But they could speak of none of this as they tidied up the little cottage in case the owner was in fact off at his winter home and would return in April or May. And just in case, Devlyn left a few coins on the table next to the cobbler's awl, to pay for the accomodations and the clothing and the amiable mare.
The sun was bright and warmed the November air, and after a mile or so Devlyn took off the shoemaker's cloak. Tatiana was warm too before him on the saddle, and where her back touched him he felt a slow heat start and radiate throughout his body.
She nestled so naturally against him, her body curving into his in such a seductive way, that he had to remind himself she was, in fact, an innocent. She might be teasing him, but she didn't really understand what effect her sweet warmth might have on a man, especially one who had just spent the last night in all-too-intimate quarters with her. But she was an innocent, and he was far from a scoundrel, and so she would remain uncorrupted in his company. In a year or so, after her introduction to the court and London society, her games would not be so innocent. Then perhaps he might respond to her teasing—but then, with luck, he would not want to.
No one paid them much mind as they trotted along the coastal road. The Normans were a private people, with much to hide, like their counterparts across the channel where Devlyn had been reared. England and France were ever at war, had been for hundreds of years on and off. But the channel people, English or French, had more in common with each other than with the powerful men who waged war from London and Paris. Fishing, trading, smuggling—these ties transcended national boundaries and international conflicts. So the two strangers on one horse were met only by nods and reserved ones at that, and then resolutely ignored. My enemies, Devlyn told himself, but didn't believe it, any more than he believed this cousin of Alexander leaning against him was his foe because of some pact between emperors.
As the sun rose, the traffic on the road became heavier and they were better able to blend into the landscape. Tatiana pointed to the town rising up ahead and bounced a little in the saddle, jarring his bad knee. For once she remembered to speak French. "Is that Cotentin? There are so many people and wagons."
"Market day," he replied shortly. "Fortunate. If Dryden's in port, we'll be able to slip right on board without anyone taking notice."
She twisted around in the saddle, regarding him seriously. "And if he's not there?"
He shrugged. "We'll have to find other transport across the channel. There's bound to be other smugglers about later in the week, for there will be no moon. I imagine we can survive until then."
For a moment, she was silent, then she said awkwardly, "I'm sorry, truly. I know I'm responsible for all this—"
"Yes, you are," he said evenly, angry at her again, not about their present situation, but that would do for an excuse.
"And it's entirely my fault that we are stranded here—"
"In enemy territory, in mortal danger—"
"I am trying to apologize yet again," she retorted regally, "and you are making it very difficult. Now you must listen to me and say nothing until I'm finished." She took a deep breath and recited, "I know I am to blame, and I am sorry, and I will never do anything so foolish again."
His silence was eloquent, he thought, but she took it as acceptance, and turned her face up to him with a beguiling smile, that dimple still balancing precariously by her mouth. "Tell me what market day is like. I've never been to one before."
"A benighted life you've led indeed," he said, and indulgently he called up memories of boyhood adventures at market days in Weymouth and even here in Cotentin. He and Dryden had been too young to care that these hardy Normans were their nominal enemies, as their pastries were superior to those in Dorset and the wine more accessible to beardless youths.
"This will probably be one of the last market days before spring. The harvest is done now and everyone is flush with the profits. They'll want to stock up on staples for the winter, so you'll see vendors for cloth and foodstuffs and tools. And as this is what passes for entertainment in country areas, and there's a long winter coming, you'll see gypsy fortune-tellers and jugglers and minstrels. Boys and girls will be courting and walking out together, for spring is marrying season and they'd best come to their understandings before the cold separates them."
His memories were accurate, although it had been fifteen years since he'd been to a country market in England or in France. He'd seen a few in poor war-torn Portugal and felt immediately at home, for market day was the same the world over, little changed through the centuries. Here in Cotentin was the merry din of the crowd, which sounded the same in any language. The same colorful pennants attracted the broad-faced farmers and cheeky lasses to the same sort of booths. And the Norman jugglers wore the same variegated outfits and silly caps that Dorset jugglers did. The roving bands of soldiers and sailors were a jarring note, but then, it had been much the same in Portugal; only the designs of the uniforms were different.
