A faint, mirthless smile touched Luna’s mouth, the dark shadows behind him illuminated by a leaping red-and-orange glow of lantern light that seemed hellish and terrifying to Ginny’s dazed mind as she huddled on the dirt floor and fought waves of burning nausea. In her befuddled state of mind, she thought for a moment that it was Ivan Sahrkanov who stood staring at Steve with such a cruel smile of grim satisfaction.

But then the images swam away again and she shuddered as a new wave of nausea washed over her. She closed her eyes against it. When she opened them again, the two men each held a glittering saber, the lethal blades sparking faint glimmers of lamplight in tiny starbursts.

It was obvious that Rafael Luna was a master swordsman and confident of his ability. He moved with the fluid grace of a dancer, the gleaming tongue of his saber darting in and out, the clash of steel against steel a ringing, brittle sound in the turbid air of feeble lamplight and shadows.

But if Luna had thought he had the advantage over Steve Morgan by using the sword—after all, it was the acknowledged weapon preferred by gentlemen and aristocrats instead of hard-eyed American mercenaries—he discovered that he was very much mistaken. As proficient as Luna was, he quickly saw that he had grossly underestimated his opponent.

Air gusted from flared nostrils as Luna parried the smooth, seemingly effortless kiss of Morgan’s blade against his own. What had begun as a swift, methodical and efficient execution became a fight for survival. Beads of sweat dotted Luna’s brow and upper lip, dampened his skin so that his thin shirt clung to his chest.

They fought silently, moving across the floor of the room with savage intensity. At the door of the posada men crowded to watch, necks craning as they made bets on how long it would take the so excellent Spanish criollo to disarm and kill the blue-eyed norteamericano.

“Dios! He fights well for a gringo,” one of the Rurales muttered, disappointment in his tone at the thought of losing his bet—and perhaps the lovely puta crouched on the floor. “But no matter, for there is only one of him and there are many of us, eh? We have our orders, after all, and there is the woman…”

Sergeant Rameriz laughed softly. “We take no orders, even from Spain. The woman is ours, whether he wins or loses. We will have her and the silver he promised. Then we will take her to el capitán, and be rewarded for our generosity. Perhaps we will even visit with Cortina, eh?”

Rubbing his crotch with one hand, the sergeant shifted the rifle he held beneath his arm forward, a casual gesture but significant. The others laughed.

Ginny heard them and shuddered, terrified even in her fog of confusion.