Chapter Three
Joanna delivered a tankard of beer to Wolf’s table, then sat down, positioning herself on his lap. She shoved her fingers through his hair and nodded to the man seated across from him. Her traveling companion, one of the five messengers Wellington employed—code-named Green—rose and moved soundlessly away.
“I’m glad your injuries at Salamanca were not life-threatening,” she said.
He flexed his left shoulder where a bullet had grazed him. “You know I cannot be killed.”
“So you say.” She plucked his cigar out of his mouth and dropped it into his beer.
“I was going to drink that,” he groused.
“You’ve been activated again. The girl will slow you down.”
Wolf ignored Joanna and slanted his gaze across the crowded room. “Has word of Marmont’s defeat reached you?”
“Yes.” She leaned forward and placed her cheek against his to whisper in his ear. “Congratulations for a job well done.”
He nodded. “We intercepted Marmont’s plans but lost Colquhoun.”
“Is he dead?” she asked, nuzzling his neck. He suspected she was trying to hide her despair.
“No.” It would take more than Frenchies to kill Colquhoun Grant. The man wasn’t one of Wellington’s best spies without reason. He had a knack for moving freely about Paris without raising suspicion. Spanish priests and peasants alike held him in high regard. Colquhoun was legendary and thrived on danger. “Captured.”
“Will he talk?”
The question was ludicrous. “Colquhoun would never betray us.”
“What about Andrew and Cocks?” She tensed and pulled away to look at him. “They are never far from Wellington’s side.”
“Most likely defending Burgos by now,” he said, running his hand over her cheek, keeping up their byplay. “The plan was to lay siege to the capital with thirty-five thousand men, Andrew and Cocks among them.”
“Good.” Joanna nodded. “This news reassures me that Napoleon’s power is waning. I have news, as well,” she said. “Our lord is now a marquess.”
This he hadn’t heard, but the revelation was not surprising. Accolades were sure to pour in. Wellington’s prowess on the field at Salamanca had assured them the strategic victory they’d sought, solidifying the general’s success.
Wolf leaned back his head, offering her more of his neck as her sensual pretense continued. “King Joseph evacuated Madrid. Our engineers are building trenches around the Old Castile in Burgos. I hasten to add, the fight will be hard won. The weather isn’t cooperating, and Joseph left a garrison to defend the castile.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said, frowning.
Losses would be heavy on both sides. “What news from Hartland?” he asked.
“You must go to London, Captain.”
“London?” He raised his head and lowered his voice, pretending to enjoy her tempting curves.
Laughter fluctuated throughout the tavern. Pewter clanked, announcing that patrons were eating and drinking at their leisure, and chair legs scrapped across the floorboards.
“Yes.” Joanna arched and released a sensuous sigh. She was making a good show of it, but Wolf knew only Michael Devlin drove her wild. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“I’m only following your lead,” he said.
“Michael won’t be pleased,” she chided.
“I’d tell him to go to hell but he already lives there,” Wolf said. The Demon of Dublin’s Hell rarely left his lair, and Joanna wasn’t a typical female. She didn’t need permission to come and go at will. She was driven to serve a higher calling—Wellington and the Legion. “Any word on my brother?”
“No,” she said, pain etched on her face. “I know how much finding your brother means to you, but he will have to wait. Hart is in trouble.” She scooted back on his lap, cupped his chin, and locked her gaze with his. “Don’t focus on the past. It has no bearing on who you are now. The Earl of Hartland is your future, and he needs you.”
“Me?” He scoffed. “Are we speaking about the same man?”
She grinned. “The very one who forged your blades.”
Wolf glanced down at his forearms. The Spanish knives within his wrist guards folded in on ratchets, creating a menacing sound when they engaged. No greater steel could be found than that of a Muramusa blade. The Japanese said it hungered for blood. He owed the Earl of Hartland for modifying the weapons he’d brought back from Japan for his purposes, but nothing more. “As he continually reminds me,” Wolf said.
“You are not the only one.” She glanced around, licking her lips, and in keeping with her ploy, leaned back artfully in a throe of theatrical rapture.
