Hostage to Love Page 10

  Anthony sat and ordered a mug of ale. A poor place which could do with patronage, but he wasn’t welcome. The innkeeper eyed him with suspicion. He slapped the ale down on the table in front of him, causing froth to seep over the top. “English?”

  “Mademoiselle Bourget,” Anthony said. “Her farm is near here?”

  The man folded his arms. “Who wants to know?”

  “I do.” Anthony raised the tankard and drank the ale down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She wrote to me asking for help.” He took the letter from his pocket, but didn’t open it. He threw a few coins onto the table.

  “The Bourget farm lies within an hour’s ride. Take the Rouen road.” The innkeeper pocketed the money, picked up the mug and then ran his cloth over the table to wipe up the spill. “She’s a good woman. What would she want with you?”

  Anthony pushed back his chair and stood. “Nothing to concern yourself about, my good fellow. I wish her no harm, and if you do not speak of this, you will not harm her either.”

  He rode away from the small cluster of whitewashed cottages, past a reedy duck pond and down a long straight road. Close to a half hour later, just as the inn-keeper had described, was a sign for fresh eggs at Bourget’s Farm. He guided the horse into a narrow lane, bordered by apple trees, the air sweet with the smell of blossom, which reminded him of Verity. The hum of bees sounded loud in his ears. He straightened in the saddle and shook his head to clear it of distracting thoughts. Riding on, the lane led beside a meadow where a black and white cow grazed.

  Beyond a copse of trees smoke rose from a chimney. Keen to see Phillippe, Anthony nudged the horse’s flank and broke into a canter, his eye on the smudge of smoke dispersing into the blue-gray sky, unsure what awaited him. The lane led to a whitewashed cottage with a high, red-tiled roof with a weathered barn nearby. The front door opened, and a comely young woman with thick coils of black hair stepped out. She shaded her eyes from the sun.

  Anthony dismounted and tied his horse to a post. He removed his hat. “Mademoiselle Bourget? I am Lord Beaumont.”

  Her dark eyes were red, and shadows lay beneath. She looked exhausted. Had she been crying? His heart was in his throat. “You wrote concerning my brother-in-law.…”

  “I am relieved that you are here, my lord.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Please come inside.”

  The small room was simply furnished with a wooden table and two chairs. A wooden hutch contained china. The narrow wooden stairs led to the attic room above. He searched the woman’s eyes, fearing what he would find. “Philippe is here?”

  She gestured upstairs. “The wound became infected…” she began.

  Anthony leapt up the stairs taking them two at a time.

  Philippe lay in bed in the attic room a sheet covering his naked chest. He muttered incoherently, moving restlessly, his right shoulder bandaged. The table, the rug on the bare boards, everything spotless including the bedsheet. Anthony sat on the chair and leaned over Philippe, felt his forehead. Dry and hot.

  “How long has he been like this?”

  “Two days. I wanted to call the doctor, but I don’t trust him. A band of soldiers of the Republic have been combing the area.”

  “Is he improving?”

  “It’s too early to tell. I pray the fever will break soon.” She shrugged. “Even if it does, he will not be well enough to travel for some weeks.”

  “Is it safe here?”

  A Gallic shrug. “Is anywhere?”

  “Then we must wait. May I see the wound?” Anthony removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

  Mademoiselle Bourget fetched scissors and carefully removed the bandage.

  Anthony was heartened by what he saw. The ball had gone clean through the soft part of the shoulder. Entry and exit rounds showed no sign of infection. “Missed the lung, and no broken bones. But any wound is dangerous if it becomes infected.”

  She bandaged the wound again with quick deft fingers. “I made a poultice with herbs, apple brandy and crushed garlic.”

  “You’ve done well.” Anthony stretched wearily. “Will you fetch me water and a cloth?”

  “You must be hungry. I’ll prepare food.”

