Lost Lords: No Longer A Gentleman Part 10

"Is he a deserter from the army?" Madame Gilbert asked bluntly.

"No," Ca.s.sie said firmly. "He is not capable of being a soldier."

The older woman shrugged. "Best not tell me anything I might have to lie about. But as one mother to another, I'll say that the gendarmes in this district spend much of their time hunting down deserters, and they often come along this road. Most of 'em are soldiers who were invalided out of the army, so they don't like seeing anyone else escape the suffering."

"Truly Gregoire was never in the army, but he is of a soldierly age." Ca.s.sie didn't like what she was hearing. "Is there another road the gendarmes are less fond of?"

Madame Gilbert's mouth quirked up, as if Ca.s.sie had just confirmed that her "son" was an escaping soldier. "Aye, and not far away. A little muddy lane leads by my stables. It doesn't look like much, but if you follow its wandering through the fields, eventually it ends at another road that runs north. Narrow and quiet."

Curious, Ca.s.sie said, "You sound sympathetic to deserters."

The older woman's mouth hardened. "Napoleon's wars killed my husband, my brother, and both my sons. They'll not get my grandsons, and I won't help the gendarmes track down any poor devils who don't want to die in muddy foreign fields."

"I don't much care who wins." Which wasn't true. Napoleon must be destroyed. More truthfully, Ca.s.sie added, "I just want this endless fighting over."

"Amen to that. You're interested in washing the dog?"

"That, a hot meal, and permission to bed down in the stables. Gregoire will be happier if he's near the horses."

The landlady nodded, by now convinced that Grey was a deserter. "It's a nice snug building. You'll sleep well there. As for the dog, there's a laundry shed next to the stables with a pump, tubs, soap, and brushes. The hot meal tonight is mutton stew."

"That sounds perfect, madame." Ca.s.sie pulled out a thin purse. "How much for everything?" Including information more valuable than a roof over their heads.

Regine accepted washing without enthusiasm, but she didn't bite or try to run away as Grey scrubbed her in the small washhouse. Ca.s.sie stayed out of splashing distance, admiring Grey's bare chest and the dog's increasing cleanliness. Regine would never be beautiful, but she was a happy beast who gazed at Grey with adoration. One of her parents might have been a beagle. The other ancestors were anyone's guess.

After Regine had been scrubbed and dried with rough towels, they retired to the stables, which were indeed snug. Madame Gilbert kept a pair of staid cart horses, but there was plenty of room for Thistle and Achille.

Thinking it best to keep Grey away from the landlady, Ca.s.sie carried their suppers to the stable on a tray. The mutton stew was hearty and flavorful, the home-brewed beer a good accompaniment, and there was plenty of fresh bread to sop up the last of the stew.

It was dusk when Ca.s.sie took back the tray with the dirty dishes. She returned to the stables to find that Grey had spread a blanket over a pile of loose straw and was reclining on it, Regine beside him. Grey was long and lean and glorious in the dim light of a single lantern. Though disheveled and still too thin, eating well was taking the gaunt edges off his appearance.

"This combines the informal pleasures of camping with the advantage of having a roof, a good hot meal, and an easy escape if we need to leave in a hurry." Since Regine lay on his right, he patted the straw on his left. "Come sit beside me, Ca.s.sie the Fox. Having satisfied one appet.i.te, it's time to satisfy another."

"You are shameless," she said as she complied, happy to lounge by his warm body in the cooling evening.

"So Lady Agnes Westerfield once said. She was laughing, but she meant it. And she was right." Grey half rolled over Ca.s.sie and settled into a long, thorough kiss. "Will I have any success in seducing you?"

"I suppose I have a couple of minutes to spare," she said teasingly as the fingers of her right hand slid into his tangled hair.

"Vixen!" He kissed her throat. "You're trying to insult me into demonstrating my manly endurance."

"You have deduced my fell scheme!" she said with a gurgle of laughter. When Grey wasn't distressed, he made her laugh like no other man she'd known.