Tatiana took it all in greedily, with a child's silent wonder. Once they'd tied the horse up near a livery stable that would claim her if no one else did, Tatiana stood on the edge of the crowd, watching it all in fascination. Most dazzling of all was the gas balloon—now that was an attraction markets had lacked when he was a boy.
The silk bag was already inflated, floating spiritedly over the wicker gondola. Even from here, he could see the neck of the bag closed to confine the hydrogen gas, which would somehow, impossibly, make the whole contraption fly. He was dazzled himself, an adventurous boy again, and he wanted that balloon as much as she did, as much as every child roaming about its gondola did.
But he was not a child, even if she still was one at heart. And he hated to have to say it, but he did, in a hurried undertone: "I know you want to see the balloon ascension, but remember we are not here for our entertainment. There will be other country markets once we reach England."
The look she gave him was of childlike disappointment and adult disillusionment, and he knew as clearly as if she had spoken the words what she was thinking—that she would not have this chance again, to be an ordinary girl at a country fair, certainly not with him by her side. And he was tempted beyond all sense to give in, to let her have her innocent fun, for she was right, she'd have no innocent fun once they reached England. She would be a princess again then, royal baggage, royal device, and he would no longer be her escort to market day or anything else. But the place was crawling with French soldiers, for this peninsula was strategically set near the Channel Islands and the mouth of the channel, a gateway to the North Atlantic. They'd do best to get away before anyone noticed that their Parisian French did not accord with their rough Norman dress, and that Tatiana, at any rate, looked not at all like a French peasant.
He was close to an apology as they merged into the crowd, though none of this was his fault. Then he recalled his responsibilities and began scanning the harbor that lay beyond the green common where the crowd was taking them. And there, anchored only a dozen yards from the quay, was the lovely Coronale. Devlyn did not need to warn the princess; she only stiffened for a moment then began chattering in her fluid French. He nodded as if he were listening, but he could hear only the shouts of the military commander above the noise of the crowd. Tense in every muscle, he guided the princess through the melee, meandering ever closer to the dock.
Then he saw Dryden, leaning against the railing, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. How long had he been there, Devlyn wondered, so conspicuous in the daylight, his entire crew at risk so that he could follow Devlyn's hasty instructions? He would have been safer moored in one of the quiet coves south of the village, but then there would be no certainty they would ever reconnoiter. Or he could have sailed home, shrugging his shoulders and concluding that his passengers had probably drowned in the storm. Instead, some misguided sense of duty or childhood loyalty brought him here, to a busy market port with a brigade bristling with weapons parading about.
For a moment, Dryden's sloop, one of a h
alf dozen in the harbor, caused no comment. Smuggling was essential to the Normandy economy, so as in Dorset, toleration if not actual welcome was the general attitude toward the Gentlemen.
But officialdom did occasionally stir itself to make a pro forma condemnation of the crime. Even as Devlyn caught his friend's eye, a portly little man in a red uniform bustled along the dock, gesticulating at the assembled boats. His intent carried farther than his words; his hands shooed the sloop away, away, away from an embarrassing encounter with the military commander. Dryden leaned out, exchanging words with the official, curses, to judge by the reaction. Then the official beckoned to the guards on the dock. Tatiana slipped her hand into the crook of Devlyn's arm and whispered, "He's going to arrest them."
Distracted, Devlyn murmured, "He'll raise anchor and make a run for it," for that, of course, was what John should be doing, had he the discretion God gave a goat. He watched closely, for he knew Dryden wouldn't risk all and then leave just as his passengers came into range. He would make some signal.
So intent was he on the captain that he barely noticed Tatiana tugging at his arm. "Come on, Michael," she urged, but he laid a quelling hand on hers. Just as the guards, side-arms drawn, boarded the sloop, Dryden made a final obscene gesture at the official, and stepped forward as if accepting his fate.
