She was naked in the saddle, both hands tied behind her back. The horse moved restively between her thighs. Her breasts were scratched and smarting where her clothes had been torn off, and there was a livid bruise beneath her ribs. The Sicilian girl had struck her with a heavy blunderbuss. Martine had very nearly wet herself.

And now the bitch was next to her, adjusting the rough noose. She was wearing a black greatcoat and cocked hat. Her button-dark eyes gloated as she gave the rope a tug. It was anchored to the gaunt, dead tree and looped around a sturdy-looking branch.

Martine’s mane of chestnut hair was damp and tangled now. She tried to shake the rat’s-tails from her eyes. Five more women stood like spectres round the gallows tree. Four were from the Gypsy clan, their sultry faces full of expectation. They wore bright shirts and leather waistcoats; breeches or long skirts. One girl held a musket, and the rest were armed with pistols and long knives.

The fifth girl was a graceful blonde, dressed smartly in a coat and riding breeches. Her poise bespoke authority. The others made respectful room for her. Her golden curls were pinned up underneath her tricorne hat. She had a fresh, sweet face, and sly blue eyes.

She sauntered up to Martine’s horse and tapped her riding crop against her palm. "We’re looking forward to your dance," she taunted. "I’ve got clients who would pay handsomely to watch."

Martine curled her lip as the Sicilian’s horse moved clear. "I guess they’re bored with snotty whores like you."

The blonde girl’s smile faltered but she kept herself in check. The riding crop stroked Martine’s naked thigh. "They say that, when the rope pulls tight, you can feel the Devil bite you on the arse."

One of the Gypsies sniggered from behind her. The black-coated Sicilian sat and watched. No-one sensed the woman who was creeping up on them, as silent as a shadow in the mist.

The newcomer had been riding past when she heard the muffled voices. Their spiteful tone was unmistakeable. They were speaking French, of course, but she had a good grasp of the language. Dismounting, she had drawn her blunderbuss.

It was an English weapon with a fifteen-inch brass barrel. She cocked it with the heel of her left hand. Beneath her heavy cloak, she wore an English coat as well – the shabby scarlet jacket of a soldier. A scarf was wrapped around her face, and her tricorne was pulled low. Her long fair hair was hanging loose. She scanned the group with pale, metallic eyes.

Martine’s heart was thumping but she didn’t feel afraid. Just furious that her quest had ended here. Her breasts heaved as she filled her lungs. The blonde bitch raised her whip. There was the crackle of a stepped-on twig.

The Gypsy girls swung round and glimpsed the figure watching them. The nearest grasped the pistol in her sash. The English girl brought up her blunderbuss and squeezed the trigger. The gun erupted with a belching roar.

The grapeshot struck the Gypsy with a pulpy, crunching sound, like a pumpkin being splattered by a club. Her shirt was half-unbuttoned, with her cleavage bulging through, and the heavy balls tore deep into her flesh. The impact made her whoop with shock, and threw her body backwards. Another girl cried out as she was winged.

The blast produced a dense white smoke that mingled with the mist. The air became opaque like spoiled milk. The English girl discarded the big gun and darted forward. One of the Gypsies fired blind, a dull flash in the fog that missed by yards.

Startled, Martine’s horse took off. She squealed and tried to grip it with her thighs. The saddle slid from under her firm rump and she fell sideways. The noose squeezed chokingly around her throat.

As she kicked and gurgled, figures blundered through the smoke. The wounded girl was clutching her left arm. She glimpsed a flurry in the fog and tried to draw her pistol. It was slung across her belly, but her bloody fingers couldn’t grip the butt.

The English girl already held a Twigg four-barrelled pistol. She triggered the first load at point blank range. The lead ball hit the Gypsy just below her diaphragm, and she doubled forward with an anguished squawk. The impact burst the buttons on her waistcoat, and her bosom strained against her bloodstained shirt. The blonde girl kicked her in the groin to hasten her collapse, then swung her pistol up towards the tree.

Her next shot clipped the gallows-rope but failed to sever it. Martine kept squirming as it throttled her. The English girl had no chance to engage the lower barrels. Another Gypsy came at her, a vicious-looking cutlass in her hand.

The redcoat dodged the slashing blade and let her pistol drop. She drew a blade from underneath her cloak. It was an English bayonet, fixed to a makeshift handle. She sliced the air. The Gypsy skittered back.

The two girls starting edging round each other. The bayonet gleamed wickedly: the slender blade was eighteen inches long. The English girl hauled out a hunting knife with her free hand. Her scarf concealed her features, but there was a glint of relish in her gaze.

