He heard her speaking French, saw her sitting at his desk, looking so very young, her voice clear and precise, her accent atrocious. He smiled even as the pain ebbed and flowed deep inside him.
He would find her; he had to. He couldn’t now imagine facing a life without her.
The following day the storm had become a gale. No one was going anywhere. Rain splattered the windowpanes, and thunder shook the earth. Tree branches on the poplars were pressed nearly to the ground by the force of the wind. Douglas prayed that Georges had gotten Alexandra to France safely. He laughed harshly even as he prayed for that.
As for his mother, Lady Lydia sensed that the upstart wife who had been unknown to her son before she’d thrust herself into their lives had shifted in his regard. She wasn’t stupid; she kept such thoughts as let the twit stay gone behind her teeth. As for Sinjun, she tried to keep her brother occupied.
It was no good. The storm raged outside and Douglas raged inside. Even Hollis was looking thin about the mouth. The entire household was tense, silent.
That night Douglas slept in Alexandra’s room. He slept deeply simply because Hollis had slipped laudanum in his wine. He dreamed of Alexandra and she was standing there at the stables, laughing, patting her mare’s nose all the while, telling Douglas that she loved him, loved him, loved him . . .
And then he was awake and Alexandra was standing there beside the bed, speaking to him.
CHAPTER
22
HE STARED THEN blinked rapidly. It wasn’t so very dark in the bedchamber and that was surely strange for it had been black as pitch when he’d gone to bed. But no, there she was, standing next to the bed, and he could see her clearly, too clearly really, and she was smiling gently down at him, saying, “She is all right.” But she hadn’t really said anything, had she? Yet he’d heard those words clearly in his mind.
It wasn’t Alexandra. He reached out his hand and she stepped back very quickly, yet she hardly seemed to move, but he knew that he’d touched her sleeve, though he’d felt nothing, just the still air.
He felt a deep strangling fear, fear of the unknown, fear of ghosts and goblins and evil monsters that lived in cupboards and came out at night to bedevil little boys.
“No,” Douglas said. “No, you’re not bloody real. I’m worried sick and my mind has dished you up to torment me, nothing more, nothing, damn you!”
Her hair was long and straight and so light a blond that it was white, and the gown was billowing gently around her yet the air was still and heavy with the weight of the storm. He had, of course, seen her before, rather his mind had produced her before with a goodly amount of fanfare. She’d come to him that long-ago night when Alexandra had tried to escape him. She would have succeeded in escaping him had his mind not brought her to him.
Suddenly, without warning, Douglas saw Alexandra in his mind’s eye. She was in a small room lying on a narrow cot. Her gown was wrinkled and torn. Her hair was straggling around her face. She was pale but he saw no fear. Her wrists and ankles were tied with rope. She was awake and he could practically see her thinking, plotting madly for a way to escape, and that made him smile. She had guts. Then he saw just as clearly the small cottage where she was and the village. It was Etaples.
Georges Cadoudal had a sense of irony.
He said aloud, his voice low and slightly blurred, “This isn’t possible. You’re not real. But how . . .”
“The storm will be gone early in the morning.” The words swirled and eddied in his mind. She was leaving, gently and slowly she backed away and she was smiling at him and nodding slightly, moving backward, always moving, more like floating, and then she was simply gone.
Douglas refused to accept it. He leapt from the bed and he ran in the direction she’d gone. Nothing. He lit the candle beside the bed and held it up. The room was empty except for him. He was breathing fast, his heart pounding hard with the shock of it, the fear of it.
“You wretched piece of nothing, come back here! Coward! You ridiculous mind phantom!”
There was no sound save the rain beating steadily against the windows and the occasional branch slashing and raking against the glass.
He stood there for a very long time, naked and shivering and wondering. He had a headache.
At dawn the rain had slowed to a drizzle. At seven o’clock, the clouds parted and the sun came out.
Douglas came downstairs, fully dressed, and strode into the breakfast room. He drew up short. Tony Parrish was seated at the breakfast table drinking coffee and eating his way through eggs and bacon and kippers and scones.
