Once a Spy

by Putney, Mary Jo

  Simon looked more closely. “It’s impossible to see where you resewed it! You really are a first-rate seamstress.”

  “It’s more challenging than being a countess,” she said with amusement. “Being a seamstress requires intelligence and skill. All a countess needs is an expensive wardrobe and a feeling of superiority.”

  “Now you are a double countess,” Simon said as he began to undress for bed. “Isn’t that more work? Twice the wardrobe, twice the sense of superiority?”

  “Not really. All I have to do is ignore my rank twice as hard!” Suzanne yawned. “Shall we see if the bed is any more comfortable than it was on the journey south?”

  “Even if it isn’t, I have you and you’re soft,” he said with mock smugness.

  She laughed and threw a pillow at him. When they settled into the bed, she was indeed wonderfully soft and warm, yet even with Suzanne in his arms, Simon had trouble falling to sleep. Danger was gathering, was in the very air.

  And he didn’t know if they would be able to avoid it.

  Chapter 31

  The next day they took the toll road that paralleled the main Brussels road for a distance. Since it was a toll road, it was in better condition, but less traveled because it cost money. It had barricades at several of the tollgates, though. The bored guards were very thorough and suspicious. They growled over Simon and Suzanne’s identity papers and searched their carriage, finding nothing of interest.

  After that happened twice, Simon said, “I’m leaving the turnpike at the next tollgate. The main road is at least busier so the guards have less time to harass us.”

  Suzanne said, “I wonder how many French troops are doing this sort of work?”

  “If there are this many on all roads out of Paris in every direction, it could be quite a few men,” Simon observed. “If they are concentrated on the roads leading north to Belgium, that says something interesting about what Bonaparte’s intentions might be.”

  “But we don’t know if there are barricades in all directions.”

  “Such are the joys of intelligence work,” Simon said wryly. “One’s ignorance is so much greater than one’s knowledge.” They rounded a bend and saw the next tollhouse. It had been turned into a guardhouse and the swinging gate was now manned by three French soldiers.

  Simon’s senses snapped with an instant warning of danger. The soldiers looked like the kind of swaggering bullies who enjoyed throwing their authority around, and Simon caught the smell of sour wine. They’d been drinking heavily by the look of it, and their gazes all went to Suzanne.

  The sergeant in charge, a great hulking brute, barked, “Show me your papers!”

  Simon produced their identification from an inside coat pocket. Maurice had artistically aged the papers before handing them over, and the wear had become more authentic in the last several days of use.

  The sergeant frowned at Simon’s identification. “This looks fake to me.”

  “It’s genuine!” Simon protested. “My papers have been accepted at every other guard post on our journey.”

  “Maybe the soldiers manning those posts aren’t as smart as we are.” The sergeant elbowed the man next to him and they both laughed as if there had been a joke. “You look like a bloody English spy to me!”

  “I’m as much a Frenchman as you are!” Simon replied indignantly. “Now I live in Brussels, as true a French city as Paris. Twenty years Belgium has been part of France, and it’s waiting for the emperor to make it French again.”

  “Sounds just like what a spy would say,” the sergeant said, elbowing the man beside him again. Clearly they were itching for a fight, and being bullies, they wanted to pick on an easy target. Worse, their glances kept flicking to Suzanne, who was doing her best to be unobtrusive but was still quietly attractive and undeniably female.

  Would a bribe help? Some officials would accept money and wave them through, while others would see it as proof of criminality and they’d be in much worse trouble. Usually he made such decisions in an instant, but he realized that fear for Suzanne was clouding his judgment.

  Before Simon could decide on the best course of action, the sergeant snarled, “Get out of the carriage so we can search you.” He smiled viciously. “And ask you more questions. This time, I want honest answers, you traitor!”

  If Simon was alone, he’d fight back with a ferocity that would have astonished the sergeant, but if he did that now, what would happen to Suzanne? The soldiers were armed, ready, and eager to shoot someone, and his wife was right in the line of fire. The knowledge was paralyzing.

