Her heart squeezed. “Can we shoot them from up here?”
Iefan shook his head. “We’d have to lean too far forward to get a clear shot. It would make us easy targets. If Rashid is as good a strategist as I think he is, he’ll have a marksman watching this roof, waiting for me to do just that.” He added bitterly, “He has anticipated everything else I have done.”
“We simply wait for them to burst through the roof?”
He held out the rifle toward her. “We keep firing, until we run out of shells. They may yet tire of this game.”
“When they think there is a vault somewhere filled with gold?” Mairin asked doubtfully. She pushed the other, loaded rifle into his hand and took the first. Only, Iefan didn’t let that one go.
She met his eyes.
“Don’t give up,” he said. “The impossible has happened before now. I can vouch for that personally.”
Mairin swallowed. Her throat was dry and clicked. She made herself nod.
Iefan smiled. His eyes danced a little. “You must admit,” he said, as he winced and eased his good foot beneath him once more, “that I provide spectacular adventures.”
Mairin took a few breaths. Her pulse was running too hard. Too fast. “Wonderful adventures,” she told him. “The best I’ve ever had.”
Iefan sighted, aiming for farther out, somewhere in the souk area, she guessed by the angle of the rifle.
The building shuddered again and again. He didn’t seem to notice. His entire focus was upon his target. He fired and held the rifle toward her. She took it and handed him the other and reloaded, trying to ignore the shaking of the building.
Something rumbled beneath her, heavier and bigger than the thundering of rams against the front doors. The rumbling grew louder and became a roar. Dust rose all around the building, momentarily hiding their view.
Mairin gasped.
Iefan lowered himself back down to the roof, his back to the parapet. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
“What was that?” Mairin asked him. “What happened?”
“They blew up the tunnels, so the Berbers could not enter them,” Iefan said. He opened his eyes and looked at her. In the strong sunlight, his thick mass of black hair still gleamed, vital and strong. His jaw rippled.
He took the rifle out of her hands and put it aside. He picked up her hand. “Why did you come looking for me?”
Mairin stared at him, her heart pounding. “What?” she asked, feeling disoriented and ignorant. It had been a long while since she had failed to understand what was happening.
Iefan stroked her hand. “You may as well tell me, now,” he said gently. “There is nothing left for either of us to lose.”
Numb calmness spread through her as she realized what he meant. There was no escape. The tunnels to the forts had been blocked and the Berbers had broken into the building beneath them.
They would not leave this roof. Not alive.
Her eyes ached and prickled. “Oh, Iefan…”
His gaze met hers. The calm in his eyes helped steady her.
“Tell me,” he said softly. “I must know.”
Mairin wondered if she could speak the truth aloud. Only, she had spent the entire season learning how much smaller problems became when one spoke the truth.
“Gascony kissed me,” she told Iefan. “It left me indifferent, while yours…” She blinked, trying to hold back the tears. “When I discovered you had left England, it…it made me see what I should have known for weeks before that.”
Iefan’s chest rose and fell. “See what?”
“That I love you,” she whispered. “It’s why I came to find you. I wanted to see if there was any hope, if you might…love me, too.”
Iefan pulled her into his arms with a groan and kissed her. Mairin clung to him and let her tears fall. She let herself enjoy being with him. He was a firm cushion beneath her. His arms were strong.
The ramming against the roof door shot silvery bolts of alarm through her. Mairin tore herself away from Iefan to turn and look at the bleached door, her heart trying to climb from her chest.
The door shivered.
Mairin bounded to her feet, instinct driving her. She ran for the door, which splintered and shuddered open.
“Mairin, no!” Iefan cried.
Rashid leapt out of the opening with a roar of delight. He had a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other. Mairin whipped her knife out and threw herself at him with such speed and force he staggered backward as her weight cannoned into him.
She lifted the knife high and rammed it into his chest, hilt-deep.
Rashad looked down at the knife and laughed. He dropped the sword and gripped her throat and squeezed.
Mairin struggled for breath. Black spots danced in her vision. Her head throbbed. She scratched uselessly at Rashid’s hand.