Then Devlyn felt Tatiana's hand slip out from under his—and she was gone. He cursed under his breath as he pushed through the crowd after her. Small and lithe, Tatiana squeezed between the bodies massed in front of the platform where the military band was commencing its excruciating tuning up. Soon she mingled with the children about the balloon rising so brave and blue. By the time Devlyn reached the green, she was cozying up to the hearty young peasant testing the guy ropes tied to stakes.
The boy paused in his work, laughing at something Tatiana said, then jerked his head toward a tall, fair man sitting on the platform—the balloonist, to judge from his heavy draperies and leather headgear. Tatiana looked appealingly up at the boy, and Devlyn's heart sank. He had only an instant before her skill as a coquette, so recently honed on himself, worked its magic on the ignorant serf. But the youth was already clambering up the ladder into the gondola, unmindful of Tatiana racing about undoing the guy lines. When she was done, she followed him up the ladder. The youth waggled his heavy brows lecherously as she jumped into the basket, but then his jaw dropped as he beheld the guy lines dangling uselessly and the basket straining against gravity.
Devlyn crossed twenty yards in a second or two and shouldered the excited children away from the ladder. Tatiana squeezed past the youth to get at a sandbag, which she heaved past Devlyn as soon as he dropped into the basket. "I thought you'd never get here," she said. "Au revoir, Jacques, we must go now," she added, pushing the French boy toward the ladder. Jacques shouted something about the wind and death and vanished over the side. We can still get out of here, Devlyn thought, grabbing Tatiana's arm as she heaved another sandbag. But then a gust caught the suddenly lightened craft and they began to rise.
The scene froze. The wan sun glanced off the harbor, reflecting in Tatiana's laughing eyes. The children's mouths were open in silent screams of delight; the rest of the crowd obliviously faced the platform. The band conductor's baton hesitated in its downstroke. The commander was half-erect in anticipation of the national anthem, and the balloonist on the dais was halted in a proprietary gesture at his conveyance.
Then the balloonist broke the spell, shrieking, his hands grasping as if he could catch the dangling guy ropes as the balloon glided overhead. The band struck up, drowning out his cries, but the military commander next to him followed his hysterical gaze and then swung down off the platform toward his troops. Devlyn had a moment to wonder what a gunshot hole would do to their chariot of air, but then they were out over the harbor and out of range. Tatiana leaned over the side, waving gaily at the sailors assembled on the deck of the Coronale below. Devlyn almost laughed at the shocked expression on Dryden's face as they passed. But the captain recovered quickly. As the official stood there gaping up at the balloon, John shoved him over the railing.
His crew followed his example, taking advantage of the guards' momentary shock and aiding their return to their home waters. Then, raising his hand in salute, Dryden called some direction to the sailors, and the Coronale's sails opened like a flower. He would follow them, to pluck them out of the channel should they survive the inevitable crash.
For it was inevitable, or near enough, Devlyn realized suddenly. His sailing days were not so distant that he had forgotten how difficult returning from Normandy had always been. The channel winds blew primarily from northwest to southeast, so sailing north had always required tricky little feats of derring-do on John's part. No wonder Dryden had looked so horrified when he saw them aloft.
The man who owned this contraption had intended to land it at Versailles or Paris, most likely, not Dorset. For the forces of nature had been enough to make even Napoleon relinquish his dream of invading England by balloon, Devlyn recalled, now that the recollection could do no good. The few lunatics who had attempted this crossing in the face of uncooperative breezes had all crashed. Most had died, crashing into trees or drowning in the rocky coves along the Norman coast.
Silence surrounded them, as they were borne along on the wind and couldn't hear its rush. So Devlyn's soft-spoken observation reached Tatiana at the other end of the gondola. "The prospect of sneaking away in a smuggler's vessel, right under the gaze of the colonel, wasn't exciting enough for you, Princess?"