  After some of Mademoiselle’s excellent coffee and a tasty omelet, Anthony ordered her to rest. He remained at Philippe’s side during the night, constantly replacing the cold compress on Philippe’s brow. During the early hours, Philippe quieted. When Mademoiselle came and insisted Anthony rest, he stretched out on the rug with the blanket and pillow she gave him. He woke to the cock’s crow at first light and rolled over to find Philippe’s dark eyes resting on him.

  “How are you?” Anthony drew up the chair.

  “I’m a little better. I’m surprised to find you here. Was that wise?”

  “Not everything we do has to be wise.”

  Philippe gave him a wan smile. His breathing sounded too labored for Anthony’s liking. “Coming from you, Anthony, a man who rates wisdom above most things, that is quite a surprise.”

  “I’m beginning to discover I’m capable of change. Are you up to telling me what happened?”

  “I was riding to Le Havre gaining in confidence with every mile.” He bit his lip, his eyes shadowed. “Thought I’d made it, but a group of soldiers turned up. They commanded me to stop and identify myself. When I tried to outride them, they shot at me. Winged me as you see. I either managed to lose them or they lost interest, but I was losing blood. Guess I fainted. Josette found me. She brought me here in her cart.”

  “You were lucky.” Anthony wished he was in better shape. How long would they be stuck here? It wouldn’t be safe for long. “Were they the National Guard, chasing brigands?”

  Philippe shook his head. “They wore the uniform of the Revolutionary Army.”

  Anthony cursed at the disturbing news. “I’ll tell Mademoiselle you’re awake.”

  “I’m glad you’ve met Josette.” Philippe smiled. “She’s remarkable, don’t you think?”

  “Remarkable.” Anthony grinned at Philippe’s ardent expression. “A very attractive nurse. Perhaps you have purposefully delayed your recovery?”

  Philippe’s laugh turned into a cough, and pain skittered across his face. “You should go home, Anthony,” he said. “I am fine here.”

  “I intend to take you home with me. Better to recuperate in England.” Anthony pushed back the chair and stood. “Just as soon as it’s safe to leave.”

  “No sense in you being in danger as well.”

  “You French are such doubters,” Anthony said. “I can hear Josette downstairs preparing a meal. I’m hungry if you aren’t.”

  “I wish I wasn’t so feeble, Anthony, I’d…” Philippe sighed and fell back onto the pillows.

  “Be a good fellow and allow us to take care of you.”

  Philippe closed his eyes with a smile. “It seems I have no choice.”

  * * *

  Henrietta woke and sat up with a moan. A storm rattled the shutters and wind howled around the inn. Rain lashed the windows. She and Verity found the proprietor in conversation with a sailor.

  The old salt shook his head. “No chance of any boat sailing in this. Maybe tomorrow, if yer lucky.”

  “Let’s find the harbour master.” Henrietta was not about to let the forces of nature thwart her plans.

  The harbour master merely repeated the sailor’s words. “On tomorra’s tide, if the storm passes over.”

  Dispirited, they returned to their bedchamber. “The marquess can’t leave without us,” Verity said. “But we’ll have to hide here all day. But he’ll expect to see me tonight at dinner.”

  “Nothing else to do.” Henrietta stretched out on the cot and stared at the ceiling.

  That night, Henrietta ate a scant supper of fish in the kitchen. Still hungry, she returned to the room. It had become like a prison. An hour later, Verity appeared and collapsed on the bed. “The marquess invited me to dine.” She reached into her reticule and drew
out something wrapped in a napkin. She held it out. “It’s just bread, but I expect they didn’t give you much.”

  “Thank you.” Henrietta took it gratefully. She bit into it with relish. “I suppose you didn’t enjoy his company?”

  “Non.”

  Henrietta swallowed the last mouthful. “We’ll be in France in two days. Listen. Sounds like the wind has dropped.”

  They fell silent. “You could be right,” Verity said after a while. “That is heartening at least. We might as well go to bed.”

  In the morning, the storm had vanished. They hurried to the harbour in the cold dawn as the sun spread pink and gold lights over the horizon.

  There was an overpowering smell of fish and hopeful gulls squawked overhead.

  Henrietta glanced back to check on the sleepy servant who trundled their luggage along on a small cart behind them.