“Let her go, Rashad,” Iefan said, his tone calm.
Rashid gave another bellow of laughter and tossed her. Mairin skidded on the pebble strewn roof, the last of her breath pushed out of her, making her wheeze. She rolled onto her back and sat up, her heart thundering.
Rashid stalked toward Iefan. Iefan raised a rifle and pointed it at the prince.
“It isn’t loaded, or you would have shot by now,” Rashid said, and raised his own pistol. “Mine is, though.”
Mairin reached behind her and withdrew her pistol from the inner folds of her sash and cocked it. “My pistol is loaded, too,” she told him.
Rashid spun to face her. She watched his eyes move to line up with her muzzle and fired. Instantly, a black round spot appeared between his eyes. He stared at her sightlessly, as the black spot turned red.
He toppled backward, to land with the solidness of a tree.
“Here! Quickly!” Iefan said. Mairin heard the click of a lock settling against a breech.
She looked up in time to get her hand up to catch the rifle Iefan threw to her. He pointed to the stair opening.
A Berber was peering cautiously around, his head above the opening.
Mairin flipped the rifle and fired and he dropped from sight with a hoarse cry. She threw the rifle back at Iefan and he tossed the other one. She caught it and moved toward the stairs, holding it ready to fire.
Another Berber ducked out of sight, gibbering in his native tongue. Warning the others.
No one else appeared on the stairs. Mairin stayed where she was, anyway, the rifle trained on them.
As soon as she saw a boot rest upon the lowest step she could see, she put a bullet through it. She tossed the rifle back to Iefan, caught the other and brought it to bear.
Screaming sounded and lots of babbling, although no one else tried the stairs.
A deep, low and distant boom sounded. A high whistling sound. The building beside the Legion office disintegrated, throwing up a cloud of rock, debris, dust and wood fragments.
Mairin staggered back, shocked.
“That was a cannon!” Iefan cried. He lurched onto his foot and gripped the edge of the parapet and peered out.
Another low booming sound, the same whistle and the building on the other side of the Legion office collapsed with a thunderous shudder, sending up another billowing, roiling cloud.
The Berbers in the square shouted, their voices high with alarm. The men in the corridor below Mairin were also shouting at each other, panic sounding in their voices.
Mairin looked out across the square, into the harbor. Riding on the water, at full and magnificent sail, was a clipper with clean lines and green trim. “It’s the Natasha Marie!” she cried.
She crouched and sighted into the corridor at the foot of the stairs and fired the rifle. There was no reaction. The Berbers had fled already.
Mairin hurried to where Iefan leaned against the parapet, propped the rifle beside him and untied her sash.
“What are you doing?”
“Catching their attention,” she said. She waved the bright sash over her head in long arcs.
> Iefan turned to study the ship once more, watching the anchor run out and the sails come down. “The family to the rescue…” he murmured. He blew out a breath, closed his eyes and let his head hang.
A gun shot, close by. “That isn’t a rifle,” Mairin said, peering down at the Berbers milling uncertainly in the square.
Another pistol cracked. A Berber clutched at his chest and slid off his horse.
Then another.
Iefan gripped her arm. “The dock!” he said, his fingers tightening.
She looked at the edge of the wharf. Climbing over the edge of it, drawing themselves up from what must be a rowboat, were several familiar figures, all of them holding a pair of pistols each.
“Cian. Daniel,” she whispered.
“That’s Jasper in front,” Iefan said.
“Jack and Peter,” Mairin breathed.
“Ben and…is that Dane?” Iefan asked, astonishment coloring his voice.
Mairin spotted Dane running across the wharf, looking far more comfortable than a duke should, carrying two pistols and a sword strapped to his hip. He was in shirtsleeves. Mairin couldn’t remember ever seeing him without a collar and cuffs.
The figure beside him, when she recognized him, stole her breath. “Raymond!” she gasped.
The eight men spread out across the wharf, drilling into the massed Berbers with steady, careful shooting. One cried out, reeling backward, his hands to his face.