  Impatiently the sergeant grabbed Simon’s arm and yanked him from the carriage, than hurled him to the ground with bruising force. “Take this spy and his wife into the building and we’ll see what they know!” He grinned wolfishly, ready for torture.

  As one of the soldiers hauled Simon to his feet, Suzanne said in a throaty purr, “Oh, I’m not his wife! I scarcely know the man. Except in one way!” She tittered musically. “He has a boring wife in Brussels, but he was in Paris and wanted a little fun so I said I’d accompany him on his way back to Belgium.”

  All three men stared at her. While the sergeant had been bullying Simon, Suzanne had slipped off her cloak so it lay on the bench seat of the carriage.

  Under the cloak, she wore a dark red morning gown with a white cotton fichu tucked modestly around her neckline, but as she spoke she tugged off the fichu. She’d altered the gown with a shockingly low neckline that revealed a riveting expanse of creamy curves, turning her from a prim wife into a sensual temptress.

  A quick tug at her hairpins and waves of shining dark hair tumbled over her shoulders and throat as she swung gracefully down from her side of the carriage. “I’m an honest working girl so I made sure the fellow had his fun.”

  Her sultry gaze moved over the French soldiers, coming to rest on the sergeant. She circled the carriage toward him, every part of her body signaling wantonness. “But sometimes I like giving it away for free to a real man!”

  Simon and the soldiers were equally stunned. Suzanne took the sergeant’s arm, saying throatily, “Sergeant, let’s go inside and I’ll show you a very good time.”

  She cast a coy glance at the other two soldiers. “Don’t worry, my lads, there’s enough to go around!”

  Staring at Suzanne, one of the soldiers said in a hoarse voice, “Should we just shoot ’im, Sergeant Fabron?”

  Simon saw a pulse jump in Suzanne’s jaw. “Now don’t you go and do something hasty, mon chéri!” she said coaxingly as she reached out to caress the soldier’s wrist. “He owes me half my fee and I won’t get it until we reach Belgium. A girl deserves to be paid, doesn’t she?”

  The guards were entranced enough to go along with her wishes. Fabron said, “Lamont, before someone else comes along, take this sod and the carriage around to the back of the tollbooth. Gag ’im, tie ’im to a wheel, and search ’im down to ’is bare bollocks to find the money he’s supposed to give the wench. If it isn’t on him, search the carriage. Berger, you stay out here and man the barricade.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Fabron,” Suzanne cooed. “Now let’s you and I go inside for a little fun.” Trailing the delicate white silk fichu in the air like smoke, she sauntered seductively into the tollbooth turned guardhouse, which was the size of a small cottage. Every movement she made was an exercise in provocation.

  Eyes glazed with lust, the sergeant followed her inside, slamming the door behind him. Lamont, the soldier who had been ordered to move Simon, abruptly jammed the butt of his rifle into Simon’s solar plexus with a force that produced temporary paralysis. Then he shoved his prisoner into the carriage and led the horses and vehicle around to the back of the guardhouse. As he struggled to recover, Simon heard muffled sounds coming from inside the guardhouse. Was that a female cry? The sound of a blow? What the bloody hell was going on in there?

  Behind the guardhouse was a shed and a small paddock containing a sturdy dapple gray gelding. Lamont te
thered the carriage horses, then turned to Simon with an expression of anticipation. “Maybe I should start by shooting your bollocks off? That would make it easy to find out whether you’ve hidden money down there.”

  Simon hadn’t fully recovered from the blow, but if he didn’t act now, he was dead. As the soldier dragged him from the carriage, Simon kicked out ferociously, feeling bone shatter as his boot smashed into the soldier’s jaw.

  Lamont gave a choked cry as blood sprayed from his mouth. Simon ripped the rifle from the man’s hands and bashed him on the side of his head with the wooden stock. Lamont collapsed and Simon swiftly tied him up and gagged him with his own cross belts and dirty handkerchief.

