FREE! In The Arms of My Enemy (Completed!) Book 1

William the Spy

A farm in northern France, 12 October 1812

The bullet whizzed over William's head as he dropped to the ground. He threw a glance at Edmund, who crouched behind the crumbling garden wall. "We need to get inside before they burn it!"

"Too late!" Edmund said as smoke began to billow over the stones.

William gritted his teeth and reloaded his pistol. They had come too far behind enemy lines, risked too much to leave empty-handed. "Get ready."

"William, no! You'll be killed—"

He jumped to his feet and aimed. A muzzle flashed through the smoke across from him.

"Argh!" He fell back, pain searing his upper arm. That devil had grazed him! As the Frenchman reloaded, William raised his weapon and fired.

There was a scream, and then no sound came from the cottage but the growing roar of the blazing fire. William's aim had been true. He vaulted the stone wall and charged the crumbling building, ignor­ing Edmund's protests. The door was held wide open by the body of the man William had just dispatched. He stepped over the Frenchman and slogged through the smoke, covering his nose with his sleeve.

If their information from Grant—a British spy masquerading as an American in Paris—was good, they would find the strategy maps in the back room. The smoke made it difficult to see and breathe, and William quickly became disoriented in his haste to get through the burning building. He stumbled against the wall, coughing, and felt a doorframe. He slid through it, collapsing to the ground to escape the thickest clouds of smoke. Flames crawled up the walls and across the floor toward him.

His mind foggy from the lack of clean air, he looked around and slowly realized he was in the kitchen. Beside an overturned table lay a scattered stack of partially burnt papers, damp with the water from a shattered pitcher. The water must have fallen and extinguished the flames when the French made their hasty retreat from the burning cot­tage. Even as William spotted the papers, fire licked the edges dry, curling and browning the cream parchment, threatening to ignite into a blaze once again.

William propelled himself forward, sliding across the floor, and slapped his hands over the flames. In his desperation to stop the pages from burning, he didn't even notice the pain in his palms. His sigh of relief as the last flickers of flame were extinguished was quickly disturbed by the creak of a floorboard behind him. William pushed himself onto his knees and spun around, eyes streaming from the acrid smoke. A Frenchman, face covered with soot, grinned at him while raising a saber above his head. Either the man had been lying in wait for William or he had come back to finish what his comrade had started.

William drew his pistol from his waistband and pulled the trigger.

Nothing! He had forgotten to reload before charging the cottage. How could he have been so foolish?

Oh, Fidelia, forgive me was the only thought that flitted through his mind as the Frenchman brought his arm down.

William threw himself backward to avoid the blow, but he reacted too slowly, his senses dulled by the thick smoke. The tip sliced through his coat and shirt, drawing blood from the right side of his chest. He rolled to the left but was quickly trapped by the flames.

With a triumphant cry, the Frenchman swung again. Another sword blocked the swing, catching just above William's head. Through the smoke he could see someone throw the Frenchman to the floor and expertly dispatch him. A hand reached down and hauled William to his feet.

"Edmund!" William coughed, relieved as his friend's face came into focus through the haze of heat surrounding them. He coughed again, his throat raw and dry.

"Let's get you outside before you suffocate, my friend," Edmund grunted. William grabbed the papers, and Edmund helped him back through the burning living room and out into the fresh air. The cottage groaned behind them as it folded in on itself, sending sparks swirling into the late evening sky.

The two compatriots collapsed on the other side of the garden wall, wheezing and coughing. "Going inside was foolish, William."

"Luckily I had a knight in shining armor to save me," William said with a grin.

Edmund rolled his eyes and chuckled ruefully. "Only because your mother would skin my hide if I did not bring you back."

"At least it wasn't in vain." William wiped soot from his eyes and held up the burnt papers. The blackened portions disintegrated as he and Edmund unfolded each piece of the parchment, scanning it for in­formation.

"The map is useless," Edmund spat, tossing it aside before William could get a good look at it.

"This might be useful." William held up a scrap of parchment, the majority of it long gone to the hungry fire. The blood drained from his face as he looked at it closer. "Edmund . . . it's a list of British spies."

Edmund snatched the paper from him, wincing at the waves of heat that rolled off the burning building behind the small wall. "How could the French have this?"

"There's only one explanation." William coughed, spitting soot.

Edmund's face paled. "We have a traitor in our midst."

***

Hey guys!

I hope you enjoyed this peek into William's work as a spy.  It's a dangerous business.  Cool historical treat for you: Grant was a real British spy pretending to be an American in Paris during the War of 1812!

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