Wolf had to hand it to Joanna. She was good at this. “So what does Hartland need me for?”
She rose, clinging to him, and whispered in his ear. “Someone is trying to kill a woman named Sarah Shipton.”
“And?” he asked, beginning to lose his patience.
“Hart’s taken her to Devon to keep her safe.”
Her words sloshed over him like ice water. “I should have known this was all about a woman.”
“The danger is real.” Joanna pulled back and looked him in the eyes, suddenly serious. “Have you ever heard of a chemical called phosgene?”
Wolf frowned. “No.” He’d never been good with science. He wound his fingers through Joanna’s hair, tiring of their banter. He’d put his life on the line for Wellington, and once again, he’d been denied what he fought for—a name, a direction, any clue that would lead to his brother. He cast a glance over his shoulder to reassure himself that his little captive still sat where he’d left her. Joanna’s partner, Green, was watching over the chit like a hawk. “Damn it, I’ll bite. What is phosgene?”
Joanna’s sigh drew his attention back to her. “A volatile gas that kills on contact.”
Wolf froze again. “Gas?” Was such a weapon even possible?
“What we are up against is like nothing we’ve ever faced before. We need everyone on this.” She moved gracefully off his lap. “That is all you’re going to get from me unless you pay, mon amour,” she said loudly, for the benefit of those nearby.
He grabbed her by the hand. “You know the boy isn’t who he claims to be. I cannot go to London until I discover the truth about his injuries and make sure he’s safe.”
“Take care, Captain.” She touched his cheek. “Do what you must, but see that it doesn’t take too long. Hart is in trouble. You owe him.”
“You and Wellington owe me,” he said. He dropped her hand, struggling to get his anger under control.
Joanna’s expression faltered. “Do not blame Wellington. It cannot be helped,” she said, her voice cracking ever so slightly.
“It’s a hot iron to the eyes.” He picked up his tankard and attempted to fish out his cigar, but the tobacco was ruined. Setting his mug back on the table, he pursed his lips. “When someone makes a promise, I expect it to be kept.” His gaze met Joanna’s. Her frown told him she remembered their agreement, as well as his promise to part ways with them if they didn’t deliver. “If it’s possible, I’ll be there. You have my word.”
While the captain and Jolie immersed themselves in pleasures of the flesh, Selina concentrated on getting out of the sticky situation in which she found herself. She refused to be tossed from one fire into the next. There had to be a way to avoid the gauntlet of violence that prevailed within the Wasp and escape her questionable fate.
A quick glance over her shoulder provided a clear glimpse of Robillard and Cuvier, who were preoccupied with several other men. There was no doubt in her mind the two fiends were strategizing a way to keep the captain’s cargo and get her back. The men were distracted, it was true, but they wouldn’t be for long. Selina had seen them in action, and she knew it would take a great measure of skill to maneuver past her abductors without being seen. But how could she manage it? The room was rife with tension.
Selina glanced around the tavern, her nerves frazzled. She needed to divert their attention somehow. She did not intend to be chained within these walls again, which is where she was headed if they succeeded in tricking the captain of the Sea Wolf.
Her mind worked quickly until the perfect solution was clear. “I need to relieve myself,” she told her guard.
The snaggle-toothed man snarled. “Not now.”
She stared at him, frowned, and shifted noticeably in her chair to press the issue, producing a moan of frustration no one could ignore. “If I don’t use the privy now, I’ll soil myself . . . again,” she added, humiliation washing over her.
The guard rolled his eyes and murmured something she couldn’t hear before saying, “Make it quick.”
He pushed his chair back and stood. The round table jostled on uneven legs, and several discarded pewter plates clanged together. Selina tried to anticipate what the man would do next as he loomed above her, grabbed her by the arm, and lifted her off her chair. He paused, probably to gauge the best route to take her through the snickering women and arguing, fist-fighting men. It wouldn’t be difficult, if this man was worth his salt.
Her senses soared to life at the prospect of being free at last. Selina’s heart thumped as she searched the crowd for the best way to get to the tavern entrance. Her first order of business, however, was to acquire a weapon.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Her heart sank into her belly as that wretched captain yanked her backward to his chest.
