LITMIR.BIZ

      PROLOGUE

      July 1, 1793—near Brest, France

      “IS HE ALIVE?”

       The voice surprised him. It sounded far away. And even as he heard the Englishman, pain stabbed through his back and shoulders, like nails being driven into his body, as if he were being crucified. The pain was so horrific he could not speak, but he cursed silently. What had happened?

       He was on fire now. Even worse, he wondered if he was suffocating. He could hardly breathe. A terrible weight seemed to be pushing him down. And he was in absolute darkness....

       But his mind was beginning to function. The man who had just spoken was English, but that was impossible. Where was he? What the hell had happened?

       And the images began, rolling through his mind’s eye with shocking speed, accompanied by horrific sounds—the bloodcurdling screams of the wounded and the dying amidst the racket of muskets and the boom of cannons, the river running red with the French blood of peasants, priests, nobles and soldiers....

       He moaned. He could not quite recall how he had been wounded, and he was afraid he might be dying. What had happened to him?

       Someone spoke, and the voice was familiar. “He is barely alive, Lucas. He has lost a great deal of blood and has been unconscious since midnight. My surgeon does not know if he will live.”

       “What happened?” A second Englishman was speaking.

       “We suffered a terrible defeat at Nantes, messieurs, a rout by the French under General Biron, but Dominic was not wounded in the battle. He was ambushed outside my apartments last night by an assassin.”

       And then he realized that his lifelong friend, Michel Jacquelyn, was speaking. Someone had tried to murder him—because someone had known he was a spy.

       “Christ,” the second Englishman said.

       Dominic managed to open his eyes, a vast, prolonged effort of will. He lay on the beach on a pallet, under blankets—the surf beat the shore and the night above glinted with stars. Three men stood over him, in coats, breeches and boots. His vision was blurred, but he could distinguish them somewhat. Michel was short and dark, his clothes bloodstained, his hair pulled back in a queue. The Englishmen were tall and golden, their shoulder-length hair whipping in the wind. Everyone was heavily armed with pistols and daggers. Now, he heard the creaking of wood masts, the flap of canvas, the pounding of wind-whipped waves. And then he could no longer keep his eyes open. Exhausted, they closed.

       He was going to faint, damn it....

       “Were you followed?” Lucas asked sharply.

       “Non, but le gendarmerie are everywhere, mes amis. We must make haste. The French blockade the coast—you will have to be careful to avoid their ships.”

       The other Englishman spoke, and he sounded

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