She glimpsed the fourth girl moving to outflank her. The one with the cutlass feinted tauntingly. The redcoat spread her weapons, trying to cover both opponents. Then the Gypsies sprang at her, and everything became a brutal blur.

The cutlass whooshed towards her face. The redcoat parried it. The other girl plunged in with dagger aimed. But as she passed Martine, the hanging girl pounced desperately. Her legs wrapped round the Gypsy’s neck and jerked her off the ground.

The combined weight would have ruptured Martine’s windpipe, but the fraying rope snapped first, and let her fall. The Gypsy folded under her and cushioned her collapse. The impact snapped the girl’s neck like a twig.

The other Gypsy was distracted for a fatal moment. The bayonet thrust in and skewered her. She whimpered as it punctured her soft breast and then her lung. The redcoat drove the point in deep, then slashed the hunting knife across her throat. The Gypsy choked, her head fell back: she squirmed convulsively. The English girl turned half away and kicked her dying body off the blade.

Martine was choking where she lay, entangled with the corpse of the fourth Gypsy. The redcoat lunged across and cut the noose from round her neck, then hacked into the rope that bound her wrists. The pert blonde and the girl in black were somewhere in the smog. She crabbed around and picked her pistol up.

The Sicilian had dismounted and was prowling through the smoke. She had a blunderbuss as well: her black-gloved finger twitched against the trigger. Something snickered through the smoke. She whirled, but it was only Martine’s horse. Her dark eyes narrow shrewishly. And then she heard a dry, distinctive click.

The English girl had turned the catch to prime the lower barrels. She drew the cocks back with her palm. The mist around her stank of rotten eggs. Easing up out of her crouch, she listened to the silence. Behind her, the black-coated girl took aim.

"… Over here …" Martine called out. Her voice was just a croak. But the pistol from the Gypsy’s holster spoke out loud and clear. She fired as the Sicilian turned, and blew a sou-sized hole in the girl’s forehead. The impact knocked her hat off, and her eyes rolled blankly up as she collapsed.

Martine drooped forward, gasping, one hand clutching her bruised throat. The redcoat gave a grateful little sigh. As she swung around, there was a sudden rush of hoofbeats, receding quickly in the dense white mist.

The blonde girl with the riding crop had felt compelled to leave. The redcoat shrugged and closed the priming pans. Then she pulled her muffler down, grimacing at the smell. She had a handsome, finely-sculpted face.

She paused to check the scarlet-spattered bodies, then crossed to the bedraggled young brunette. "Salut," she said and hunkered down. "I’m Nell. I thought you’d need a little help."

"Martine …" the French girl whispered hoarsely. Sitting back, she managed a wry smile. Her hazel eyes were lined with kohl. They gave her an exotic, sulky look.

Her breasts were glistening with dew. They quivered with the quickness of her breath. Eyeing them, Nell shed her cloak and handed it across. The French girl wrapped the folds around herself.

"Imagine," she went on in her strong accent. "My own kind string me up, and I am rescued by an enemy of France!"

Nell glanced down at her red coat, then grinned sardonically. "Don’t worry, I’ve not taken the King’s shilling. Though sometimes I might earn one from the men he gives it to." She looked round at the bodies. "Who were they?"

"The friends of a friend," said Martine. She had started shivering. The redcoat helped her to her feet. "I fancy we should get you somewhere warm."

"There is a chateau in the valley," Martine told her. "If you take me there, it will be worth your while."

"A country house?" Nell raised an eyebrow. "Somebody of quality, I see."

The French girl smiled crookedly. "The very best," she said. "So come to breakfast with the Queen of Thieves."

* * *

The house had an abandoned look, but a fire was burning in the kitchen range. Nell sat basking in the warmth, ensconced in an old armchair. Her hat and coat were put aside; she wore a calfskin waistcoat but no shirt. She ate ham and eggs from off her knees, washed down with strong French coffee. The grey-haired cook looked on approvingly.

"You’re like Martine, my girl. Too thin! You could do with feeding up."

Nell smiled wryly, thinking of Martine’s impressive curves. Her own bare arms were slim but muscular. Unconvinced, the woman clucked and took her plate away. The English girl sat back and sipped her drink. The old cook must have lived here when the house was still a home. She’d fussed round Martine like a mother hen.

"What happened here?" Nell asked in French. "Did the people have to flee your revolution?"

