The Irresistible Rogue (Playful Brides #4)(82)

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.

The three men froze. They slowly turned to face her. The torch had fallen to the forest floor and caught a bit of brush on fire. The fire spread slowly but it was enough to illuminate the men’s actions. She had the benefit of the cover of night, however, since she remained in the shadows in front of them. But how long would it be before they realized she was just one person? They most likely still had pistols, too.

“Put up your hands,” she demanded in English.

“Oo ez et?” the ringleader asked in English. He squinted into the darkness.

“Hands up, first,” she replied in as gruff a voice as she could muster.

All three of them complied and Daphne nearly sighed with relief.

She stepped forward a bit more but ensured that she remained hidden in shadows. The ringleader squinted at her still.

A whizzing noise sounded above her head as something flew over it. Daphne’s eyes rounded. Her heartbeat shook in her chest. One of them had just thrown a knife at her. Its blade wiggled in the tree not three inches above her head. Her breathing sped.

“What are you doing?” one of the men asked, in Russian, speaking to whoever had thrown the knife.

“Apparently, he’s short,” another answered back in the same language. “That was our only knife.”

Daphne closed her eyes and internally breathed a sigh of relief. That knife had come entirely too close.

“How many of you are there?” the ringleader asked, in French this time.

“Four,” she answered with as much confidence as she could muster. “And we have pistols.”

“I don’t believe you,” came his reply.

She moved forward far enough to allow the pistol to enter the ring of firelight so that they could see it. She prayed they would believe that the others were just in the shadows.

“He’s lying,” one of them said in French.

“I’m not lying,” she answered back in the same language. “And I’m a crack shot.”

“He is lying,” one of them repeated, this time in Russian.

“I may be lying,” Daphne answered in Russian, raising her chin, “but which one of you wants to take that chance?”





CHAPTER FIFTY




An owl hooted in the velvety black night sky. The stars were out but the little light they provided barely filtered through the dense foliage of the forest. The scent of evergreen and leaves lingered in Daphne’s nose. She could barely hear over the sound of her own heartbeat. It throbbed in her ears, momentarily blocking out all other noise.

And then she heard them. Heavy footsteps thundering through the underbrush behind her. Thank heavens. She nearly sagged with relief. The sound surely heralded the return of her friends.

But how many and who?

What if only one of them had lived? What if Rafe was dead? What if the Frenchmen decided to call her bluff and run? Her breathing was fast and shallow. Her arm ached but she kept the heavy pistol trained on her enemies.

“Grey?” Rafe’s voice rang out.

She nearly sobbed with relief. Rafe was alive.

“I’m here,” she called.

Rafe’s footsteps changed direction and he came running. By the time he arrived she realized Grim and Salty were both with him. Thank heavens.

“Are you hurt?” she called.

“Salty’s been shot but he’s all right.”

Daphne took a deep breath. Her prayers had been answered. Thank God they were all alive. “I have something to show you.”

The footsteps halted as all three of her friends ran into the clearing. Their faces were black with soot. They stopped short when they saw Daphne and the Frenchmen. The Frenchmen stood by the small fire, their hands in the air. Salty and Grim immediately pointed their own pistols at them.

Daphne could see Rafe’s smile flash in the moonlight. “You caught them. All of them. You did it, Grey.”