“Daniel!” Mairin breathed, clutching the parapet.
A volley of rifle fire sounded from the fort, the bullets driving into the Berbers’ rear, as if they objected to Daniel’s wounding.
Iefan picked up the only rifle still loaded and chose a target—the man many of the Berbers were shouting at. The one in charge, now Rashid was gone, Mairin guessed.
Iefan swayed and fought to remain balanced on his foot. He took a slow breath and fired.
The man jerked backward with a strangled cry and disappeared among his riders. At the same time, the Natasha Marie’s cannon boomed once more. It could not fire directly at Jasper and the men he was leading. Instead, whoever was controlling it aimed at a building on the east side of the square.
It was the last straw for the Berbers. Assaulted on four sides, they broke. Laying across their horses, whipping them into a gallop, the remaining Berbers wheeled and raced from the square, pouring through the spaces between the remaining buildings. Quickly, the square emptied of everything but dead bodies and eight men of the Great Family.
Jasper peered up at the roof, scanning it.
Mairin waved again.
He waved back, then gripped Raymond’s arm and pointed.
Raymond looked up, too. His pistols lowered.
“They’ve seen us,” Mairin whispered, lowering the sash.
Iefan dropped back to the roof with a heavy gasp. “Thank god.”
Mairin crouched beside him. “We made it,” she whispered.
“The impossible happened.” He closed his eyes. “Again.”
Mairin settled on the roof next to him, listening to her heart slow and her breath grow even. With slow movements, she wound the sash back around her middle.
When running steps sounded on the wooden stairs beneath the splintered door, she scrambled to her feet, snatched up Iefan’s knife and moved toward the door warily.
Raymond burst through the opening, almost staggering onto the roof.
Mairin dropped the knife. He swept her up into a hard embrace. She could feel him trembling.
“You came!” she whispered.
Behind him, Jack and Peter and Cian followed.
Raymond pushed her away so he could see her face. “Did you really think we would not?”
Mairin dropped her gaze. “I have had less faith in the family than it deserves,” she said diffidently. “I was wrong.”
Raymond gave her a little shake. “Yes, you are. So very wrong. Both of you.” His gaze shifted over her shoulder. “Hello, Iefan.”
“Welcome to Oran, Raymond,” Iefan replied. “I don’t suppose I could impose upon you for a ride back to England? Mairin and I have just become the most wanted people in North Africa.”
Raymond gave a gruff laugh.
Iefan closed his eyes and slumped.
Chapter Twenty-One
Iefan didn’t open his eyes again until the Natasha Marie rounded the big rock of Gibraltar, moving west under full sail. Mairin knew because she had barely looked away from him since Cian and Jasper and the others put together a makeshift stretcher on the roof beside Iefan’s still body.
They had used sheets and timbers scavenged from the smoking rubble on either side of the Legion headquarters to build the stretcher. They had made second for Daniel.
Delacroix and his men had returned to Oran by then and Mairin introduced the major to Raymond and the others. Raymond’s French was heavily accented, yet good enough for him to make himself understood. He took Delacroix’s arm and said softly, “Is there somewhere you and I can speak in private?”
Delacroix measured Raymond with an assessing eye, then nodded. “If you will come this way?”
Mairin watched the two of them move to the far side of the square, then stand face-to-face. Raymond was the taller of the two by far, although Delacroix was a master of men and would not be intimidated, not even by Raymond, who could be very persuasive.
Cian’s crew rowed ashore and helped lower Iefan and Daniel into the boats and take them back to the ship, where the ship’s surgeon could treat them.
Cian pulled Mairin aside. His gaze roved over her. “What on earth are you wearing, anyway?” he asked.
“The only clothes I have at the moment,” Mairin told him, for her satchel and the traveling suit laid beneath smoldering ruins. The hostel had been the last building the Natasha Marie had destroyed. “Is Daniel going to be all right?”
“The bullet sheared across his cheek,” Cian said, still frowning. “He’ll live, though he’ll have a hard time of it for a while.”