The woman spat dismissively. "The mob don’t rule here yet. My mistress lost her sons to scarlet fever. The place has gone to seed since then. Too big for me and Jacques …"

Jacques was the skinny, sly-faced man who sat in the far corner. Nell guessed he was a gamekeeper turned poacher. He was watching her intently, as a fox might watch a rabbit. Ignoring him, she glanced towards the door.

"Martine doesn’t live here, then?"

The woman shook her head. "But she provides for us sometimes. That puts us in your debt. Here, I’ve cooked some broth for her. Would you like to take it up?"

"Sure." The English girl stood up, adjusting her tight waistcoat. She gave the leering Jacques a sidelong smirk. The woman handed her a tray with a steaming bowl on it. "I’ve put her in the first room off the landing." As Nell began to turn, she felt a touch on her bare arm. "And don’t be alarmed, my love, if you hear footsteps. The mistress is still living here, although she is quite mad. Usually she sleeps by day and wanders round at night. But if you’re quiet, I’m sure you won’t disturb her …"

Nell smiled a little queasily and went on up the stairs. They creaked alarmingly with every step. A spooky silence filled the house. Draughts crept around like rats. But she got to Martine’s bedroom unmolested.

The French girl had got out of bed and was standing by the window, still naked as she peered out through the nets. There was an elaborate tattoo at the base of her spine, offsetting the smooth contours of her arse. Nell studied it, then cleared her throat politely. Martine looked round, her brown eyes mischievous.

"Reckon you can manage soup?" the English girl enquired.

Martine sauntered back to bed, relaxed and unselfconscious. She had a bandage round her throat. The old woman had cleaned and salved her cuts. She climbed between the sheets and settled back against the bolsters. "I fancy I could manage more than that."

Nell coloured with a bashfulness she hadn’t felt for years. She put the tray down on the bedside table. But Martine’s lack of modesty was just a front, she guessed. Behind the smile, the girl seemed almost coy.

Nell handed her a napkin. Martine draped her breasts with it and tied it in a knot behind her neck. With one pink nipple peeking out, she started on the soup. Every swallow made her wince. Nell sat down on the bed.

The French girl paused and licked her lips. "So what brings you to France?"

"I got bored with being a country parson’s daughter. And now I’m tired of being a soldiers’ screw." The redcoat shrugged, her pale blue eyes unblinking. "We’ve heard about your revolution. That’s the sort of liberty I need."

Martine gave her an impish look. "The world’s turned upside down. Never mind the Rights of Man. We girls are free to make our fortunes too."

"The Queen of Thieves," Nell came back lightly. "Looks like you’ve got rivals for your crown."

Martine rubbed her bandaged throat. "There won’t be for much longer. I’ll finish this, then settle them for good ..." She coughed on her next mouthful. Nell reached out and touched her arm. Martine sniffed and wiped her mouth. "Perhaps I’ll get some sleep, before I go …"

"And put your drawers on too," smiled Nell. She massaged Martine’s arm. "So who were they: these friends of your old friend?"

"The snotty cow who got away was Sarah," Martine said. "She’s got a sister, Genevieve. They act like they’re respectable young ladies." She curled her lip and slurped more soup. "In fact they run a brothel in the town. They’ve got the local worthies by the bollocks - literally. Those Gypsy wildcats do their dirty work."

She raised her napkin, dabbed her mouth. Nell’s eyes flicked to her breasts. "And now they’ve got new partners," Martine muttered. "Sicilians – like that bitch in the black coat."

"It sounds like there’s a lot of them for one girl to take on." Nell took the empty soup bowl back. "I guess it would be easier for two."

Martine leaned back against the bolsters, tugging off her napkin. "I thank you – but it’s not your quarrel, Nell."

"I’ll make it mine," the redcoat said. "I like your company." She stood up with a quirky little smile. "And now you’d better get some rest. I fancy that we’re in for a late night."

* * *

The French girl came downstairs in clothes she’d scavenged from the wardrobe in her room. The long blue frock coat was a boy’s: it looked a little tight around the arse. She wore doeskin riding breeches and a shirt she’d knotted underneath her breasts. It left her muscled midriff bare. Jacques studied her tanned flesh and clicked his tongue.

"You lived too long among those heathens, girl."

Martine just grinned and tossed a tricorne hat onto the table. She wore a bunch of lace around her throat. Nell eyed her with approval, but the grey-haired woman sniffed. "You look like a houri in all that mascara."

"Better a houri than a whore," the French girl answered smugly. She winked at Nell, then glanced around. "So what did you come up with in the gun-room?"