“Says he has to relieve himself, Capitaine,” her guard said.
“Is that so?” The captain’s expression was as flat and unreadable as stone, making her cringe. “If you want to be a man, you’ll have to learn to suffer minor inconveniences like needing to piss.”
“Minor inconveniences?” Her temper rose. He didn’t know half of what she’d been forced to endure! “You—”
“Quiet,” he said, silencing her as a commotion erupted near the front door. “Pissing will be the least of your worries if what I think is going to happen, happens.”
“What do you mean?” She followed his stare to the Wasp’s entrance where men gesticulated to Robillard to venture outdoors.
Had the cargo the captain bartered for her arrived? Relief sapped her strength, making her knees quake. But she could not collapse now. Soon they would be allowed to leave the tavern, and she would need every ounce of her strength to outwit the captain and escape into the streets.
His grip tightened as if he sensed the direction of her thoughts. He drew her close and whispered in her ear. “Corsairs are known for not upholding their end of a deal. If history repeats itself, you must trust me . . . with your life.”
“Trust you?” His words registered in her mind, depleting her hopes. Was she never going to be rid of him? She inhaled a deep breath and collected her thoughts, pretending to go along. “I am your prisoner.” For now. “You bought me, Capitaine. My life is yours.”
He frowned, grumbling under his breath as he turned her toward him and grabbed both her arms. “Are you blind?” He lowered his voice so that only she could hear him amid the melee escalating around them. “I bought you to save your life. Lives are meant to be shared, not owned.”
Her jaw dropped in surprise as men flooded into the tavern, their voices triumphant.
Robillard raised his voice. “Silence!” His command settled the crowd, the sea of men and women parting, giving him room to approach the captain. “Capitaine,” he said. “I am happy to relate to you that your crew followed your directions precisely. As agreed, your cargo—fifty boxes of figuerados—has arrived.”
The captain stiffened, and Robillard pressed on. “You’ve kept your end of the bargain, Capitaine. This calls for a celebration, no?”
“No time.” He squeezed Selina’s arm. A signal or a warning? “I have a schedule to keep.”
“Ah, but surely you have time for a drink. What is your hurry, eh? Come.” Robillard fanned his fingers. “Our negotiations have concluded successfully.”
Selina knocked the captain’s boot with her foot. Anyone would be cork-brained to agree to Robillard’s request. While the invitation appeared innocent on the surface, she’d witnessed Robillard’s trickery before. She knew what he was capable of.
Panic filled her, and her lungs seized, cutting off her breath. She wanted to run, knowing full well that within a matter of moments she’d be caught and thrown back in chains. And then her one and only shot at escape would be dead on the floor because of her.
She lowered her head so no one would see her mouth. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t listen to him.”
He said nothing but stared down Robillard with a tenacity that brokered on madness. “My crew is awaiting my return.”
“Oui,” Robillard said. He studied the two of them for several nerve-racking moments, then snapped his fingers. “And when you do not arrive, I am sure your men will pay handsomely for your safe return. Much more than fifty boxes of figuerados. Am I right, Capitaine?”
Dear Lord, sometimes she hated being right. Robillard had no intention of letting either of them leave. But whatever the captain chose to do, no matter what it entailed, she meant to follow. She could not help Owen chained to a wall.
Robillard raised his arms. “Saisissez-les!” Seize them!
Men withdrew their weapons, advancing on them from three sides. The captain backed them up to the bar, a paneled wall with windows behind them. Selina swallowed her fear. The enormity of the situation struck her. Acting as her protector, the captain pushed her behind the counter.
“What are you doing?” she asked, unable to mask the quiver in her voice. Did he intend fight the corsairs alone?
She needn’t have worried. The captain anchored his feet, threw out his arms, flicked something on his wrist guards, and bowed forward. Blades sprung from within his leather bracings, slicing the air with timely shrieks.
Several men approached, their mouths set at cocky angles. Undeterred, the captain roared like a berserker, twirling in a circle and slashing his armed fists at anyone who charged him. Several crazed but determined men decided to test his mettle and leaped forward. But the captain maneuvered his body with a flexibility she’d never witnessed before. He wielded his blades upward and down like an expert, knowing exactly which angle would inflict injury on his attackers. Astounding!
