The Huntress ✓

34. I See London, I See France

As Bronte and Sam rushed out the front door, they ran into a middle-aged man wearing a linen apron and carrying a large basket of baked goods. As they barreled past, the man nearly lost his balance and the pair turned and offered a hurried apology as they set him upright when he tottered with his load.

The sun warmed Bronte's back as they headed toward the shore. She stopped once to catch her breath and concern etched Sam's face as he watched her gasping.

"Are you all right?" Sam faced her and furrowed his brow.

"Fine," she said shortly and waved him off. "Let's go," she said and moved on.

As they neared the water, they looked out at a sloop anchored in the harbor, painted solid blue.

Together they shouted, "The Huntress!"

They paused to stare a moment at the discovery. Bronte had started to wheeze and leaned on a nearby barrel for support.

Sam looked toward the distant dock at a tall blond man that could only be Lucien. He pointed Lucien out and started toward him, stopping after a few steps when Bronte didn't follow. Sam turned back with concern.

"Go," she told him as she steadied her breathing. "Go get him. I'll wait here."

Sam studied her and then nodded as he trotted off to collect the doctor.

As soon as he disappeared, Bronte heard the rasp of a sword being drawn. She looked around carefully. The barrel she leaned on was one of a half-dozen scattered around the small yard of an empty-looking building. A number of other buildings on either side also seemed deserted, the occupants probably having gone home for midday tea. As she studied the shadows, a figure slinked out. A menacing sneer coved his pinched face and sunlight glinted off the sword he carried. Her sword.

Bronte stood upright and drew the rapier Sam had given her.

The figure slowly closed on her. Bronte couldn't hide her shock at seeing her own beautiful rapier in his hands, and, she realized, the boots she'd been wearing when she was captured on his feet. They'd been tight on her, but they seemed to fit him perfectly.

Bronte studied his face as he continued to sneer. Dirty-blond hair was tied back and one brown eye stared threateningly at her. He wore a kerchief over the other.

"You!" Bronte cried as she finally recognized him. "You're the one who was eavesdropping in Port Royal! You were the Frenchman aboard that blasted Dutch trader we captured!" she accused. "Clever, disguising such a telling feature," she observed, referring to the kerchief covering his mismatched eyes. "Who are you?"

"Lorrenz le Rousse, you meddling wench!" He snorted as he pulled the kerchief off, revealing the mismatched steely gray eye. It bore a few new marks now—deep scars only recently healed angled from his forehead to his temple, running right through his eyelid.

Bronte couldn't hide her disgust as she looked at it.

"Your studpeed cat attacked me een your cabin!" He spat hard with each c.

Bronte was only becoming more confused. "You ransacked my cabin? Why?"

"Ze book! I 'ave been trailing you all over ze cursed Caribbean! Zough, I do admit, I enjoyed torturing zat bootmaker for your whereabouts."

"He knew nothing of my whereabouts!"

"'E was telling ze truth? Ah, well...." He shrugged as if that was of no consequence as he advanced slowly, his boots making crackling sounds on the sand.

Bronte retreated at the same pace. She didn't want to fight him—she knew she wouldn't be at full form and was hoping Sam would return with Lucien.