Nell pushed a wooden case across the table. A polished pair of pistols lay inside. Smiling, Martine picked one up and levered back the cock. "I like a rich man’s gun," she said, and eased the flint back down.

"I found this too," said Jacques and raised a shotgun from his lap. Martine’s eyes narrowed at the sight of it. A double-barrelled fowling piece, inlaid with gold and silver. It was a weapon and a work of art.

"Lovely, but a bit too long," said Martine carelessly. "Cut the barrels down by half, and I reckon I could make some use of it."

"By God, this is a Thonon, girl." The poacher shook his head. "You did spend too much time among those heathens!" But he got to his feet and plodded out, still grumbling to himself. Martine replaced the pistol in its case.

She glanced at Nell. "All ready, then?" The English girl smiled calmly. Her multi-barrelled pistol lay before her on the table. She picked the weapon up and holstered it.

* * *

Sarah sat before her mirror, powdering her cheeks. As if she wasn’t looking pale enough. The narrowness of her escape had left her feeling queasy. She pouted at herself with painted lips.

"Just think about your clients," said the black-clad girl behind her. "This house is under our protection now."

Which didn’t make Sarah feel any better. The partnership had been a bad mistake. She and Genevieve had made a deal with these Sicilians, intending to finance a larger house. But the foreign girls had driven a hard bargain. Their ruthlessness had made the sisters realise they were well out of their depth.

Four of them were here tonight, in case that bitch Martine showed up again. The girl behind her was in charge: a hard-faced little tyke called Nicola. She had a long black ponytail and sulky, sooty eyes. Her sombre greatcoat looked a size too large.

"I don’t feel safe with her out there," said Sarah. "Especially now she’s found herself some help."

Her mirror showed the other girl’s disdainful little smile. "She’s just a thieving tramp," said Nicola. "My guess is, she’s cut and run. She won’t get far enough. Nobody kills one of ours and lives to tell the tale."

Sarah didn’t doubt that for a moment. The Sicilians were as cruel as feral cats. Nicola wore a holster pistol slung across her belly. And as for the mistress of their clan … The thought raised the hairs on the back of Sarah’s neck.

Tight-lipped, she started brushing at her halo of blonde curls. They gave her an angelic look: few people would have guessed she was a whore. The ladies’ sewing circle never saw her dressed like this. Her lace-trimmed bodice was undone, revealing the plump contours of her breasts.

"You know where we are," said Nicola. The statement was more threat than reassurance. She sauntered from the room and Sarah glowered after her; then glanced towards the window nervously.

The dark girl went along the passage, heading for the stairs. One of the rooms was occupied: she heard a woman’s urgent, sobbing gasps. The steady creak of bedsprings underpinned it. Nicola paused outside the door, then walked on, smiling thinly to herself.

For Nell, the noise was louder: she was climbing through the window of the room.

The shutters had been left open on the balmy summer night. She’d climbed a tree to reach the outhouse roof. Even in her long-tailed coat, the clamber had been easy – like stealing apples when she was a girl. The couple rutting on the bed were too absorbed to notice. Their panting covered any noise she made.

She’d left her blunderbuss behind, but her bayonet was sheathed and the Twigg pistol was holstered at her hip. She swung across the windowsill as lithely as a cat. The sounds and smells of sex excited her. Swallowing, she crept across the room towards the door, while the trollop’s gasps of passion reached a peak.

Nell couldn’t help but glance at her. The girl’s eyes fluttered open, and grew wide. Her client pumped on heedlessly. Nell placed a warning finger to her lips. But even through his lust, the man had sensed her presence now. He twisted sharply in the girl’s embrace. "What the hell …" he mumbled, trying to push himself back up. His clothes lay strewn across the floor. His rapier dangled from the nearest chair.

Nell snatched it from its scabbard with a rasp of moonlit steel, and drove the point between his shoulder blades. The man slumped forward with a grunt; the girl beneath him squealed helplessly. Nell put her weight behind the thrust and forced the weapon deep. The trollop’s powdered features froze with shock. Then she bucked, grimacing, as the thin blade skewered her and punctured the soft mattress underneath.

The man’s hips thrust convulsively. The girl’s plump body jerked. Her mouth gaped in a climax of despair. Pinned like moths, they wriggled, then relaxed into the sheets. The rapier that transfixed them was stuck fast.

"Sorry, girl." Nell licked her lips. "You’ll have to give him longer than he paid for." Drawing her gun, she moved up to the door and eased it open. The passageway was silent, but she heard the sound of laughter from downstairs.

