The man had made a grave mistake in choosing his victim, thought Charlotte, fear giving way to primal fury as she watched her home being violated. Her blood was up. Even if the miscreant tried to scamper away empty-handed, she didn’t intend to let him escape.
He turned his back and headed to the side table.
Charlotte seized the chance to slip inside the room and took cover behind one of the armchairs. Several moments passed andthen she heard a faint scrabbling, followed by the swoosh of wool. Venturing a quick look, she saw the intruder turn from the table and in one herky-jerky motion slip the majolica rooster inside his cloak and set off for the door.
Another step or two would bring him abreast of her hiding place—
The silence was suddenly shattered by a pelter of thumps and clanging steel as Raven charged in from the corridor brandishing one of Wrexford’s swords. Hawk was just behind him, trying manfully to keep his weapon from bumping along the floor.
“Oiy!” cried Raven, taking a swing as the intruder tried to dodge past him. The flat of the blade smacked the fellow’s leg, knocking him to the ground.
“No!” screamed Charlotte, springing to her feet and rushing to put herself between the boys and danger.
Agile as an eel, the intruder wriggled back just as Raven slapped out another strike. It struck only a glancing hit as, with a grunt, the man managed to dart around the sofa.
Hawk dropped his sword and, fists flailing, flew toward the other end of the sofa to cut him off.
“No!” cried Charlotte again. The boy was no match for a cornered man. She lunged to stop him, just as his older brother did the same. They collided and Raven’s sword clattered to the floor as they fell in a welter of tangled limbs.
Twisting free, she saw the intruder knock Hawk aside with a flying elbow and bolt for the door, the stolen bird still cradled in his cloak.
No, no, no!
The man was quick—but Raven was quicker. Slithering forward, he grabbed the sword and flung it like a spear, aiming low at the man’s feet and flapping cloak. The missile caught in the cloth and fell between his legs, once again sending him sprawling.
Raven was on him in a flash, fists punching at the hoodedhead. Not to be outdone, his brother flung himself on the man’s kicking legs and held on like a limpet.
Pushing the hair out of her eyes, Charlotte snatched up Hawk’s sword. “That’s enough!” she shouted, stepping up and placing the point just inches above the intruder’s throat. His head was turned to the side, the folds of fabric still hiding his face. “Get off him now and back away.”
The two boys reluctantly obeyed.
“Ye ought te let us chop him into mincemeat,” muttered Raven, rubbing at his knuckles.
“Oiy,” agreed his brother, who couldn’t resist giving a last little kick to the prisoner’s shins.
A muffled sound rumbled from within the wool.
“Gentlemen don’t strike an enemy once he’s surrendered.” Charlotte looked away to wag a chiding finger. “It’s not honorable.”
Taking advantage of the distraction, the intruder made one last grasp for escape. Rolling sideways, he popped to his feet. Freedom was just a scant few strides away.
She had no choice. Steel flashed as the weighty sword sliced through air and smacked a hard blow between his shoulder blades. The force of it staggered him. Charlotte struck again—a palpable hit that spun him around.
Half-crazed by a surge of battle lust, she dropped her weapon and seized him by the cloak. “Bloody bastard!” she cried, swinging him and slamming him up against the wall.
The rooster slipped free and fell to the floor.
Thecracksnapped Charlotte out of her daze. Shaking her head to clear away the last vestiges of madness, she looked down in dismay, just as Raven rushed in to help.
“Holy hell,” hissed the boy, staring at the shards. He crouched down and plucked a shaft of tightly bound papers from the broken pottery.
“Holy hell,” echoed Charlotte as her gaze flew from the papers back to her captive.
The hood had slipped during the struggle, revealing a pale face—now sporting a fast-purpling bruise on the tip of the chin—and a mass of tumbled wheaten curls.
“Merde,” said Octavia Merton, her shoulders slumping in resignation.
CHAPTER 17