Tatiana turned back to him, her gamine face alight. "But we had no choice, with Captain Dryden about to be arrested. I had to cause a distraction."
"Well, you did that, true enough," Devlyn said quellingly. "If you hadn't been so impulsive--"
Tatiana's brows met in a scowl. "If I hadn't been so impulsive, Captain Dryden and his crew would be in custody. Well, I was so impulsive, and look, they are away, and I'm glad. The look on Jacques's face when he realized I'd untied us—it was worth anything. And besides, we'll cross even more quickly."
"In all likelihood, we won't cross at all. It's never been done before, as far as I know. The winds blow wrong. We'll likely end up halfway to Paris, if we don't crash in the Bay of the Seine first." He stripped his voice of reproach; it wasn't her fault, after all, for she would, of course, think of Dryden and his crew before her own safety and all good sense. She couldn't be expected to know how dangerous her little adventure might be. And anyway, perhaps it was for the best that he would never complete his mission after all.
"But, Michael, I'm sure we are going in the right direction." Tatiana crossed the few feet between them as if she were on terra firma—odd how steady this little ship was. She took his hand and used it to point back the way they had come. "Look, Cotentin is so distant now. And we're entirely over water."
As if in confirmation, the wind picked up, pushing them farther. Now, he estimated, they were several hundred feet above the water and moving swiftly. Eerily, their ship of the air felt becalmed, totally steady, as if they were anchored in a glassy harbor. In fact, the whitecapped gray sea appeared to be rotating below while they hung suspended, motionless in space.
"We're still over the water," he allowed. He squinted into the sunlight, calculating their approximate direction. Northwest. That benevolent god of theirs was at work for a change. And the winds might be sending us approximately the right direction. "But as I make it, we might end up in Greenland. I don't suppose Jacques gave you any lessons in how to steer this thing."
"How hard can it be?" Tatiana said practically. "If we throw out more sandbags, we'll rise, don't you think?" She was about to match action to word, bending to untie a sandbag from the side, when he grabbed her wrists.
"Your Highness, please stop." He tightened his grip until she moved away from the sandbag. When he released her, she sat down with a thump on the floor and regarded him balefully.
"Let me just think a minute, before you send
us out into the Atlantic." As the earth turned heedlessly below them, he searched his mind for the meager knowledge accumulated from a report on the military feasibility of ballooning—about nil, except for scouting purposes. Still, he had passed the report onto Wellington with a recommendation for further study, earning himself one of the Beau's caustic comments: "Devlyn, I never thought you, of all people, would be so chuckleheaded."
Well, his chuckleheadedness now seemed foresighted, for life with the princess required innovative thinking. He craned his neck to study the structure of the balloon. The bag was harnessed with a hemp net connected to the lines holding the gondola. A cord dangled through the neck of the bag; that must be tied to the valve which released gas to slow the ascent. Dropping the sandbags hung on the side of the gondola would accomplish the opposite. So which was the best course, to rise into the heavens, or descend to hug close to Mother Earth?
He leaned over the railing; the sea must now be half-athousand feet below. He put out his hand to test the wind, then drew it back, feeling foolish. Of course, he couldn't feel the wind; they were now part of the wind. But the wind they had joined was blowing in a most unusual way. Perhaps if they were to rise a little, as Tatiana had suggested so casually, they would be less in the tow of the west-bearing air currents and more likely to head north. He shrugged—he had, at least, a one-in-two chance of being right. "All right," he said at length, you can drop the sandbag—just one."
With a triumphant grin the princess scrambled to her feet and untied one sandbag. Ceremoniously she dangled it over the side before releasing it, then leaned precariously to watch it fall. Devlyn took a handful of her skirt, grateful for the tough wool, and pulled her back. "I was right, wasn't I?" she said as she turned back to him with a bright smile.
"You were right," he admitted as they rose slowly toward the clouds. That minor ascent was enough to correct their course. No longer did the horizon reveal only more pewter sea. The green smudge ahead was definitely English.
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