F og swirled up from the harbor, muffling the slap of the waves against the stone jetties. The damp sea breeze had been growing steadily colder over the last hour, and the clouds scudding across the moon warned of a coming squall.
Turning up the collar of her black silk shirt, Valencia edged back between the bales of cotton.
The man was running late. Very late. But then, she had long ago learned that in her profession, things rarely went according to plan.
Unsheathing a knife from the hidden pocket of her trousers, she slipped silently to the far end of the walkway for another look across the wharves. There was no sign of movement among the moored ships, save for the ghostly flutter of sail canvas. However, the creak of the masts and the thrumming of the wind through the rigging seemed to be getting louder. Or was it just that her nerves were on edge?
Valencia drew a deep breath and forced herself to relax. She wasn’t very good at waiting.
Impetuous . That was the word her commander-in-chief had used to critique her last mission. The oblique criticism still stung. He had, of course, not raised his voice—the blasted man rivaled the Sphinx for stony stoicism. But his sapphirine gaze had betrayed a flicker of disappointment. Damn his lordly eyes. It was unfair. She had gotten the job done, and while the explosion of the river barge had been an unforeseen complication, an agent in the field sometimes had to make a split second decision.
Life and death.
Her hand tightened on the knife hilt. No one questioned her courage or skill with weapons. It was her bravado that had put a black mark on her record, and she had been cautioned to keep her daredevil disregard for danger under control.
This time, however, she would give her superior no cause for
complaint . . .
The faint scuff of steps drew Valencia from her brooding introspection. Swearing a silent oath, she pulled the hooded mask down over her face and hurried through the pooling shadows to catch up with her quarry. Allowing a distraction—even for an instant—was dangerous. But now, all her senses were on full alert.
Up ahead, she saw him hesitate before darting between the rows of cargo crates. Mingled with the pungent scent of salt and pine tar was a whiff of the man’s fear. She quickened her pace, her rope-soiled shoes floating noiselessly over the rough planking. In another few strides, she would be within striking distance. The French informant and his stolen government documents would not be crossing the Channel tonight.
She angled her dagger upward, its razored edge cutting a quicksilver arc in the moonlight. Another step and . . .
All of a sudden, Valencia caught the deadly gleam of another blade angling out of the gloom.
She whipped around, just in the nick of time to parry the blow. Knife clashed against knife, the mists muffling the ring of steel.
Snick, snick, snick. Her assailant was strong and quick as a cobra with his thrusts. Yet she, too, was skilled in the art of hand-to-hand combat, having trained with the best swordsman in Europe. Coolly countering the force of the attack, she feinted and probed for an opening. But as she pivoted to slide in under his guard, her foot slipped a fraction.
It took her only a split-second to recover.
Too late, too late.
Pain lanced through her leg.
“Are the English so desperate that they must send a woman to do their dirty work?” Through the slits of her mask, Valencia saw a flash of pearly teeth and the curl of a Death’s Head smile. “A grave mistake on their part,” said her assailant as his blade cut another slash through flesh and muscle.
A grave mistake. She had been assured that the traitor was alone, but she should have checked behind her back. Twisting, turning, Valencia tried to kick free, but her leg gave way.
As she fell to the ground, she heard a light laugh. “And an even bigger blunder on your part, cherie . For now you are going to die.”
Through the haze of pain, she saw a last glint of the knife, and then everything went black.
Damn. Damn. Damn. It wasn’t supposed to end this way . . .