  He checked that the rifle was loaded and half cocked, then raced around the guardhouse, staying low. He paused before rounding the corner and saw Berger, the other soldier, staring avidly at the door of the guardhouse. Suzanne emerged looking deliciously rumpled. “Now it’s your turn,” she purred as she beckoned to the soldier.

  She moved normally and her words were convincing, but Simon was sickened to realize that the dark red of her gown bore almost invisible darker stains of blood. She was trembling even though she managed to sound seductive.

  Berger stammered, “I . . . I shouldn’t leave the barricade.”

  “Sergeant Fabron will be out in a moment when he’s recovered from”—her voice choked off for a moment—“from so much more than he expected! But this is a quiet road, so let’s get a bit of a start for what comes next.” She went up to him and raised her face for a kiss. He eagerly complied—and as Simon watched, Suzanne clamped on the blood vessels of his neck to block the flow to Berger’s brain.

  She was shorter than the soldier so the angle was difficult, but the hold worked well enough that Berger sagged away from her, looking confused. Simon closed in on the pair and swung the stock of the rifle into the back of Berger’s skull with vicious force.

  As the soldier dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Simon spun around to his wife. “Dear God, Suzanne, are you all right?”

  “Did you think I didn’t know how to be a whore?” Her face white, she folded to her knees and vomited into the grass. Simon knelt beside her and wrapped one arm around her cold, shaking body as she breathed in short, frantic gasps.

  After long moments, she raised her head and whispered, “Not . . . really hurt. But I had to let him handle me. He said he liked it rough. Then he lay down on the cot and explained in vile detail what he wanted me to do. He . . . he didn’t expect me to fight.” She drew a harsh breath. “Until I knifed him. Then . . . and then . . .” She retched again.

  She stumbled as she tried to rise. Simon helped her up, aching for her shock and horror. A bruise was forming on her left cheekbone and she began to sob as she turned into his arms. He held tightly to her as long as he dared and wondered what the devil had happened in the guardhouse.

  Worried about passing time, he said in his calmest voice, “We’re going to have to get out of here as fast as we can on horseback. That will be quicker than the carriage. There’s a riding hack in the paddock in back. Go and exercise your horse magic on him so he can be saddled. I’ll move the soldiers into the guardhouse and make sure they aren’t going to escape anytime soon.”

  “Fabron . . . won’t be going anywhere.” She wiped her mouth again as she turned to go around the guardhouse.

  Ruthlessly suppressing his concern for her, he set the rifle down and hauled one end of the barricade out of the roadway so travelers could pass if they came by. Most people would be so glad to avoid paying the toll that they wouldn’t look around for toll keepers or soldiers.

  Next he dragged Berger into the guardhouse and dropped him to one side before he turned to the cot to examine the sergeant’s body. Simon’s gut clenched and he understood why Suzanne had been so sick. The man’s breeches were unfastened, revealing a mass of bloody tissue. There were a dozen other stab wounds in the massive body, one a slash across his throat. So much blood . . .

  He drew a long, shaken breath, forcing himself not to look away. He guessed that Suzanne had gone temporarily berserk after Fabron had “handled” her. That had driven her to this frenzied retaliation for all she had endured at the hands of men.

  He ached at the knowledge that his wife had been forced to such violence.

  Face grim, he retrieved the two French rifles from outside and set them behind the guardhouse before dragging the still unconscious Lamont inside to join his fellows. As he’d hoped, Suzanne was in the paddock talking to the dapple gray, which required her to calm down and speak softly so as not to alarm the beast.

  A quick, efficient search of the French soldiers indicated that Lamont and Berger would survive, though their injuries would keep them off the battlefield for a while. He collected all their weapons, along with a canvas bag containing bread, cheese, sausages, and a jug of wine.

  He also took all the blankets except the blood-saturated one under Fabron and carried them outside with the weapons and food. Suzanne had coaxed the gelding close enough to get hold of its bridle. Hearing Simon, she turned, her green eyes huge and stark as she waited for her husband to recoil with loathing or rage.

