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 decidedlynotone 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.
