most able cultists had gone for Logan. She watched, picked her time, then pushed in and forced the one nearest her to shift his attack to her.
Logan quickly palmed his dirk and dropped the cultist on his left, then with two swift, powerful cuts, brought down the other who had stayed to parry with him.
Without hesitation, he swung his saber and ruthlessly cut across Linnet’s engagement-a dangerous undertaking, but not for her. The cultist who’d been jabbing at her, trying to find a way through her dogged defense, tried desperately to readjust to a stronger and taller opponent, but too late. He joined his fellows on the cold cobbles-just as St. Austell felled the last.
St. Austell held up his hand, enjoining silence. Breaths sawing, bloody blades in their hands, both Logan and Linnet crouched and retrieved their knives.
Then they heard the running footsteps coming from deep in the maze behind them. Without a word, Logan grabbed his bag, St. Austell grabbed Linnet’s, and the three of them ran.
Of necessity, St. Austell led the way. Linnet followed, Logan at her heels. She didn’t have breath to spare to even think as she pushed herself to keep up with the longer-legged men.
But St. Austell knew his way, and he’d spoken literally. They burst into a wider yet still minor street, and the carriage was there. St. Austell yanked open the door, held it while Linnet, then Logan, piled in, then he threw Linnet’s bag in and followed, sprawling on the opposite seat.
Even before the door swung smartly shut, the driver had flicked his reins. The carriage rumbled off-quickly, yet smoothly.
Panting, struggling to catch their breath, they all listened. When the carriage rumbled into one of the main squares, then on down a main street, they all drew in long breaths, righted themselves, Logan and Linnet on the seat facing forward, St. Austell and their bags on the other, and finally relaxed.
St. Austell bent and rummaged beneath the bench seat. Pulling out a rag, he reached for Linnet’s bloodied cutlass. “Allow me, captain ma’am.”
Linnet’s lips quirked wryly. She handed over her blade. “In the circumstances, after what we’ve just shared, I believe first names are in order. Perhaps we should redo the introductions. I’m Linnet Trevission of Mon Coeur, Guernsey, owner of Trevission Ships, also captain of the
“Also holder of an extant Letter of Marque,” Logan put in.
St. Austell looked suitably and sincerely impressed. “Yet another aspect of your quite astonishing talents. You’re also no mean wielder of a blade. I’m one of your two appointed guards.” He flourished a half bow. “Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel, at your service, but please call me Charles.” He handed Linnet’s cleaned blade back, beckoned for Logan’s.
Logan handed it over. “Logan Monteith, as I assume you’re aware ex-major with the Honorable East India Company. And you’re no mean wielder of a blade yourself. The Guards?”