Selina’s respect for the captain grew with each feint and parry. Wisely, he used his coattails to fend off blows to his middle. Then, with unmatched lethal skill, part professional fencer and part savateur, he launched at his enemy, sweeping his leg around, kicking with the flat of his foot. His boot found its mark, causing damage to one of the two most vulnerable places on a man—the stomach. The force instantly felled his opponent.
By the saints, who was this captain of the Sea Wolf? His prowess was unmatched. He was outnumbered and yet managed to defy natural law. Part of her longed to observe his skill as she’d done with Owen, but logic argued against it. Their lives were at risk. She needed to do something to help the captain narrow the odds. But what? She had no weapons.
Any hopes she continued to entertain of rescuing Owen slowly began to fade until the barmaid, Jolie, appeared at the captain’s side as if out of nowhere. Her skirts swung about her legs as she jumped and kicked a man who lunged at her.
“Traitor,” the man spat.
“Liberator,” she corrected.
Jolie grabbed the man’s shoulders and brought her knee up to the complainer’s nose. He reeled backward and sank to the ground. Blocking another attack with her fist to her head, she spun and wheeled her boot through the air. A flash of silver caught Selina’s eyes as Jolie’s toe dug into the man’s groin. Vomit burst from the attacker’s mouth, sickening proof that Jolie had purred the man with an iron plate in the front of her boot.
Her respect for Jolie grew. It was obvious that she was accustomed to fighting, and she seemed to be on the captain’s side. Who was this woman? Clearly, she wasn’t an ordinary barmaid.
There was a momentary break in the fight, and Jolie retrieved several blades from braces strapped to her thighs. Selina cried out as a corsair launched toward Jolie, but she needn’t have worried for the woman’s safety. The captain blocked the man’s advance with his bare hands and butted his head against the man’s skull, giving Jolie time to rise and flick her daggers at several advancing men.
Every time two men were struck down, however, it seemed four more would take their place. Selina had never heard of anyone surviving these odds, and she’d seen deadly matches fought at the mines.
Jolie entered her line of vision again. She blocked someone headed toward Selina with her forearm, then swung around at an odd angle, outstretching her leg and kicking the man in the head. Her assailant dropped to the ground with a thud.
“We will not be able to hold off Robillard’s men long,” Jolie shouted to the captain. “There are too many of them.” She turned to Selina. “Prepare to defend yourself, ma chérie.”
Selina nodded, swallowing the bile rising in her throat. Blood—lots of it—splattered the captain and Jolie, and discolored the floorboards as bodies began to pile up between them and the exit. It was obvious that her two protectors were trained, skilled warriors. But what could she do? She’d never been forced to fight. She’d only practiced with Owen to become the opposite of what Papa wanted her to be.
Thinking fast, she inspected the bar where several items could serve as weapons: lanterns, pewter tankards, pitchers, bottles, serviceware, and plates. She cut a look at Jolie and the captain, who were fighting like fiends to protect themselves, and images of Owen no longer able to do the same flashed across her mind.
If I do not escape the Wasp, I will not be able to help my brother.
Determination fueled her, and she grabbed the mugs by their handles. One by one, she propelled them over the bar at their attackers’ heads, reliving the times she’d thrown knives and blunt instruments at targets created from hay. Her aim was true, taking down several men and forcing them to regain their bearings. The pause gave the captain and Jolie more time to recover.
“Stop the boy,” Robillard shouted, pointing toward the bar with murder in his eyes. “Kill them!”
Fear surged inside Selina like an unrelenting gale. Her life was just as much at stake as the captain’s and Jolie’s, if not more so. She reached for the pronged forks, aiming them at men’s torsos. Again and again, she threw the projectiles, embedding them in the men’s stomachs and eyes until there were no more to be had.
Her heart pounded against her ribs, defiance invigorating her efforts. If they failed, they would suffer cruelly at the hands of Cuvier and Robillard. Selina was determined not be shackled and treated like an animal again.
