Page 9 of To Love A Spy
Then he sunk to the deck not far from the fallen Seagull. The slap of the sea against the ship’s hull did not quite drown their mewling moans.
Valencia rubbed at her hand and winced.Damn.Along with yoga, Chinese martial arts had been part of her basic school training. But apparently she was out of practice.
If the angle wasn’t quite right on that blow, it hurt like hell.
Moving on, she ducked around to the ship’s wheel and drew the brace of pistols holstered by the mizzenmast. Once she tied up O’Hanlon, Seagull and the sleeping crew, she would make up a few gunpowder flares. The signal of smoke and sparks would soon bring help.Let Captain Taft of the Revenue Service decide what to do with the bilge rats.
“Don’t move,” she snapped at Seagull, who was just beginning to crawl to his knees. “Or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.” She cocked both hammers. “And in case you are wondering, I can shoot the wick off a candle at thirty paces.”
“Who the devilareyou?” groaned O’Hanlon.
“Me?” She shrugged. “Why, I’m just a simple tavern keeper.”
Captain Taft of the British Revenue Service cutterBulldogwhistled softly as he surveyed the trussed-up prisoners. “The Flame and his crew caught red-handed? I shall ask my superiors that you be given a medal. Maybe two.”
Valencia grinned. “You go ahead and take the credit. I’d much rather have the cargo of French brandy as my reward, if you don’t mind.”
Taft laughed. “You’ve certainly earned it. I think I can be convinced to turn a blind eye to its transfer.”
“Excellent. And in the spirit of comradely cooperation, you and your crew will drink for free tonight.”
“You may end up with the worst of the bargain, Mrs Kestrel . . .”
Given that widows were accorded more more freedom from the strictures of society than unmarried misses, Valencia had thought it wise to assume a conveniently dead husband when she chose to take up residence on the island. With the war raging on the Continent, nobody had ever thought to question her assertion.
“Considering the weather, we will not be sailing our usual patrols,” continued Taft. He chuckled, and then cleared his throat. “Er, might I ask inquire just how you came to best a gang of the roughest smugglers in these waters?”
“Actually, I’d rather you didn’t ask,” she replied.
His brows quirked up. “According to O’Hanlon’s account, he was not battling an innkeeper but a Death’s Head Hussar.”
“You know the Irish—they are wont to exaggerate.”
Taft gave a pointed look at the smuggler’s splinted arm and bruised face but tactfully dropped the subject. “My men will be taking the boat around to Maseline harbor now. May we offer you a ride?”
“Thank you, but no. Just give me a row to shore, if you please. I would rather walk back to town.”
The dingy dropped her on the strand. Valencia watched the sailors pull back to the smuggler’s cutter and climb aboard. The crack of canvas, loud as gunshots, rang out as the sails caught in the wind and the vessel headed for the opening between the rocks.
She turned, but found herself in no hurry to head for the steep path leading back up to the crest of the cliffs. Her gaze lingered on the freshening seas and the wheeling gulls. Their raucous cries and freewheeling antics drew a harried sigh from her lips.
How exhilarating it was to spread wings and fly.
Flexing her hands, Valencia was aware of the thrum in her blood. Her pulse was still racing from the excitement.
Admit it.She made a face. She missed the challenge, the thrill, the danger. It made her feel so . . . alive.
And that her spur-of-the-moment plan had succeeded gave her a measure of satisfaction.Pride?Perhaps. Though after all these years she should no longer feel she had anything to prove. Still, there were many a night when she lay awake brooding over a confrontation that had not gone so well.
Her last mission as a Merlin had been one of the few failures of her elite group.
Valencia kicked at a pebble. Had she made a fatal mistake that night? Or had her opponent simply been better than she was? Over and over she had relived the events in her head . . . the mists rising up from the harbor, the pungent smells of oakum and pine tar, the whisper of footsteps over the salt soaked jetty . . .
She had been quick with her knife. But not quick enough. Only the fortuitous arrival of a harbor foot patrol had kept the French agent from administering thecoup de grace.
Her superior had not blamed her for letting her target get away, though others were not so forgiving. She had heardwhispers that Whitehall was furious with the failure. But ultimately the question of blame became moot. Physical injury had made it impossible for her to continue in active service.
It was, for all involved, seen as a blessing in disguise—everyone saved face.
