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building thunder. Not a storm. Riders.
    Bajo
raised his rifle.
    “Go
back,” she commanded harshly in English, pushing the boy away.
“Go back to your ship — quickly,
child. Now!”
    “What
is it? Bandits?”
    “Go
back!” she shouted. “Run, damn you!” She gave him
another, harder push. This time he got the message and backed away.
His alarmed companion was already running for the ship. The boy gave
Esme one bewildered glance, then followed.
    The
pounding hoofbeats raced toward them, and Bajo was screaming at her
to run. But the riders, coming from the east, were heading straight
for the boy, who was still far from his own ship. If she and Bajo ran
for their boat, her cousin would be caught in the crossfire.
    She
had barely thought it when the dull thunder broke into a roar and a
dense, black cloud swept down from the road onto the beach. In the
thick fog, they were a whirling mass of dark shapes — a
score of horsemen at least. Ignoring Bajo's frantic commands, Esme
raised her rifle and fired, drawing their attention to her. Answering
shots flew over her head.
    She
raced toward an overturned boat on the beach, and saw other forms
approaching. Bajo's comrades. A bullet whizzed past her. She dove for
the shelter of the boat and hurriedly reloaded.

    THE
EXPLOSIONS OUTSIDE jolted Varian from a sound sleep and brought him
almost instantly to his feet. A glance about the cabin showed no sign
of Percival. Varian yanked his shirt over his head, jerked on his
trousers and boots, snatched up his pistols, and raced to the deck.
    On
the shore, the light-streaked fog shrouded a writhing mass of horses
and men and a cacophony of war cries and rifle fire. He scrambled
onto the pier and dashed toward the battleground.
    “Percival!”
he bellowed.
    As
he leapt from the pier to the sand, he heard a high-pitched cry and
turned toward it. A half dozen riders were bearing down upon one
slight figure running clumsily across the sand. A feeble ray of early
sun broke for a fleeting instant through the haze and lit a crown of
dark red hair.
    His
heart thundering as loudly as the deadly hooves closing in on the
boy, Varian aimed and fired. He saw a horse crumple to the ground,
even as he aimed and fired his other pistol. With shaking fingers, he
began to reload. There was a deafening noise close by, then something
crashed. A lightning bolt of pain shot through him ... then darkness.

    GENTLY,
ESME WIPED away the sand from the unconscious man's face. It would be
more efficient simply to empty the bucket over his head, but that
might wake him too suddenly, and the blow he'd suffered would cause
sufficient pain as it was.
    The
ship rocked, and the water sloshed in the bucket beside her,
splashing her trousers. They were soaked already, though, scratchy
with sand and salt. Still, that was a negligible discomfort, her only
physical one. Some of the others had not fared so well: two of Bajo's
cousins were dead, and several friends wounded. Townsfolk had quickly
taken up the latter and would care for them.
    They'd
not yet collected the six marauders' corpses when Bajo had ordered
her to the pielago. He'd
thrown the Englishman over his shoulder and, deaf to her arguments,
had seen them both safely aboard and ordered the captain to sail
south, to Corfu. Then Bajo had set off to rescue the boy ... her cousin.
    Esme
glared down at the haughty face beside her knees. What fiend had led
the man here, of all places, with a young boy — unguarded,
unarmed?
    Actually,
the Englishman's face was that of a fiend, albeit a coldly beautiful
one, she thought, gazing at the dark, curling tendrils that straggled
over his high forehead. Her wary scrutiny traveled slowly over black,
high-arched eyebrows and black lashes, down the long, imperious nose,
and past the full, sculptured mouth to the clean, angular jaw. An
arrogant face. Petro, the dragoman who'd been with the boy, had said
this man was an English lord.
    Esme's
glance moved to the hand that lay over