A hand slammed down on the counter mere inches away from her face, startling her. She stumbled back against the beer barrels, a spout gouging into her back. Thankfully, the rage coursing through her veins helped mask the pain. She reached for two bottles of rum and broke them against the counter, tightening her fingers around the necks and brandishing the jagged edges toward her attacker.
“Easy now, boy.” Twice her size, the pirate held the advantage, and he knew it. He grinned. “You’re worth money to us. We don’t want to hurt you.”
“Lies!” she shouted.
Selina dropped to her knees when the brigand lunged for her, just as she’d seen the captain and Jolie do. She crawled beneath the pirate’s legs to avoid his large, groping hands and stood up behind him, forcing the broken glass into the sides of his head. The man gasped and clawed wildly at his skull before slumping to the floor.
“Break the window,” the captain ordered, fending off a man with a sword, then sinking his blades into the man’s chest.
“How?” she asked.
He growled. “Use a chair.”
“They’re all broken!” she shouted as a knife flew past her head, sticking in the beer cask.
Selina retrieved the blade. Beer spewed out of the hole it left behind, creating a steady stream that leaked to the floor. She glanced up in time to see another attacker approach. This time, it was Cuvier, his eyes filled with feral rage. He was ready to pulverize her. But she was heated, too. Memories of the pain he’d inflicted upon her and other captives held sway.
She threw the dagger, but Cuvier deflected it with his hand. The blade sank deep, but the batârd merely pulled it out and swatted the knife away. Her fear mounting, Selina picked up a lantern. Light flickered before her face, the flame inside warning there would be no turning back if she threw it at the corsair. She did, hoping he’d burst into flames.
He merely sidestepped it. The lantern landed on the wet floorboards, and flames ignited as fire met the fermented brew, the flames shooting upward to the ceiling. Screams rent the air. Women who’d been standing by meekly began to scatter. Several men broke away from the captain and Jolie to smother the inferno, which only seemed to burn hotter as the flames nipped at broken, splintered wood and rose ever higher to the ceiling. Smoke thickened inside the tavern.
“Your tricks will soon be done,” Cuvier vowed.
She glanced at the still-intact window as she abandoned her perch behind the bar, spying two broken chair legs next to unmoving bodies on the ground. She knelt down and grabbed them. Owen had taught her how to combat an assailant with a parasol and a cane, and this was hardly any different. If she calmed her mind—and was quick and smart—she could stop Cuvier.
Selina didn’t have long to plan her attack. Cuvier was there, arching a sword high to swipe a deadly blow against her torso.
Keep your wrists supple. Shoulders square. Hips balanced. Head erect. Draw your chin in. Fix your eyes on your adversary.
She turned her body at a angle, pointing her right shoulder at Cuvier to protect her torso. She raised the fragmented chair pieces, crossing the wood to repel his attack. She’d spent a lot of time watching Cuvier fight weaker men. He was lazy and predictable, and she thanked God she’d had time to study him during her captivity.
He surged forward to overwhelm her with his size. She hit his hand with the wooden chair leg to disarm him and then spun around to the left, reclaiming her former position. The sword dropped, but Cuvier’s momentum took him toward the window. She raised her leg and gave his back a great kick, shoving him headfirst through the glass.
Cuvier clawed at air, screaming as the glass broke beneath his weight, impaling him, and he disappeared out the window.
“Follow him,” Jolie ordered. “We will be right behind you.”
Selina’s chest swelled. She sucked in air, fighting back her elation. The moment she’d been waiting for had arrived. She was free! She stepped on the sill and glanced back over her shoulder for one last look at the man who’d risked his life to purchase her. He crouched, lunged, swiped his deadly arms, kicked a man’s leg out from under him, and planted one of his blades in another. He was the greatest fighter she’d ever seen and probably ever would see again.
Regret pierced her gut. What would happen to him and Jolie?
She shook her head. Why did she care? Emotions were merely fleeting things. She was free!
As the question faded from her thoughts, Selina climbed over the sill. There, Cuvier lay bleeding to death on the ground below her. She felt no sympathy for the batârd as she vaulted out the window and hit the ground running, fleeing into the street.