Chapter Forty-nine

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Rafe led the way through the thick forest. Daphne was directly behind him, then Salty, then Grim. Rafe pushed branches out of the way and kicked at fallen tree limbs. They all remained silent, using hand signals and nods to communicate. The going was slow as Rafe breathed in the scent of the pine trees and summer flowers. God willing, Daphne would be safe if she remained at the edge of the forest once they arrived. He didn’t have time to keep an eye on her and arrest these men. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand and worrying about her would keep him from it. He could only pray that she’d listen to him for once. Damn stubborn woman.

The walk wasn’t long. They’d left their horses tied back at the campsite. It would make their group more nimble and much less conspicuous. As they trudged through the forest, Rafe’s head turned at any little sound, any twig snap, any birdcall. He was on edge, because of the mission and more so because of Daphne’s presence.

The smoke coming from the clearing stopped them. Rafe led them all to the edge of the tree line where they crouched down to watch the small house that sat nestled in the clearing.

“Between Calais and Paris,” he said. “The perfect spot for traitors and thieves.”

He crouched low and watched through the window. A fire inside the cabin illuminated the interior. One of the men stood in front of the window holding a mug and laughing. The Frenchmen appeared to be in the middle of a meal.

The laughing man turned and Rafe saw his face. He swallowed, hard.

Gabriel, they had called him. Rafe would never forget that name, or that face. It was the countenance of a man who had beaten and tortured him for months. The past came rushing toward him, kaleidoscoping time and making his vision tunnel.

Groans of pain rang in his ears. They were Donald’s, not his own. Donald Swift. The man had given his life. He’d been honorable till the end. He hadn’t given up a single secret. So they killed him. Then they focused their torture on Rafe. They knew he was the spy, the one who had the most information. They’d said Donald was nothing more than a useless aristocrat.

Rafe swallowed. Donald had been more than that. Much more. He was a brother, a son, and a friend. He had more nobility for what he’d endured than any title would ever be able to bestow.

Rafe narrowed his eyes on Gabriel through the window. These were the men who had stolen months of his life and killed the earl.

He was going to destroy them.

“On my count,” Rafe whispered, without removing his gaze from the house.

Salty and Grim nodded.

“Daphne,” Rafe warned in a voice that was low but commanding. “I needn’t remind you how important it is to follow orders during a mission. Stay here.”

“I will, Captain,” Daphne promised. At least she wasn’t going to argue with him at a time like this. Thank God.

“Three, two… one.” The three men all moved but remained crouched as they emerged from the bushes. They each took a different position. Rafe went straight for the front door of the cabin. Salty went to the left and Grim to the right.

***

Daphne watched from the tree line lying belly-first on the ground with her heart lodged in her throat. Her jaw was clamped so tight it ached. Soon the men were only shadows in the darkness. She would stay where Rafe asked her. If something went terribly wrong inside, she might be of more use out here. But only moments had gone by before she severely regretted her decision. It was much worse watching and waiting and not knowing what was happening.

Time seemed to not only slow but to stop entirely. Her knees ached and so did her chest from unconsciously holding her breath. The chirping of the bugs in the brush nearby and the sound of a few birds overhead, coupled with the thud of her own swallows, were the only noises. The cabin was a dark smudge in the distance and her three friends had long ago blurred into the large shadow.

Daphne mentally counted to one hundred.

She did it again, closing her eyes and praying for their safe return.

Moments later, shots rang out and Daphne’s heart plummeted into her boots. She bit the back of her shaking hand, then leaned up on her elbows frantically searching the darkness. Smoke began to billow from the back of the cabin and flames were soon shooting out, too. The house was on fire and all she could see were shadows fleeing the burning building. But which were Rafe and his team and which were the spies? Had Rafe been shot? Was he dead? Wounded? Did he need her?

A group of men headed straight for her position. It had to be Rafe’s team. How else would they know where she was? But until she knew for certain, she remained silent on her belly in the pine needles to remain out of sight.

“Did you hit him?” came a voice that was decidedly not one of Rafe’s men.