There was a burly footman in the lobby – the kind that clients wouldn’t argue with. But the latest customer looked much too callow to cause trouble. A slim youth, huddled deep inside his cloak. The footman glimpsed a girlish face beneath the pulled-down tricorne. He guessed it was the lad’s first time. The bawds were going to have some fun with him.

"Let me take your garment, sir," he murmured. A pair of girls looked on lasciviously. The footman eased the cloak off the youth’s shoulders – and Martine jabbed him in the stomach with her shotgun butt. He folded forward, groaning, and she pivoted away, then put her weight behind a scything kick. The impact sent the man careening backwards. He tumbled down the steps into the yard.

Martine spun round and aimed her shotgun at the startled girls. The barrels were cut down to half their length. Her frock coat was unbuttoned to reveal her bare, flat stomach. Her mane of hair was tucked under her hat.

The trollops shuddered with dismay. She gestured with the gun. "It’s a warm night, girls, so why not take a stroll?" They edged around her fearfully and scurried from the house. Martine moved on across the entrance hall.

Nicola came down the stairs, her thoughts fixed on the kitchen. The two girls froze as they came face to face. Martine jerked the shotgun up as the Sicilian grasped her pistol. Nicola saw she had no chance. She pulled a face and let the weapon go.

"Come on down," Martine invited grimly. The stairs creaked slowly as the girl complied. The parlour door was just ajar. They could hear the trollops giggling. Nicola had spread her hands. A cold stiletto nestled in her sleeve.

Then the door swung open, spilling light across the hall. Martine began to turn instinctively. One of the girls was on the threshold, gawping at the gun. Her mouth worked soundlessly, and then she screamed.

Nicola sprang off the staircase, pouncing viciously. It seemed the knife had jumped into her hand. Martine glimpsed it, raised the gun and blocked her downward stab. The Sicilian girl crashed into her and both of them went tumbling to the floor.

They struggled on the carpet like a pair of squalling cats. The half-undressed young trollop screamed again. Nicola fetched up on top and hacked at Martine’s face, but the French girl jammed the gun against her wrist. They strained against each other for a moment: then Martine pulled the trigger of her gun.

The right-hand cock sprang forward and struck sparks into the pan. The powder flashed in the Sicilian’s face. Nicola reared backward from the scalding puff of smoke, and the charge of shot erupted with a thud. It was the whore’s misfortune that the gun was aimed at her, and the blast of pellets hit her shapely breasts. She arched her spine in agony and clutched her punctured flesh, but now she had no breath with which to scream.

Martine slammed the gun against Nicola’s jaw, then hiked her knee at the Sicilian’s groin. The girl in black rolled off her and they clawed their way apart. Nicola’s face was grimed with smoke; she blinked her smarting eyes. There was the sound of footfalls from the kitchen. Nicola sneered and seized her pistol. Martine opened fire from where she lay.

The charge of buckshot spattered blood from Nicola’s black clothes. Her body arched convulsively and kicked. Her shoulders hit the carpet first, her long legs scissoring. Then she crumpled limply as a fog of powdersmoke engulfed the hall.

Martine scrambled back into the parlour. The candles quivered in the sudden draught. The girls were quivering as well. They squealed as she appeared. Some wore bodices and stockings; others, just their bloomers. She glimpsed a sapphire-eyed brunette, a snooty-looking blonde …

She let the smoking shotgun go and dived across the room. The hussies wailed and shrank away from her. The lounge was plush and polished, like a coffin lined with velvet. She dropped behind a sofa as the next Sicilian drew a bead on her.

The girl had reached the threshold with her gun already braced: it was an ornate Turkish blunderbuss. She squeezed the trigger straight away, not caring who she hit. The gun discharged with a volcanic roar.

A storm of grapeshot raked the room. The luckless whores cried out and clasped themselves. Woodwork splintered, cushions tore, a brandy glass was shattered. But nothing could disguise the thud of lead shot hitting flesh.

One ball punched a red hole in the blue-eyed brunette’s forehead. She reared and slumped back on the sofa, staring blankly at the chandelier. The blonde beside her whinnied as more shot struck her large breasts. She squirmed in pain, then flopped against her friend.

The parlour filled with acrid smoke. The Sicilian girl groped through it. She tossed the blunderbuss aside and hauled a duelling pistol from her belt. Her free hand batted at the smoke: it was as dense as soup. She glimpsed a movement and took aim, then realised it was just the dying blonde.