  Simon said only, “He deserved it.” Then he entered the shed. Inside he found the gray’s saddle and a set of sizable saddlebags. Military equipment. As he emerged with both, he said, “You can ride this fellow and I’ll ride the piebald carriage horse. It will be awkward since he’s not trained for riding, but he’s a docile beast and I can manage him. We can lead the other horse. I don’t want to leave any horses here in case one of the soldiers wakes up soon and wants to pursue us.”

  “We can use the other carriage horse as a pack animal,” she said, leaning her forehead into the gray’s neck. She looked numb and achingly fragile.

  “Good idea. While I pack everything we need, you should sit down and rest,” he said gently. “We have some hard riding ahead of us.”

  She nodded and settled on a crude bench set against the back wall of the guardhouse. She barely had time to lean back before they heard the sound of a heavy wagon approaching along the road. They both stiffened.

  A hoarse voice said cheerfully, “A bit o’ luck here! No one on duty at this tollbooth. Let’s get on by before the keeper returns.”

  Simon and Suzanne held still, barely breathing, until the crunch of wagon wheels had faded from hearing. Suzanne drew a deep breath and got to her feet. “I assume we’ll travel cross country until we’re back in Belgium. Do you know the way?”

  “I’ve been studying maps since I arrived in Brussels and I have a compass if necessary, but all we need to do is head north and avoid French troops and barricades,” he replied as he started saddling the gray. “Belgium isn’t far. We’ll probably have to spend tonight in a French barn, but tomorrow we’ll be back in Brussels.”

  She nodded mutely and began hauling their bags from the small carriage.

  Working together, they were soon ready to leave. They hadn’t taken much luggage to Paris, but enough that it was convenient to have a pack animal. Simon folded one of the blankets to make a riding pad for the bay. The other blankets he wrapped around the rifles to disguise what they were.

  When everything was packed, he helped Suzanne into the gray’s saddle. Since she was riding astride, her bloodstained scarlet skirts fell untidily over her knees and revealed her ankles. She seemed barely aware of that. She could change into clean clothing later, but now it was more important to leave this place of blood and violence.

  They set off north, leaving the carnage behind them. But Simon knew that neither of them would ever forget.

  Chapter 32

  Suzanne rode north through lanes and fields, following Simon blindly and barely aware of her surroundings. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of terror and blood.

  Efficient as always, Simon found them an isolated barn with enough hay for the horses and a rain-filled livestock watering trough where she could wash up. As she did, images of Lady
Macbeth trying to wash the blood off her hands filled her mind.

  Simon helped her as if she was a child unable to manage, including giving her a shirt and his spare pair of trousers to wear because she’d be riding astride again the next day. The clothing was enormous on her, but it was comforting to wear his things. She was also glad that she didn’t look at all like a woman.

  After she had washed and changed, she found that he’d groomed the horses, then made a comfortable nest for them with a blanket spread over a deep pile of straw. “Sit down and have something to eat before sleeping. Do you want to start with some wine?”

  He offered her a jug but she shook her head. Fabron had smelled of sour wine . . .

  Not questioning her reaction, he passed her a piece of slightly stale bread with a slab of good cheese on top. She realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast at the inn, and the food helped steady her.

  Dead men’s food . . .

  Suppressing the thought, she followed the bread and cheese with a swallow of the wine. A merciful white, not blood red. She wondered if she’d ever be able to drink red wine again.

  They ate and drank without speaking and watched the sun slide below the horizon. The sunset was beautiful. And blood red . . .

  She decided she’d had enough to eat.

  When they were done, Simon packed the food and drink back in the canvas bag. “Time to rest,” he said soothingly. “We’ve had a rather tiring day.”

  She smiled humorlessly at his understatement. Very English.

  “Can you stand to be touched, or would you prefer to take a blanket and roll into a ball well away from me?” he asked, his voice calm. “I understand that you might not want to be close to a man.”

  The question jarred her from her daze. “How can you even bear the thought of touching me?” Her voice cracked. “After what I did!”

  “Come here, ma petite,” he said softly as he extended a hand toward her. “Let us face the night together.”