It took her a moment to realize the voice was speaking in Russian but with a French accent. Odd but they must have been speaking in that language in case Rafe and the others could hear. They knew the Englishmen would speak fluent French.

“I’m not sure. I think so,” came another voice. “I’m sure I hit one of them.”

“Damn English. We should have killed that bastard when we had the chance,” came a third voice.

They had all spoken in Russian. Daphne searched the darkness behind them. She didn’t see any more shadows. Were Rafe and his men dying in the fire? She had to go search, to look for them. Help. But if she moved now, the Frenchmen would surely see her.

She glanced at the pistol that lay in the grass not an inch in front of her face. Blast. She couldn’t shoot them. She was an awful shot, not to mention she only had one bullet. She shifted her leg and the knife moved against her ankle. She allowed a smile to spread across her face. She’d taken a knife from the ship and placed it in her boot, but when she’d looked through Rafe’s bag while he’d been out scouting, she’d replaced it with the one she preferred. The one she’d killed Billy with. She had a lot of experience with that knife. And she was glad for it now.

She clenched her fist, steeling her resolve. By God, one of these men had killed her brother and might have killed Rafe. She might be outnumbered. They might have pistols, too, but with the knife she could take at least one of them with her. She reached down into her boot and slowly drew the knife.

With the handle clutched in her shaky, clammy palm, she waited until the men had entered the tree line. She made out their shadows against the trees. One of them had a torch that must have been lit by a stick of wood in the cabin fire. There were four of them. Two on one side of her, two on the other. She said another brief prayer. It had been pure luck that they hadn’t stepped on her.

As quietly as she could, she turned and watched as they began their retreat into the forest. She moved up and crouched on her knees. She must act quickly. The torchbearer was the best target because she could see him most clearly. She waited for him to line up with a tree, to mark how quickly he was moving. Her breathing was rapid, shallow.

“For Donald,” she whispered just before she expertly flipped her knife through the air.

The sound of the knife colliding with flesh was a dull thump and the man doubled over with a scream. He fell to the ground in a heap and the other three men came rushing back to lean over him.

“Are you all right, Michel?” someone asked in Russian.

Michel’s voice was taut with pain. “I’ve been hit. They must be near. Run!”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Daphne barely recognized her own voice. She’d spoken in English and lowered her voice to sound like Grey again. She stood and made her way over the pine needles and fallen leaves toward the three men. The only pistol she had was trained on them, her hand shaking so badly she was thankful for the darkness.

The three men froze. They slowly turned to face her. The torch had fallen to the forest floor and caught a bit of brush on fire. The fire spread slowly but it was enough to illuminate the men’s actions. She had the benefit of the cover of night, however, since she remained in the shadows in front of them. But how long would it be before they realized she was just one person? They most likely still had pistols, too.

“Put up your hands,” she demanded in English.

“Oo ez et?” the ringleader asked in English. He squinted into the darkness.

“Hands up, first,” she replied in as gruff a voice as she could muster.

All three of them complied and Daphne nearly sighed with relief.

She stepped forward a bit more but ensured that she remained hidden in shadows. The ringleader squinted at her still.

A whizzing noise sounded above her head as something flew over it. Daphne’s eyes rounded. Her heartbeat shook in her chest. One of them had just thrown a knife at her. Its blade wiggled in the tree not three inches above her head. Her breathing sped.

“What are you doing?” one of the men asked, in Russian, speaking to whoever had thrown the knife.

“Apparently, he’s short,” another answered back in the same language. “That was our only knife.”

Daphne closed her eyes and internally breathed a sigh of relief. That knife had come entirely too close.

“How many of you are there?” the ringleader asked, in French this time.

“Four,” she answered with as much confidence as she could muster. “And we have pistols.”

“I don’t believe you,” came his reply.

She moved forward far enough to allow the pistol to enter the ring of firelight so that they could see it. She prayed they would believe that the others were just in the shadows.

“He’s lying,” one of them said in French.

“I’m not lying,” she answered back in the same language. “And I’m a crack shot.”

“He is lying,” one of them repeated, this time in Russian.

“I may be lying,” Daphne answered in Russian, raising her chin, “but which one of you wants to take that chance?”