He looked up and smiled at his cousin. “Sit down and eat. Then we’ll leave. We’ll find her, Douglas, don’t worry.”
“I know,” Douglas said and joined him.
Tony waited until Douglas had eaten steadily for several minutes. “What do you mean you know?”
To tell the truth? Ah, no, not the truth, but it would be a treat to watch Tony’s face change until he was regarding him like a Bedlamite. He just smiled, saying, “Georges Cadoudal took her to Etaples. We’ll leave in just a few more minutes. We’ll make the tide and be in France, with luck, in eight hours. Then we’ll hire mounts and be in Etaples in the early morning.”
“How do you know where she is, Douglas? Did Cadoudal leave a ransom note?”
“Yes,” Douglas said and took a bite of toast. “Yes, it was a note. I would have left sooner but the storm prevented it. Is Melissande with you?”
“Yes, she’s sleeping.”
“Ah.”
“While you’re eating, tell me about this Cadoudal fellow and why he took Alexandra.”
Douglas told him the truth, there was no reason now not to. He didn’t tell him of Cadoudal’s plan nor his million guineas from the English government to bring Napoleon down, sow insurrection in Paris, and put Louis XVI’s brother, the Comte d’Artois, on the throne. But he told him of Janine Daudet and how the woman had told her lover Georges Cadoudal, that he, Douglas, was the father of her child. She’d been too afraid to tell him that it had been General Belesain or one of the men he’d given her to who had impregnated her. And then she couldn’t take it back. She hadn’t known that Georges would seek retribution until it was too late.
“The woman’s mad!” Tony said. “Why should she serve you such a turn, Douglas? Good God, you saved her!”
Douglas toyed with a limp slice of bacon, memory ebbing and flowing in his mind. “It’s quite simple, really, from her point of view. I rejected her.”
“I don’t understand any of this. What the devil are you talking about?”
But Douglas had pushed back his chair and stood. “I will tell you on the way to Eastbourne.”
The air was crisp and cool and a slight breeze blew in their faces. Garth was full of energy and spirits and Douglas had his hands full controlling him. Both men carried pistols and knives. They both wore tall boots and buckskins and capes.
Douglas said finally to Tony, “She believed I didn’t want to take her to bed because she’d been turned into a whore by General Belesain. It wasn’t true, of course. As for the general, it’s quite possible he used her as his own private whore, for visitors, for friends, whoever. He gave her to me for my enjoyment, no reason to believe that he hadn’t given her to other men before I arrived. In any case, she was furious and hurt because I wouldn’t bed her and she dished me up when she realized she was pregnant.”
Tony shook his head. He cursed. Then he frowned, musing aloud, “I wonder why Cadoudal sent you a note. If he wanted retribution why wouldn’t he simply take Alexandra and say nothing? He wants money?”
“No. He wants something else.”
Tony started to ask what it was the man wanted, saw the closed look on Douglas’s face, and held his counsel.
They arrived in Eastbourne in good time. Douglas had hired a weathered but worthy sloop. Their captain cursed the air blue. The crew didn’t seem to mind, just went efficiently about their business. They were on the
ir way within two hours. The tide was strong and swift.
They arrived in Calais seven and a half hours later.
She’d fought and struggled when he’d held her in front of him on his horse. He’d struck her with his pistol to keep her quiet. He’d struck her hard so that when she finally came to herself again, she had a deep pounding headache that made her want to retch. She was lying propped up against an oak tree. Since her hands were bound, she determined not to retch. She would be strong; she would control her body. She had scarce time to gather her wits when he was there, beside her, and he was forcing liquid down her throat. Before she lost consciousness she knew she smelled the sea.
She realized once she’d awakened that he’d drugged her. But how long ago? Where had he brought her now? She had no idea where she was, in a small house somewhere, since she was lying on a bed, securely bound, feeling dirty, hungry, and quite thirsty, but where?
She was alone. Any guards he’d left were outside the single door. Her thoughts were muzzy and she closed her eyes to try to regain clarity.