  Verity gestured. “It looks like we’re about to leave, for there he is.”

  The Marquess of Ramsbotham strolled the deck, his hands behind his back, like the admiral of a large fleet.

  A sailor jumped onto the wharf and assisted them aboard the schooner. “Just in time.” The marquess said at the rail. “We have perfect conditions. If this fine wind remains at our back, I expect to arrive in France in a matter of hours.”

  Henrietta tugged her hat low over her face and followed Verity.

  The bosun gave orders as the crew scurried around the deck, raising the topsails. They flapped in the strong, briny breeze. A boy shimmied up the foremast. The bow and stern ropes were released and coiled onto the deck. “Weigh anchor,” the bosun yelled. With a loud rattle and a whoosh, it emerged from the water. The helmsman took the wheel, and with a shudder, the wind caught the sails and the boat surged forward.

  “Stow that trunk in the cabin,” Ramsbotham ordered. “Show Madame’s page to the crews’ quarters.”

  “I prefer my servant to remain with me,” Verity said.

  “You French have strange ideas of propriety.” He considered her with an eyebrow raised. “What name does he go by?”

  “Pierre.”

  “Pierre, come here. I want to look at you.”

  Henrietta ignored him. She remained at the rail, staring down into the surging waves.

  “He cannot hear you. He is deaf, my lord,” Verity said.

  “A deaf page? You grow more interesting by the moment, Madame.”

  “It happened while in my husband’s employ. He suffered a complaint that left him unable to hear. I should have replaced him, but I’ve grown fond of him.”

  “I have seen him take orders from you.”

  “The youth knows my wishes well and can read lips a little.”

  Ramsbotham shrugged. “Escort them to their quarters.” A sailor and the cabin boy snapped to attention. A big burly sailor hefted the trunk as if it weighed as little as a bandbox. The marquess turned to Verity. “Please join me in the salon after we leave the harbor.”

  Henrietta and Verity followed the cabin boy down into the bowels of the ship. He opened a door, winked at Henrietta, and scampered away. The sailor stowed their trunk in the tiny cabin.

  When they were alone, Henrietta poked at the top berth. “That Ramsbotham suspects something.” She steadied herself against the tilt of the boat and went to peer out the porthole.

  They sailed out of the mouth of the harbor, driven along by a stiff wind as Ramsbotham had predicted.

  “I’ll deal with him.” Verity removed her cloak and hat. She smoothed her gown and opened the cabin door.

  “Be careful. I don’t trust him,” Henrietta said.

  “I’ve met worse.” Verity went out into the passage.

  A bell sounded the quarter hour. White-frothed waves swirled past the porthole. Loud creaks and groans rent the air as the boat rose and fell in the heavy swell. The cabin reeked of rum and stale pipe smoke. Henrietta didn’t feel well. She swallowed, longing for fresh air.

  ***

  Verity entered the elegant, roomy salon paneled in oak. Ramsbotham sat on a damask seat, legs crossed, drinking wine, while a servant attended him. “There you are.” He came and kissed her hand, then gestured for her to join him. “May I offer you wine?”

  “Merci, but I would prefer coffee.” Verity took the crimson velvet bench beneath the port hole rather than the one beside him. She accepted a cup from the servant and took a sip. It was good coffee. When they were alone, Ramsbotham studied her.

  “Where were you born, Madame?”

  “Rouen.”

  “What was the reason you came England?”

  “My husband, may he rest in peace, was an English merchantman.”

  “Do you have children?”

  Verity shook her head. She wished she’d given her story more consideration. He had clever eyes.

  “Your history is unusual. Where did you meet your husband?”

  “In Hon Fleur. So many questions, my lord.”

  He smiled. “And such brief answers. I gather Rouen is your destination?”

  “Oui.”

  He left his seat and joined her on the bench. Leaned over and stroked her cheek. “You’re a very pretty woman.”

  “You are too kind.”

  He edged closer. “Why, you might be a famous actress, if you chose.”

  Verity’s scalp tingled. So, he knew. “An actress, my lord? Might a widow choose such a profession?”

