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The group shifted and spread apart when they saw him, moving with the ease of men accustomed to brawling and quite happy with the prospect of a fight.
‘Quin!’ Cleo flicked him a glance, then fixed her eyes on the men again. ‘They are after our purses and everything else you may imagine. Maggie’s hurt her ankle. The shorter one with the blue neckerchief is the leader. They don’t seem to speak English.’
She reported with the economy of a soldier back from reconnaissance, all useful information and no hysterics. Quin drew the dress sword from its scabbard, a slim, fragile-seeming needle of steel.
‘Lo chiami una spada?’ Blue Neckerchief pulled a blade from his belt, a heavy knife that looked capable of gutting a big tuna with a stroke.
‘Yes, I call it a sword,’ Quin said mildly in Italian as the other three drew their own weapons, equally large, equally unsubtle. ‘Can you make a distraction?’ he added in English.
Without a word Cleo stooped, picked up a handful of dusty grit and threw it at the nearest man, a fat, deceptively jolly-looking type. He batted it away, laughing at her, and then staggered back as she followed it up with a cobblestone. The second man made a dive at her and she slashed with her knife, catching him across the back of his hand. He fell back cursing.
‘I said make a distraction, not start a war,’ Quin said on a huff of laughter as he lunged at the fourth man who had swung round to look at what Cleo was doing, presenting an undefended left side.
His sword was a rapier. It was light, thin, vulnerable to a blow from something heavy, but as a stabbing weapon it was unsurpassed. The point sank into the bulk of the man’s bicep so smoothly that he did not start yelling until Quin pulled it back in a flowing fencer’s move and then slashed at his face when the man spun round to face him. The cut was just where he had intended, across the forehead so blood flowed down into the man’s eyes, blinding him.
One down, no, two. Cleo was fending off one man while the one she had hit with the cobble was on his knees, arms over his head, as Maggie pelted him with everything she could reach, from stones to what looked like a dead rat.
Cleo had been right, Blue Neckerchief was the leader. He stepped back, eyes flickering from side to side and let the one Quin thought of as Bloody Hand pick up the fight.
‘Run while you can, my friends,’ Quin advised and shifted position so he could keep both men in view at once, rapier raised in a textbook pose. He wanted them to think he was an academic fencer. Bloody Hand spat on the cobbles, then shifted his knife and came in fast. Quin lifted his weapon out of the way, spun round and kicked, hard and accurately, and the man collapsed on the cobbles, clutching his groin and retching. His knife clattered away, skidding on the stones, and Cleo lunged for it, grabbed it and tossed it back to Quin, who caught it left-handed.
No point in pretending now that he didn’t know how to fight dirty. Blue Neckerchief pulled a short cosh from his pocket and edged forward, grinning a gap-toothed smile of pure malice. He was clearly not happy about losing his prey, still less having three of his men injured, but he was plainly looking forward to gutting Quin.
‘Come on,’ Quin encouraged him. ‘Or are you only capable of attacking girls? And you need your friends to help you with—’ He broke off as the man barrelled forward, stabbing with the knife while he beat at the slender blade of the rapier with the cosh.
The second it touched the sword Quin tossed the weapon away, throwing the man fractionally off balance, then spun out of the way of his thrusting blade. Quin brought his clenched left fist, holding the knife hilt, down on the angle between neck and shoulder and felt the collarbone break. The man fell to his knees and Quin followed through with a right hook to the jaw as he went down.
Chapter Fifteen
Quin looked round at a frozen tableau. Four men on the ground, Maggie, a cobblestone clutched in her fist, and Cleo, his rapier in her hand, poised like an avenging Fury.
‘Thank you,’ he said as he got his breath back and held out his hand for the sword.
She passed it to him, her face white under the golden tan. ‘No, thank you.’ Then she ran to Maggie’s side and helped her to her feet.
‘Bloody hell,’ Maggie said, hopping on one foot. ‘Cracked my ankle bone, the—’ The string of curses she produced were hopefully unintelligible to Cleo. Some of them were new to Quin.
‘I’ll carry you.’ He sheathed the rapier, scooped her up in his arms and looked round for Cleo, who was gathering up scattered belongings. ‘Come on, before the neighbours decide to come out and join in.’
She was uncharacteristically silent as they navigated the twisting alleyways to emerge on to the quayside. Quin realised he was grinning again. Damn it, he was enjoying himself. A thoroughly satisfactory fight, the only injury on his team a sore ankle, his arms full of an appreciative young woman who was batting her eyelashes at him and Cleo safe and sound, the hellcat. It occurred to him that not only had he repaid her a little for saving his life, but that now he had the opportunity to tease her just a trifle as she thoroughly deserved. He tightened his lips, banished the grin for a scowl and strode towards the waiting skiff.