“So, you’re awake. I’d hoped I hadn’t killed you. I have never been any good guessing at amounts of laudanum. Of course,” he added quickly, “I am good at everything else.”
She opened her eyes. He was standing beside the bed, looking down at her. How had he come into the room so quietly? He looked tired, his flesh drawn more tightly over his cheekbones, his eyes more heavily lidded. His black hair was long and needed some soap and water. His clothing was that of an English gentleman, of good quality, but wrinkled and soiled. His expression was chilling. Still, oddly enough, she wasn’t afraid, at least not at that moment, for Douglas was safe.
“I’m glad you didn’t kill me too. I didn’t hear you. You must have cat’s feet.”
He started, then shrugged. “Yes, I have many talents, and revenge is one that I take very seriously. I have perfected it to a fine art. I am a genius. It is unfortunate that you will never know of my fame, for I am also discreet. I leave nothing to chance, nothing to find, nothing to lead your damned husband to me. Your husband won’t find you so you may quash your silly hopes that he will.”
Still the fear simply wasn’t upon her even though she was flat on her back, lying on a bed, bound. “I will tell you the truth, monsieur. I want only that my husband be safe. He is all that is important to me.”
Georges laughed, a mean laugh that made his eyes look as black as satan’s. “How very affecting! What a romantic child you are. Well, I imagine that this childish devotion of yours gratifies Lord Northcliffe at the moment. I also imagine that you are pleasing enough to his eye and young enough to give him passing pleasure. Men of his stamp aren’t ever satisfied though, even with a little virgin with hero worship in her eyes. He would have played you false, probably by the end of summer.”
Alexandra frowned at him. Because she loved her husband he believed her to feel hero worship for him? She wanted to inform him that she wasn’t such a silly twit, but she said instead, “You are thinking of Janine.”
Again, Georges Cadoudal started. “How do you know of Janine? Did he actually have the arrogance to tell you what he did to her? Did he boast about it? To you? His wife?”
“He told me that he rescued her in France and brought her to England.”
“Ha! I trust Douglas Sherbrooke as much as I can trust any ruthless Englishman. He betrayed me. He raped her. That animal who was holding her prisoner gave her to Douglas because he’d won a card game, and he raped her repeatedly, hurting her, ripping her. Then he demanded her cooperation for she is strong, my Janine, and not easily subdued. It was his price for bringing her to safety in England, to me.”
“Oh no, Douglas would never do that. He is a gentleman, a man of honor. You are wrong. This Janine lied to you. I wish I knew why she lied, but I don’t speak French so I couldn’t understand what she was saying to Douglas. I did ask him but he told me it was none of my business.”
Georges Cadoudal had planned to ravish this little pullet, then send her back pregnant to Douglas. He didn’t doubt his own virility for a moment. It would not take long. It would be an eye for an eye and then he would continue with his plan to kidnap Napoleon. But she wasn’t at all what he expected. He shook his head, remembering how she’d reacted in that damned bookshop, screeching like a banshee in her absurd French. She’d even struck him in the nose with that book of hers. His nose hadn’t been broken, but he hadn’t liked the humiliation of it nor the pain. He looked at her now, brooding. Why wasn’t she crying? Why wasn’t she pleading with him to spare her, begging him not to hurt her?
“Just what do you mean you heard her speaking to Douglas?”
“It was at the Ranleaghs’ ball. I saw her clutching at Douglas’s sleeve. She looked as if she were trying to seduce him. I tried to listen, to eavesdrop if you will, but as I told you, I don’t speak French. It was so provoking. I tried to get Douglas to tell me, but he wouldn’t. He has too much honor to break a promise. I am very thirsty. May I have some water?”
He did as she wished, simply because she took him so utterly off guard. After he’d unbound her hands, watched her rub feeling back into them, he handed her the mug. He realized what he had done, but it was too late to jerk the mug of water from her hands. It was proof that he’d temporarily lost his control and his dignity and hadn’t even realized it until it was too late. She finished it quickly, taking great gulps, so thirsty that water dribbled down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, then closed her eyes in bliss.