  His eyes gleamed. “You should be able to tell me that.”

  “Will you forgive me if I cannot?”

  “Will I?” He tapped his chin. “You shall have to pay a forfeit.”

  Verity put her cup down. She rose to her feet and moved beyond his reach. “These cabins are surprisingly comfortable.” She strolled around the airy space, tamping down her dread. He knew her to be an actress traveling in disguise for some reason and thought her a courtesan, perhaps. He was keen to act on it.

  As she walked, she trailed a finger along the fine wooden paneling edged in gold. A matter of hours before they reached land. She could handle him. “I grew sick of England. Gray sky, gray water, and gray gulls. I am eager to reach my homeland.”

  His gaze rested on her face. “You don’t ask what the penalty might be.”

  “You hold all the cards, do you not?” She raised an eyebrow. He stared back at her without any sign of embarrassment, and she knew he was a formidable enemy. “Please put your cards on the table. That is what the English say, oui? What is the forfeit to be?”

  He walked over to her, held her chin in his hand. “A kiss, to begin with.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  He tilted up her chin with a finger, his eyes on her mouth. “I might kiss your page instead.”

  Verity forced a laugh. “You like to kiss pages?”

  “A young female page, certainly.”

  “I will pay the forfeit,” she said.

  He pulled her against him and brought his mouth down on hers. She stiffened within his arms. It was a hard, proprietary kiss, a statement of possession, lacking tenderness. Verity had played this game before. She had learned much in her short career. When his lips lingered too long, she pushed him away. “I have paid your penalty, my lord.”

  He breathed heavily, his eyes narrowed. “We have tonight, Madame.”

  She opened her fan and waved it in front of her face, longing to wipe away his kiss. “It is airless here. Might we go up on deck?”

  He bowed. “As you wish.”

  Verity hurried out to stand at the rail. She welcomed the moist wind on her face as if it could remove his touch. England was vanishing in the distance, a dark-gray shape behind them. “I’m afraid I do not appear to have sea legs. When do we reach France?”

  “If we continue to make excellent time, before dawn. If the wind changes, during the morning. Perhaps your page deals better with the sea?”

  She turned to face him. “Let’s leave my page out of this.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Plain speaking?”

  �
�I will come to your cabin tonight.”

  “I shall expect you.” His eyes flashed at his success. Well, he didn’t know her, did he.

  Chapter Twelve

  Christian reached Portsmouth by mid-morning. He paid for his passage on a ship bound for Le Havre and spent the time allotted to him to inquire at the inns along the harbor front. At the Pelican Inn, he discovered a lady and her page had spent two nights and departed on the morning tide in the Marquess of Ramsbotham’s schooner, the Narcissus. Filled with disquiet, Christian returned to his ship. He would inquire again at Le Havre, but with a day’s grace, the women would be long gone, and he must travel directly to Paris. Where was Beaumont? Had he returned safely to England with his brother-in-law? Or would it be Christian’s next mission to snatch them from the jaws of the guillotine? If his own assignment went smoothly. And if it didn’t, as a government agent, he understood that if he struck trouble, no help would come.

  * * *

  Anthony shook his head with a wry smile. Philippe, despite his weakened state, had fallen in love with Mademoiselle Bourget. French men were incorrigible; Anthony was sure they would flirt while breathing their last. To give the couple time alone, he took himself off for a walk. They must leave soon or risk discovery. Although Philippe’s condition was improving daily, moving him now could be disastrous. His wound might re-open and he could bleed to death before they reached home. A decision needed to be made soon.

  Anthony strolled through the orchard, reached up and plucked a red apple. Took a bite of sweet white flesh. Munching, he worked on a safe means to get them back to England. Philippe was unable to ride, and the cart would be slow. Impossible to escape the soldiers.

  He tossed the apple core and stepped out onto the lane, planning to return to the cottage. the sound of rapid hoof beats came from somewhere behind him. A group of horsemen appeared, and he broke into a run, and darted between the apple trees, his eyes on the forest ahead.