As her forefinger relaxed, Martine bobbed up behind the slumped girl’s shoulder. She triggered her own pistol and the ball struck her opponent in the chest. The bandit squawked and pirouetted like a weathervane. Another splash of crimson daubed the walls.

More smoke rolled into the hall. The third Sicilian girl paused warily. She wore a frilly shirt and black silk waistcoat. Raising her cocked pistol, she edged up beside the door.

"It looks like things are hotting up," a crisp voice said behind her.

She swung around in shock and saw a figure on the stairs, with a black hat and an English soldier’s coat. Before she could react, Nell squeezed the trigger, and a .32 inch ball pierced the girl’s breast. The impact kicked the young Sicilian backwards. Her waistcoat grew a scarlet buttonhole. Grimacing, she triggered her own pistol, which blew a vase apart as she collapsed.

Nell descended one more step; glimpsed movement from the corner of her eye. A fourth girl was below her, in the passage – aiming to catch the redcoat out before she could reload. Nell swung round and fired at her between the banisters. The shot blew a hole in the Sicilian’s brow. Blood spattered on the portrait just behind her. The girl’s head flipped back sharply and she crumpled like a lady in a swoon.

Nell re-cocked the pistol, with two barrels left to fire. She straightened up again – and froze stock-still. The muzzle of another gun pressed hard against her neck. She smelled the perfume through the powdersmoke.

"Drop the gun, you little cow," hissed Sarah in her ear.

Nell did so, very calmly, and began to turn her head. The trollop’s pistol dug into her skin. It was a stubby pocket gun from Sarah’s dressing table. At this range, it could take her head clean off.

Sarah’s face was pallid, but her eyes were like blue ice. She gripped Nell’s collar with her other hand. She wore her frilly underwear, the bodice still unlaced. Nell glimpsed the big pink roundels on her breasts.

"Martine’s down there, isn’t she?" the girl said through her teeth. "Let’s see how much she cares about you, eh?"

Nell peered down into the hall. The white smoke was stagnating. The candles gleamed like lamps in London fog. Gradually the cloud dispersed, revealing a slim figure. Martine stood at the bottom of the stairs.

She’d drawn her second pistol. Sarah shrank behind Nell’s body. The English girl met Martine’s gaze, and winked.

"Where’s your sister?" Martine asked, still aiming up the stairs.

"Genevieve’s at dinner with our partner," Sarah sneered. "A shame she won’t be here to see you die. Now drop your pistol, or I’ll blow your girlfriend’s dumb blonde head off." She jabbed the snub-nosed gun against Nell’s neck.

Martine glared at her, then turned her pistol to one side. The trollop made a small, triumphant sound. Her muscles started to relax – and Nell collapsed against her, as if the nervous strain had made her faint. Sarah lurched, off balance, trying to keep the redcoat upright. Then Nell dropped into a crouch, and the hussy tumbled headlong over her.

She somersaulted down the stairs and landed on her rump. Her mouth fell open in a startled wail. Martine thrust her pistol in, and Sarah’s cry was choked. She goggled at Martine with big blue eyes.

The young thief’s shadowed gaze was unforgiving. "They say that, when the trigger’s pulled, you can feel the Devil coming down your throat."

The pistol gave a muffled thud and Sarah’s body bucked. Her blood splashed on the stair carpet behind her. Her breasts bounced as her body slumped, and then her head fell back. Her mouth stayed open like an O. A perfect smoke ring floated out of it.

Martine sighed with bitter satisfaction, and pushed the pistol back into her belt. She raised her eyes as Nell came down to join her. The English girl gave a sardonic smile.

"I guess that settles your account," she murmured. "But I don’t think those Sicilians are going to let it lie."

Martine shrugged. "So let them come. I’ll bury every one." Her tone of voice was low and vehement. Then her features softened, and she kissed Nell on the cheek. "You should ride on, chérie. They’ll show no mercy."

Her touch was sisterly enough, but it left Nell short of breath. She sensed a secret passion in the girl. It was something which excited and intrigued her. Something which spoke to the restlessness she felt inside herself ...

She nuzzled at Martine – then raised her gun and squeezed both triggers. The lower barrels blazed across the hall. The footman was still levelling a bulky musketoon. The double impact kicked him backwards, down the steps into the yard again.

"You see?" Nell purred in Martine’s ear. "You still need somebody to watch your back."

The French girl hugged her very tight, then went to get her shotgun. Nell waited for her in the smoky hall. Then they slipped out of the bloody brothel, and fled like lovers in the summer night.