Free To Tempt the Devil (A Novel of Lord Hawkesbury's Players) by C.J. Archer Page B

didn’t pull back and it must have hurt, but the man merely grunted.
    “That all you got?” he snarled.
    Rafe shrugged one shoulder and half-turned, but kept the ogre in his sights. The big man rolled up his sleeves to reveal thickly muscled forearms.
    “What are you doing?” James yelled. “Fight him!”
    “How can I?” Rafe said. “He’s bigger than me.”
    “You’re giving up? I thought you were a mercenary.” His voice turned shrill. “I thought fighting is what you did best. I thought it was the only thing you were good at.”
    “Now, that’s not fair. I haven’t got a weapon on me. Mercenaries don’t fight without weapons.” The disbelief on James’s face almost made Rafe laugh. His poor little brother was working himself into a panic. Time to put him out of his misery. “Oh, wait, I do have a weapon,” Rafe said.
    James sank to the floor with relief. “Thank God,” he murmured.
    “You’re gonna need more than a knife,” the prisoner said. Out of the corner of his eye, Rafe saw him cracking his knuckles as he advanced.
    “I haven’t got a knife,” Rafe said. “No blades, no hammer, not even a pin.” Confused, the oaf paused and his eyes narrowed at Rafe. “But I do have this.”
    Rafe swung round and landed a punch on the man’s jaw that sent him stumbling back into the door. He recovered and with a roar of anger, ran at Rafe. Rafe ducked and, as the giant lumbered past, tripped him. The prisoner tumbled to the dirty rushes like a felled tree, landing with a thump that shook the floorboards. It all happened without Rafe really thinking. In moments of combat, his mind seemed to empty and switch to another level. The motions were effortless, instinctive, and he could see his opponent’s weaknesses as clearly as he could see the shape of him.
    Perhaps James was right and fighting was the thing Rafe did best.
    He pressed his boot to the back of the man’s neck, not hard enough to crush anything vital, but hard enough to induce fear. The trunk-like arms flailed about trying to grasp Rafe’s leg and his feet kicked aimlessly. It looked comical, but no one laughed. James and the other prisoners had to live with him once Rafe was gone and weren’t stupid enough to make an enemy of the giant.
    Rafe removed his foot and held out his hand. The oaf glared at it for a long moment, then he took it and heaved himself to his feet.
    “Help yourself to an apple,” Rafe said. He still held the man’s arm in a grip that would leave bruises. “But that’s all. I’m not an almshouse. I can’t afford to feed everyone in here.”He stepped up to the prisoner and lowered his voice. “Touch my brother and I’ll kill you.”
    The ogre said nothing but he didn’t seem as cocksure as before. It wasn’t a promise, but it would have to do. Rafe let him go.
    James edged around the cell to avoid the big man and sidled up to Rafe. “You’re mad,” he said.
    Perhaps he was. Rafe sometimes felt he wasn’t in complete control of his mind and body when he fought. A kind of shadow passed through him, sucking out his essence, leaving behind all the things that made him a good assassin—ruthless efficiency, a heightened awareness of his surroundings, and instinct.
    He opened the unlocked door and stepped out with a nod at the nearby guard. In the cell, the ogre was busy demolishing an apple from James’s pack. Perhaps he was simply hungry. It must take a lot to fill up that big body and hunger can do terrible things to a man.
    The two smaller prisoners moved past them and headed for the central courtyard that all the prisoners were free to use during the day.
    “I’ll bring more food tomorrow,” Rafe said to James.
    “Thanks.” James clasped Rafe’s forearm. “I do appreciate it.”
    “I know.”
    He followed the guard through the warren of tunnels past the other cells to the front office and out into daylight. London was bathed in autumn sunshine. He turned his face to the blue sky and breathed