“We will not fail,” he said firmly.
His confidence cheered her somewhat, and she forced herself to be more optimistic of their chances of securing passage to Leaudor. Her mind quickly focused on what would happen after she returned home.
Tendrils of dread clenched at her heart. First and foremost, she would have to travel into the cliffs to retrieve the relics before Jacques got to them. He had probably already been scouring the caves in hopes of happening across the treasure.
And then, whether she was successful in recovering them or not, she would have to face the man who murdered her family. She had no desire to be drawn into a lengthy trial presided over by the monks ofSacre Foi. Jacques would be either be condemned to death or be exiled from the island. Either way she would feel cheated. She wanted to confront the bastard herself.
Her fists clenched tighter around the reins until her knuckles shone white. She would have her revenge even if she died trying. Nothing else mattered to her. It was as important as assuming the rule of her nation.
Her mother’s loving face appeared before her as if she indeed stood right in front of her in the flesh. Isabella blinked back the tears and imagined her mother wiping them gently away with her hand.
“I won’t let your death go unpunished, Mother,” she whispered.
“Did you say something?” Merrick asked, yanking her from her reverie.
She glanced over at him, swallowing back the tears and offering a bright smile. “No.”
“Look, Charlie, we ‘ave company,” an unfamiliar voice called out, startling both Isabella and Merrick.
As they approached a clearing, they saw two ragged looking men sitting around a small fire. Merrick flashed a warning to her with his eyes, and she nodded in understanding. They would not stop here.
Merrick nodded at the two men and guided his horse to the side, Isabella following suit.
“Ho now, that’s not very friendly of ye,” the second man spoke up, flashing a toothless smile. “Why don’t you stop and sit a spell?”
“Yes, why don’t you?” a third voice said very close to them.
Isabella turned to see a man step out of the shadow of the trees, a pistol in his hand. Pointed directly at Merrick.
The man was only slightly better dressed than the two by the fire, but his gaze was more menacing. He waved the pistol, gesturing for them to dismount.
Merrick slid from his horse but kept a tight hold on the reins. She slowly dismounted beside him and glanced warily at the threat before them.
“What do you want?” Merrick growled. “We’d like to be on our way.”
Isabella marveled at the change in his voice. Gone were the aristocratic tones. He had adopted a flatter accent that was easily identifiable as more common.
She glanced hurriedly around, trying to determine whether or not there were any more surprises lurking about. The two men had risen from their squat positions by the fire and now ambled over to join their compatriot who brandished the gun.
They weren’t overly large men. Surely she and Merrick could ward them off with minimal difficulty. The gun posed an unwanted complication, however.
“Throw your bag over here,” the man with the gun snarled at Merrick.
Merrick reached up and slowly untied the sack from the saddle. Then he tossed it toward the man where it landed in a heap at his feet. The man gestured to one of his accomplices to retrieve it.
The man sidled over to Isabella and slid the pistol up her arm and over her shoulder to her back as he walked around her.
“Wot’s a nice looking woman like yourself doing dressed like a boy?” he asked with a snicker.
Isabella remained silent, refusing to look at him.
“She ain’t got no valuables on her,” one of the other men called out. “That’s plain to see.”
The men laughed uproariously.
The man with the pistol turned his attention to Merrick. “And you? Wot ye ‘ave on ye?”
“Nothing that would interest you,” Merrick ground out.
