Page 8 of To Love A Spy
Candlelight glinted off her glass lenses as Mrs. Merlin added a few more lines to her notes.
Good Lord, was that a telltale glitter of tears clinging to her lashes?
He glanced away for a moment. Duty and discipline were basic principles of the Academy’s code of honor. Emotion was left unspoken.
Perhaps the flicker was merely a quirk of the flames, for when she set down her pen and looked up, her eyes reflected naught but a steely composure. “Do try to make sure that one of those lives is your own, Thomas.”
“I will. I’ve no desire to stick my spoon in the wall just yet.”
“Well then, you had best be off.” The headmistress waved a curt dismissal.
His hand was on the door latch when she added, “Bonne chance, mon vieux.”
Lynsley turned. “Merci.”
“Hold her arms and lift up her skirts,” ordered O’Hanlon.
Valencia let herself go limp as Seagull dragged her to the ship’s rail.
“Ready fer some heat, sweeting.” The Flame waggled his hips as he set aside his knife and started to unbuckle the leather belt around his middle.
Steady, steady.
Ignoring the clammy touch of Seagull’s hand on her thigh, Valencia concentrated on gauging the roll of ship. Timing would be everything. She was a bit rusty in some of the maneuvers, but hopefully it wouldn’t throw her off too badly.
As the sea ebbed, she shifted her feet ever so slightly.
O’Hanlon’s pants were down around his knees—that would slow him up a step. Seagull began a leering laugh . . .
Rolling with the next wave, Valencia threw her weight into him. His grip loosened for an instant, allowing her to smash an elbow into his throat.
“Arrrgh!” He doubled over with a rasping gurgle.
Spinning around in the same whirlwind movement, she slammed a fist into his gut, dropping him to the deck.
Still fumbling with his pants, O’Hanlon snatched up a marlinspike from a pile of rope. “Why, you little bitch,” he snarled, refastening his front flap “I was going to leave you alive, but now you’ll not be fit for crab bait when I finish having my way with you.”
“Don’t bet on it,” she replied.
Steel winked in the sunlight as he jabbed out a series of slashes and feints. Valencia measured his movements as she managed to evade the weapon. He was quick as a snake, which came as no surprise. A man in his line of work would likely have a number of back alley tricks to try—she didn’t imagine that he was going to fight fair.
But neither was she.
Dropping back, she shuffled sideways.
A laugh, low and nasty, sounded. “I’ve got ye cornered, now.”
He was right—another step would bring her back up against the forecastle hatchway. With the tangle of rigging straight ahead, all angles of escape were cut off. There was nowhere to go but . . .
Glancing up, Valencia spotted one of the main shrouds snugged tight around a cleat. She leapt up, grabbed the rigging ax from its bracket and hacked through the rope in one fell swoop.
Whoomph! The furled sail and spars dropped like a stone. Catching the tail end of the rope as it whipped through the air, Valencia flew up in a blur of skirts. She swung across the deck, just out of reach of O’Hanlon’s slashing spike, and grabbed another line in midair. Tucking into a tight somersault, she landed lightly on deck behind him.
Bellowing with impotent rage, the smuggler whipped around and slashed yet again with his spike. He was a fraction too late—the steel cut harmlessly through the air.
Valencia timed her slide perfectly and countered with swift sidearm chop to his wrist.
A howl punctuated the crack of the snapping bone.