He buried his face in the angle between her throat and shoulder. "Oh, Ca.s.sie, Ca.s.sie," he said huskily. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

"I am merely a thing?" She nipped his earlobe, thinking how much she would miss this playfulness and laughter.

He laughed. "The best thing." He kissed her temple. "The best luck." He kissed the tip of her nose. "The best person." He licked her ear. "And the very best, most amazing woman." He ended his litany by bringing his mouth down on hers.

The deep, thorough kiss almost dissolved her ability to think. A long, delicious interval later, she murmured, "Your best luck was probably going to school with Kirkland. Not many men would spend so long searching for a lost friend."

"True." His hand slid down her torso. "But think of how much less amusing it would be if he'd sent one of his male agents to Castle Durand."

"Given your state of deprivation, you might not have cared who rescued you." She arched into his hand. "Any warm, willing body would do equally well."

"Wicked, wicked vixen! Even ten years wasn't enough for me to forget the differences between males and females. Though perhaps I should refresh my memory ..."

He was reaching for her hem when shouts and the jangle of harness sounded in the yard outside. They froze.

In the quiet night, a harsh voice demanded entry to Auberge du Soleil in the name of the emperor so fugitives and deserters could be captured. Madame Gilbert replied robustly, telling the gendarmes she had no deserters in her inn, and why were the cochons disturbing law-abiding citizens at their dinners?

Desire and laughter vanished. Ca.s.sie swore under her breath. "Time we were leaving." She scrambled from the straw. "A good thing we hadn't unpacked."

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" Grey leaped to his feet and started toward the stable doors. "I'd like to ..."

Ca.s.sie grabbed his arm. "We are not charging out there to take on half a dozen armed men! We are going to quietly saddle up and leave by the back door and take the lane that runs away from the road and the inn."

His arm was rigid under her hand, but after drawing a deep breath, he turned away from the door and reached for his saddle. "Will they harm Madame Gilbert?"

"She's a formidable woman and she seemed experienced with such visits from the gendarmerie." Ca.s.sie tossed her saddle blanket over Thistle. "Her protests will buy us a few minutes before they search the stables. The best thing we can do for her is be gone without leaving any traces that we were here. Tell your dog not to bark."

Expression grim, Grey folded the blanket and packed it into his saddlebags. When they were ready to leave, Ca.s.sie scanned the area while Grey quietly opened the doors in the back of the stables. She'd surveyed the lane earlier. Though narrow and muddy, it ran between thick hedgerows so they would disappear from view quickly.

Ca.s.sie dowsed the lantern and they led their mounts out. Regine trotted along behind them, puzzled but cooperative. Luckily, she wasn't a barker.

They left just in time. Behind them lanterns flared and an officer ordered his men to search all their outbuildings. Giving thanks that the gendarmes were making so much noise, Ca.s.sie led the way out into the lane. A mist was turning into light rain and the damp cold bit to the bone. She hoped that somewhere down the lane they'd find shelter.

At least this time they weren't escaping through a blizzard.

He was hunted like a rabbit through the fields, hounds baying for his blood. He fell and lay panting and helpless while hunters and hounds crashed down on him. But instead of the swift death of being torn to pieces, they captured him, bound his limbs, dragged him back to prison, and dropped him into a bottomless pit, where he fell into endless night ...

Grey woke up screaming into the darkness. He lashed out, but before full-blown panic destroyed the last shreds of sanity, warm arms embraced him and a soothing female voice said, "It's all right, Grey. We're safe here." Her soft voice and strong body were sanctuary in a black, bleak world. "We escaped without the gendarmes knowing we'd been there."

Heart pounding and fists knotted, he fought to master himself. Mind over frantic instinct. He was not imprisoned, was not trapped in a lightless eternity. "Sorry," he managed. "Knowing that we're being pursued must have triggered a bad dream."

"The first since you escaped?"

