The three outriders still slept in the hay at the foot of the ladder, and Julian kicked at them impatiently, trying to rouse them. The only result was a deeper snore and a muttered protest. His foot caught on something, and a stone jar like the one he'd seen in the yard rolled along the floor. He picked it up and sniffed. The jar had contained brandy and something else; a white, powdery residue coated the bottom. Gabriel had forbidden them to drink after supper, but obviously someone had provided them with liquor, carefully spiked.
He raced into the yard. Gabriel was surrounded by the men he'd been drinking with, wielding his cudgel and bellowing some bloodthirsty Highland war cry as they came at him, moonlight glinting on steel.
Julian drew his curved cavalry sword and leaped into the fray. Clearly the threat they'd had to worry about came from within the village. He could see the dark shape of the other sentry on the ground, presumably dispatched by the black shadow he'd noticed from the loft, and he guessed the two at the entrances of the village had been taken from the rear as well. But if they'd been intending to put Gabriel out of commission with the same draft they'd given the outriders, they'd miscalculated.
The man was a lion, still roaring his war cry. His eyes shone red in the light of the torches they'd been playing by, and he greeted Julian's arrival with a ferocious snarl that Julian correctly interpreted as “Welcome to the fight.”
The men began to fall back as the two wielded cudgel and sword; then suddenly Tamsyn was in their midst. She grabbed one of the flaming-pitch torches and drove it into the face of a man flourishing a wicked serrated knife. He covered his face with a shriek and the knife clattered to the cobbles. She dived to the ground, snatching up the knife. And then the men were running from the courtyard, pursued by Gabriel and Julian and an irate Josefa, who, Julian realized incredulously, was wielding a broomstick to painful effect.
“Madre de Dios,” Gabriel said as they slammed shut the gates to the yard. He wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm and grinned. “I do believe they thought to get me drunk.” He laughed uproariously, his massive shoulders shaking with mirth.
“They were spiking the wine with more than brandy,” Julian said. “Those three”-he gestured with his head toward the barn-”are out for the count.”
“Pedro's got a bump on his head the size of an apple, but he's alive.” Tamsyn had run with Josefa to examine the stricken sentry. “What about the two in the village?”
“Let's hope they'll be no worse,” Julian said, frowning at her. “That was a foolhardy trick with the torch. You could have set fire to the barn.”
“I was careful,” she retorted. “And it worked.” “Yes, I grant you that. But it was still foolhardy.” Tamsyn shrugged. “In an emergency you use what tools are available.”
Julian couldn't fault this logic. He knew he'd have done the same himself He turned to Gabriel with an abrupt change of subject. “We'd better hole up here until dawn and then make a break for it.”
“Aye.” Gabriel nodded. “We'll pick up the other two as we leave. Let's get these others sobered up. We'd do well to show all the force we can on the way out, although I doubt they'll be too anxious for a repeat engagement. Woman, make more coffee.”
Josefa, without a word, dropped her broomstick and went to the still-glowing embers of the fire.
“Help me load up the mules.” Julian beckoned Tamsyn, who came over with alacrity, her eyes sparkling in the firelight, her body thrumming with energy in the aftermath of excitement. “I want to be ready to go the minute the sky starts to lighten.”
“They won't give us any more trouble,” Tamsyn said confidently. “A tribe of shameful incompetents.” She grinned. “The baron would never have taken them into his band. His raids never failed.”
Julian chose to refrain from comment.
Two hours later they stormed out of the yard, Julian with drawn sword at the head of the column, Gabriel bringing up the rear on his charger, waving his broadsword and bellowing his war cry. Tamsyn drove the laden mules between them, cracking a mule whip with gleeful ferocity, the three less than fully conscious outriders swaying in their saddles but still brandishing weapons.
The village stayed behind its shutters, however, recognizing it had met its match. They found the other two outriders sitting beside the road, nursing bleeding heads but able to mount their horses, and the procession continued its way to Lisbon.
Chapter Twelve
“I DON'T KNOW THAT I CAN LET YOU HAVE THREE FOUR pounders, Captain Lattimer,” the ordnance master said with lugubrious satisfaction. “The Isolde took six yesterday.”
Captain Hugo Lattimer, R.N., controlled his irritation with difficulty. He ran a hand through his thick chestnut-brown hair and glanced around the ordnance wharf He'd been third in line that morning, and there were six other captains, as desperate as he to fit out their commands, waiting their turn to wheedle and cajole the ordnance master.
“If you could see your way to letting me have two, then I'll stand in your debt,” he said, smiling with what he hoped was sufficient obsequiousness. “How's Mrs. Huston? She was a bit under the weather last time I was in Lisbon.”
The other man's face softened slightly. “Oh, she's well enough, thank you, Captain. In an interesting condition.”
“Well, congratulations.” Captain Lattimer beamed as broadly as if it were his own lady about to present him with an heir. “Do give her my best regards.”
“Yes, yes indeed, I'll do that, thank you kindly. Now, it was three four-pounders you were wanting?”
“Exactly so,” Hugo said, allowing not a flicker of triumph to show in his green eyes. “And I'll be most grateful to you, sir.”
The ordnance master scribbled in his ledger, his face as pained as if he were losing blood, and handed over the precious requisition order. Hugo touched his gold-laced hat and left the ordnance wharf, exulting in his success.
The Lisbon morning was hot, but there was still a breath of spring in the air to soften the burning quality of a Portuguese summer that scorched even the coastal areas. The harbor seethed with life, feluccas, longboats, and fishing boats darting among the more ponderous merchant craft. Four British men-of-war lay in the outer roads, three ships of the line, and a dainty, thirty-six-gun frigate.
Captain Lattimer's eyes rested with pride on the Isaabelle's elegant lines as she swung at anchor. He raised his glass, examining his command. The Blue Peter was furled against her fore-top masthead, ready to be broken out when she sailed, and her decks were a bustle of activity. He nodded his satisfaction. Tomorrow morning they'd be under way, leaving the frustrating politics of harbor life behind.
“I beg your pardon, but do I have the honor of addressing Captain Lattimer?”
“You do, sir.” The captain turned and found himself facing a tall man of about his own age in the uniform of a cavalry colonel.
“Colonel St. Simon.” Julian extended his hand in greeting. “Admiral Moreton told me where I might find you.”
The harbor admiral was an infernal nuisance, always interfering in his captains' best-laid plans. “Indeed.” Hugo kept his expression impassive as he shook the colonel's hand. “How may I be of service, Colonel?”
“By giving me passage on your ship.” Julian came straight to the point. “I understand you're sailing for Portsmouth tomorrow.”
It was standard practice for a naval ship to carry diplomatic and army passengers. “I see no difficulty,” Hugo said, smiling with relief at this simple request.
Colonel St. Simon scratched his head a little uncomfortably and said, “Well, it's rather more. complicated than that, Captain. Do you have time to take a glass of wine with me, and I'll explain.”