While one man unloaded the cart,Simonaddressedthe otherFrenchman, and he didn’t sound too happy about it. “I told you, she got away.”
“Bested by a woman,” the other mansaid with achuckle. “No wonder you English are losing this war.”Thenhe sobered. “Francois will not like to hear of your failure,LordWistenberry. You have an unpaid debt that has gone on for far too long.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Simonsnarledin return.
He stomped off,the sounds of the two menfollowing close behind.
It wasn’t until they were gone that Isabella released the breath she’d been holding.Now that sheknewSimon washere, she’d have to beeven morecareful. As if a compound full of Frenchmen wasn’t alarming enough, but what other choice did she have? Ithad beeneither arrive under capturefrom the man on the ship, or on her own.
When it appeared that the cart wouldn’t bemovedimmediately, Isabella saw her opportunity, so she rolled out from under her confines,and after a quick glance around, shestood andsprinted for the side of the building before her. Once she was there, she closed her eyes to gain her bearings, and then opened them to get a better look at her surroundings.
Her mouth fell open.
This ‘Smuggler’s City’ was unlike anything else she’d ever seen before. Here she saw men of various rank and country walking together as if they weren’t in the midst of a bloody war. Barrels and various-sized crates,and even a few weapons were being hauled around by sailors and pirates while scraggly men who she couldimaginewere prisoners of war moved around cloth tents behind a high fence enclosure.
It was the most frightening thing she’d everwitnessed.
And Ridge was right in the midst of it.
Dear God, how were they going to get out of here unscathed?
Isabella was so focused on what lay in front of herthat she failed topay heed to what might bebehindher.
The scuff of a boot caught her attention and she spun around to face a tall man with reddish brown hairsticking out of the edges of a worn cap,and the most unusual goldeneyes she’d ever seen.
She had never yearned for a pistol in her entire life, or at least a knife, but since she had neither, she thought of Ridge and faced her opponent with a determined expression. He wasn’t wearing a French uniform, so perhaps she wasn’tyetfacing her demise. Either way, she lifted her hands and clenched them in a threatening manner. She had no idea how to fight, but she’d spied her brother in this very stance when he’d returned from a bout of fisticuffs at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salonand demonstrated his prowess in the ring.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
His mouth kicked up at the corner. “Funny. I was about to ask you the same question.”
Relief flooded her when she detected a British accent, but after her experience with Simon and the turncoatcrewman, she wasn’t taking any more chances. She lifted her chin and tried to appear more sinister. “I’m not someone to be trifled with.”
He lifted a brow. “I can see that,” he murmured. “I was just curious why a Britishfemale, of obviously good breeding,might bewandering about such a place…”He scratched his jaw where there was a decided amount of stubble. “Your presence here is a bit of a…curiosity.”
She hesitated. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Ah.” He nodded his head. “In that case, if you were hoping for a swift recovery effort, you might have chosen to at least wear some shoes.”He glanced down at her bare feet.
Isabella was losing patience. “Let’s just say it hasn’t been a very good day so far, and since I don’t have the time to have this discussion with you, perhaps you might be useful and direct me to where a prisoner exchange might be conducted.”
He looked her up and down. “I’m afraid you’re not going to get far like that,” he murmured.
“What I do is of no concern to you. I—”.
The man’s eyes shifted to a point past her shoulder. In a single smooth movement, he withdrew a knife from the back of his trousersand with a flick of his wrist, it sailed through the air with a particular skill. Stunned by the display, Isabellaputout a hand out to steady herselfagainst the building,fearing she might faint.
Gasping for breath,she whirled around, her eyes widening in horror when shesaw theFrenchsoldierincampaigndress,lyingstill on the ground, the knife protruding from hisneckas a river of crimson blood began to stain the ground.
“You killed him!”
The stranger didn’t even look at her as he walked past.“It was either him—or us.” He dragged thesoldieraround the back of the building and withdrew the weapon, which came free with a stomach-sickening sucking sound. Hewiped it on the grass, and then tucked it back out of sight.
She was aghast as he beganremoving the man’sgray woolovercoat,blackhat, and boots. “What are youdoing? Do you not have a care for his dignity at least?”
As he tossed the items to her, he said evenly, “They’re for you.” He rose to his feet. “You need more of a disguise than what you’re wearing if you wish to make it out of here alive.”
Reluctantly, she donned theitemsonce the logic of his words pierced her stunned brain. Shetuckedher braid beneath the hatand he eyed her critically. “Not a bad fit. You should thank God that most Frenchmen aren’t known for their height.”
While she was still skeptical ofhis ulterior motives, she had to admit that he had saved her from a bad situation. “Who are you?”
Heshot her a wink. “You can call me Pierce.”