Relief touched her. She wanted no more souls upon her conscience.
“As soon as Raymond has dealt with the major, we’re leaving,” Cian told her. “Is there anything you must take care of before you go?”
Mairin watched the two rowboats reach the side of the Natasha Marie. “Not now,” she admitted.
When Delacroix and Raymond returned to the knot of people standing beside the ruins of souk stalls, Delacroix looked ruffled, but oddly satisfied. “Everything can be rebuilt,” he said, with a dismissive wave. “This day will give the Berbers pause, though.” He bowed to Mairin. “Lady Mairin, it has been a pleasure.”
Mairin tried not to smile. She doubted he had found any moment of her time in Oran pleasurable. She gave him a nod of acknowledgement and walked to the edge of the dock, to where a rowboat was returning.
Jasper sat upon the boll there, his face up to the sun, his pistol resting jauntily on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry to put you through this, Jasper.”
“Through what, pray tell?” he asked, opening one eye to look at her.
“I pulled you from Northallerton, away from your family.”
“I was visiting London when Aunt Annalies’ telegram reached Ben.” He shrugged. “Someone had to lead this lot of pirates. They mean well, although they haven’t a single clue about military campaigns.”
“Well…thank you,” she said awkwardly.
Jasper lowered the pistol onto his lap and opened his eyes properly. “This is what family is for,” he said. “They’re all completely untrained, yet they would all have thrown themselves into the breech to save you.”
Her throat worked. “I don’t think I properly understood it until today.”
Jasper’s smile was understanding. “You’re Seth’s daughter. So is Lilly. All Seth’s daughters are stubborn as hell.”
Cian snorted, beside her. “Sons, too. Takes us all a while to change our minds.”
Jasper nodded. “Lilly had to go through a s
mall imitation of hell before she understood.” He hopped off the boll and smiled at Mairin. “You’ll never forget, now,” he added.
The ship set sail barely an hour later.
Mairin crept into the cabin where Iefan laid while the surgeon worked on his leg. The surgeon, a dour man with sharp green eyes and bushy muttonchop whiskers, had peered at her over his spectacles. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said.
“I want to know how he fares,” Mairin said.
The surgeon pursed his lips, as he wound strips of cloth around the splints on either side of Iefan’s leg. The wound had already been treated and was covered in gauze.
“Please,” Mairin added. “I would prefer blunt truth. I can withstand honesty better than polite prevarications.”
The surgeon considered her again. His gaze moved over her garments, as did every man who saw her, since she climbed aboard. Then he nodded and returned to winding the rags. “He’ll live, if infection doesn’t set in. It was a bad break. He didn’t lie down afterward and remain still like a sensible man. I’m afraid that once it’s healed, he’ll likely walk with a limp the rest of his life. He may even need a cane. If he doesn’t, he can consider himself lucky.”
Mairin nodded, her heart hurting once more. “Thank you,” she told the surgeon.
He flicked a finger at the brass buttons on Iefan’s tunic. “This will be the end of his military career, too,” he said.
Mairin nodded. She hadn’t thought of that.
“Although now, he is Français par le sang versé, which may make up for it, eh?”
“French by spilled blood,” Mairin translated. “What is that?”
“The Foreign Legion makes any man one of their own, if that man spills blood on their behalf. From what I understand, this fellow almost single-handedly turned the battle for them. Took out their prince, or something?” He glanced at her and raised his brow.
“Something like that,” Mairin replied. She pulled the stool in the corner of the cramped cabin closer to the bunk.
“He’ll sleep a while yet,” the surgeon warned.
“I don’t mind,” Mairin assured him.
He rolled his eyes, finished his work and left.
Mairin watched Iefan’s face, her thoughts drifting. A while later, Cian stepped into the cabin, to check on Iefan. He brought a plate of stew and a spoon, and Mairin ate it while sitting upon the stool. It was bland after the searing spices of the stew she had eaten for breakfast. Breakfast seemed like a week ago, now.
Season of Denial (Scandalous Scions Book 7) Page 21