His first reaction was to say that it was, but he couldn't lie to Ca.s.sie. "Not the first, but the worst." He wrapped his arms around her, feeling his panic recede. "When you're close, they go away quickly." He frowned into the darkness. "Did I strike you when I was thrashing around?"

"No, though not for lack of trying!" she replied. "Luckily I dodge well."

Thank G.o.d for that. "Remind me where we are?"

"A shed built to protect livestock fodder," she explained. "At this season, most of the fodder has been used so there's s.p.a.ce for weary travelers to sleep."

"No wonder it's so b.l.o.o.d.y cold," he muttered, remembering now how they'd found the lean-to after a couple of hours of wet, miserable walking. They'd led the horses because it was too dark to ride.

The sky was lightening, so dawn must be near. He rested his cheek against her hair. Regine, he realized, was the warm weight curled up against his opposite side. "How long until we reach the coast?"

"We can make it in four days if we push hard. Which we should," she said soberly. "Durand must have sent out flyers describing us as dangerous spies, likely with a reward. Anyone with even a vague resemblance to his fugitives is going to be noticed and perhaps detained."

"Should I take off my beard?" He rubbed his chin, wondering what lay beneath the whiskers. "That would change my appearance."

"They don't really know your appearance." A smile came into her voice. "I suspect that if you're clean shaven, every woman we pa.s.s will remember you, and that's the opposite of what we want."

He felt himself coloring in the darkness. When he was younger, women of all ages noticed him. He'd taken the attention for granted, vain young fool that he was. Now the thought made him vaguely uncomfortable. "Any description of you would be as an old woman, wouldn't it? That's how you looked at the castle. Can you cover up the gray in your hair? Then we could travel as husband and wife."

"Changing our appearances is a good idea for both of us," she agreed. "I have some temporary brown coloring in my saddlebags."

"Nothing you pull out of those saddlebags surprises me anymore." He rubbed the lithe length of her back, wanting to touch as much of her as he could. "I half expected you to produce a four-poster bed when we stopped here."

"Nonsense. This lean-to isn't large enough for my four-poster."

He smiled and the last of his nightmare tension faded away. "I'll be glad to have you playing the role of my wife. It felt rather perverted to have you as my mother."

"That didn't stop you from behaving in a perverted way," she pointed out as she slid a hand under his coat.

He stiffened, and so did the part of his body where her hand came to rest. "I'm shameless, remember?" he said a little breathlessly. "I think we should now celebrate our new status as husband and wife."

"Well, it's a way to warm up," she said thoughtfully. "For a couple of minutes."

Joy and desire began bubbling through him despite their precarious circ.u.mstances. "Another challenge, my lady fox?" He cupped the delicious softness of her breast. "I promise I shall warm you until the sun comes up."

And he did.

Chapter 20.

Reports flooded into Durand as a result of the flyers. There were no sightings for the priest. Either Laurent Saville had gone to ground very successfully, or he was so frail that he'd died from the rigors of escape. If so, good riddance, though Durand continued searching. The old man could be useful.

But there were many possible sightings of Wyndham and an old woman. Sorting through them was the sort of work at which Durand excelled. He had an instinct for what rang true, and that instinct was triggered by the story of a minor altercation in a market town. An old woman and a man who behaved badly because of a worthless mongrel. That sounded English.

He wondered if the old woman really was female. Given the examples he'd been given of her strength and cunning, he wouldn't be surprised to learn that Wyndham's rescuer was a short man disguised as a woman. Though maybe the strength and cunning came from the men who traveled with her. There were too many possibilities. The only thing Durand had to go on was the likelihood that Wyndham was traveling north.

The pair from the market incident were heading in the right direction, but there were no convincing sightings farther along the road they'd been traveling. Durand studied alternative routes on a map. A minor road to the east looked plausible, and it ran toward Boulogne, right on the English Channel.

There were plenty of fishermen who doubled as smugglers along the coast. Which group was most likely? The Ministry of Police had files on many of them.