He stared at her and heard himself say, “Do you want more?”
“Yes, please. You are kind.”
“Damn you, I’m not kind!” He stomped out of the door, slammed it behind him, and she heard the key grate in the lock. Alexandra would swear that she heard him cursing under his breath. She’d swear she heard at least one merde. At least Douglas had evidently taught her one of the most useful of French curses.
The moment she was alone again, the fear, stark and ugly, struck her full force. Lord, what had she done? She’d spoken to him as she would to a vicar, all trusting and confiding. She was a fool. He was probably now plotting how to torture her, to make her pay for what he believed Douglas had done to this Janine woman, the wretched lying hussy. Why had Janine lied like that about Douglas to her lover? After all, he had rescued her. To make him jealous? Surely that was going too far.
Alexandra lay back, closing her eyes, wishing that Douglas had spoken frankly to her so she could use the truth now with Georges Cadoudal. It was another minute before she realized that he had left her hands unbound. She couldn’t believe it. She raised her hands and just looked at them.
New energy pounded through her. Alexandra untied the rope about her ankles. She stood and promptly fell back onto the bed. Several minutes of rubbing her ankles, of trying to stand and falling and trying yet again.
And when she could finally walk, she ran on light feet to the door. She knew it was locked but she tried it nonetheless. She turned back to the single window. It was narrow, maybe too narrow for her shoulders and her hips.
She could but try.
* * *
Douglas and Tony rode from Calais toward Etaples. The day was warm, the sun bright overhead. It was market day and the roads were filled with open wagons and drays and laden-down donkeys and farmers walking with their produce in bags slung over their shoulders. It would also be market day in Etaples. Perhaps it could be useful if they were forced to escape. Market days always were chaotic. Too, there were all the French soldiers, all the French carpenters and artisans and laborers and ship builders. Cadoudal was mad to have brought her here. It was beyond dangerous. It was foolhardy and it was precisely something that Georges would do. It was like laughing in the devil’s face; it was like twitching his forked tail.
Tony said, riding close, “Did this Cadoudal fellow give you precise instructions, Douglas? You appear to know exactly where to go.”
“Yes,” Douglas said, looking betwe
en his horse’s ears, “I know exactly where to go.”
“I really don’t understand this. What does he want from you?”
Douglas only shook his head. He couldn’t get that damned insubstantial ghostly dream out of his mind. And it had been naught but a dream. He realized now that he’d been thinking so deeply, his thoughts so concentrated, about where Cadoudal had taken her, that he himself had come up with the likely solution. For some unknown reason, his mind had insisted upon giving further credence to his own deductions by providing him with a prescient ghost.
Yes, everything fit. Everything, once he knew Cadoudal had taken her to France. Everything, except the absurd ghost, the ridiculous Virgin Bride.
Even the house where he was holding her. It was the grandmother’s farmhouse, and Douglas had seen the place. It was ideal for Cadoudal’s purposes. Yes, everything fit.
Why the devil would a ghost give a damn about what happened to Alexandra?
He dismissed it; he needed to plan, to decide upon their best strategy. He realized that Tony had asked him another question, one he couldn’t answer, one he didn’t want to attempt to answer.
It was another hour to Etaples and then another ten minutes to the farmhouse.
Alexandra managed to twist enough to get her shoulders through the dirty open window. Her hips were more of a problem but she finally popped through, falling four feet to land on her face on the muddy ground. She lay there a moment, breathing hard, then lifted her head to get her bearings.
There was a small garden just beyond, filled with weeds and a few surviving vegetables. She was at the back of the farmhouse. There was a stable, dilapidated, with very old shingles hanging off the roof at odd angles. She heard chickens squawking. There was a goat eating what looked to be an old boot not ten feet from her. He chewed and looked at her with complete indifference.
She didn’t hear any voices. There was no sign of life.
How long did she have before Georges Cadoudal returned?
The Sherbrooke Bride Page 30