Map case in hand, Durand ordered up a carriage and headed north.

The next four days were plagued by the constant itchy fear of pursuit. They were also the hardest riding Grey had ever done. If he hadn't been hardened by several days of slower travel first, Ca.s.sie would have had to tie him to his mount.

Achille and Thistle were gone, traded for fresher, stronger horses. He thought he saw regret in Ca.s.sie's eyes when she sold the pony, but she was too pragmatic to complain. She was a tireless taskmistress, pushing them both with steely determination.

Some nights they were even too tired to make love. But he was never too tired to want to hold her as they fell asleep. Having her close staved off the nightmares.

Grey had enough male pride not to complain about the pace she set, though by the time they reached the seaside tavern northeast of Boulogne, he felt as if he'd been pummeled by professional boxers. It was late afternoon when the tavern came into view.

"Our destination," Ca.s.sie said. "They know me here. We're almost home."

He looked across the channel, barely breathing. "England is just across the water. It's hard to believe." Someday he'd look on this journey as a brief, improbable interlude on the way back to his real life, but for now, it was his world. The road, the travel, and Ca.s.sie. He wouldn't miss the endless fear or hours on horseback, and a return to civilized living with regular hot water and clean clothes would be welcome.

But he couldn't imagine life without Ca.s.sie.

When they reached the tavern, Ca.s.sie dismounted. "Take the horses to the stables," she said. "I'll talk to my friend Marie. She's another of France's countless war widows. With luck, we'll be able to sail tonight. The weather looks right."

"You'll miss giving me orders," Grey said as he accepted the reins of her mount.

"Very true. I adore telling big, strong men what to do," she agreed. "I'll just have to come back to France and rescue some other poor fellow to order about."

Her words were teasing, but they sliced into him like knives as he headed to the stables. This journey with Ca.s.sie had been the happiest time of his life. It was jarring to be reminded that to her, he was just another job.

"I've lain with men for worse reasons." Did she lie with all the men she rescued? He hated the thought, yet he had no right to ask about her past or other men she'd known.

He bit his lip as he dismounted. Regine sensed his agitation and pressed against his leg. At least one female on this journey thought the sun rose and set on him.

As he bedded down the horses, he told himself that he should be adult enough to accept that Ca.s.sie was special to him even though he'd never be as special to her. But he wasn't sure he was that mature.

Ca.s.sie entered the tavern's taproom. The cozy room had tables and a simply built bar at the far end. A young boy sat at a table studying while a middle-aged woman with a comfortably rounded figure and a lapful of knitting sat behind the bar.

"Bonsoir, Marie," Ca.s.sie greeted her. "I'm glad to see you looking so peaceful."

"Ca.s.sandra! You're a welcome sight." Marie set aside her knitting. "Do you remember my nephew Antoine?"

"Indeed I do. Don't let me interfere with your lessons, Antoine."

He stood and offered a gap-toothed smile, then returned to his textbook. Marie continued, "Are you just pa.s.sing through?"

"Yes, and the shorter the visit the better." Ca.s.sie pulled out a small jingling pouch from the pocket hidden under her skirt.

"You're in luck. There's a fishing trip scheduled for tonight."

That was good news; the sooner they left France, the better. "Is there s.p.a.ce for two pa.s.sengers?" When Marie nodded, Ca.s.sie handed over the pouch. "Here's the fare."

Marie made the money disappear. "Always such a pleasure doing business with you, Ca.s.sie. Where is your companion?"

"Bedding down our horses. Two decent hacks, nothing special. I'm not sure when I'll be back this way, so use them as you need."

Marie glanced out a window. The day had been overcast, and night was falling quickly. "There's just enough time for you and your companion to have a bite before you go down to the cove. I'll send Antoine to the boat to tell them pa.s.sengers are coming."

As Antoine closed his book, several hors.e.m.e.n arrived outside. Ca.s.sie said in a low voice, "It's possible my companion and I are being pursued."