Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

by Baird Wells

  Their bickering quickly came to blows.

  As their insults turned physical, she’d grasped the pliers under her right hand, nicked when one of the earlier idiots dropped them after being bitten. The men stumbled into her as they fought, and she’d brought the pliers up, driving their tips into flesh.

  The older soldier would probably survive the puncture to his back, but he wouldn't be ripping off any fingernails today.

  Her next two interrogators had grabbed and wrangled, but in an oversight that almost made her laugh, had left her ungagged after she’d bit the guard earlier. Obviously, they didn’t communicate much in between entering her cell. More bites to the hands, thighs, and groin had earned her a blinding slap to the face and taught them the error of their ways. Limping, bleeding, and swearing, they had been forced to retreat, sending in the youngest and least experienced from among them to “loosen her up.”

  He was still standing before her, pliers in his hand and his adam’s apple bobbing when the door banged open. She couldn't see who had come in, only hear a voice she recognized as the captain.

  “Get her up. Untie her.”

  The boy turned, looking comical in his relief, but unwilling to abandon the task at hand. “I'm not done. I don't have a thing out of her.”

  “I said get her up!”

  “They . . . they told me to press her, to get her ready for them.” Eager for a chance to raise his esteem with his companions, the young private wasn’t giving up his opportunity without a protest.

  “Fouche doesn't want her pressed, he wants her dead. And the man, too. They’re to be dealt with, and they are not to be found.”

  There was still hesitation, a resistance on the soldier's part. She’d done enough injury to his compatriots that they’d be angry she was escaping retribution. He raised the hand holding the pliers, and Olivia thought he would hit her, but instead he dropped them and shuffled out.

  An altogether different man appeared a few minutes later and began to untie her hands. He had the good sense to look nervous, but he was in no danger. What she wanted now more than anything was to be taken from the room and preferably from the chateau. The farther away, the better her odds of slitting Thalia's throat.

  * * *

  “Where are they taking us?”

  Olivia's question snapped him back to the present, stopping him from recalling Philipe's agony for a thousandth time. Ty craned his neck, making out what little he could in predawn light through the wagon's slitted windows. “Out of the city. I couldn’t guess beyond that. Far enough not to be found.”

  “Why bother? They didn’t mind leaving him –” She swallowed. “It didn’t stop them before.”

  He’d considered that, and Thalia’s instructions that they not be found. “The pair of us dead is a lot of problems for Napoleon, a lot of inconvenient questions if anyone discovers who and what we are. Gunfire from the chateau, yesterday’s…” He swallowed, struggling for a word and trying not to recall the scene, “arrest. There’s enough of a stir that you and I have quickly unraveled into very long, loose ends.”

  She seemed to consider this awhile, and then crossed her arms more than he believed possible for someone with her hands bound together. “Grayfield knows what we’re about.” She nodded with certainty. “He'll send someone for us.”

  He cleared his throat, postponing just about the worst conversation they could have right now.

  At his silence, she arched a brow. “What?”

  “Olivia, you know that there isn’t a chance in hell that Grayfield would have approved you and me undertaking this mission.” He shifted uncomfortably.

  Her voice rose slightly. “Meaning what?”

  He shrugged.

  “Meaning you didn't tell him.” Her words were thin and sharp enough to cut.

  “Meaning I didn't tell him,” he confessed. “I used my judgment. Would you have risked his lashing us to a horse hitch in order to stop us?”

  She glanced away. “No,” she admitted quietly.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that perhaps she should have briefed Grayfield, with the corresponding they had done of late. The wagon jostled, then jerked to a stop, stealing his opportunity. Now wasn’t the time. When he spoke to her about the letter, he wanted it to be right.

  He looked out the window for any sign of where they were, then glanced back at Olivia. Her head was turned away, and she refused to look at him.

  Bouncing, the wagon warned that someone had dismounted and was approaching. He struggled for anything to make peace. “I'm sorry, Olivia. It's easier to beg forgiveness than to seek permission.”

  “I imagine we'll both be doing some begging, now.”

  Catching sight of her raw, blood-caked nail beds, he swallowed and kept silent. While Olivia was being flayed by the torturer, he’d suffered no more than Thalia’s begging, her promises to spare him and leave France with him, abandon Fouche as a lover if Ty would take his place. Thalia had begged, ranted, screamed, and when he couldn’t be swayed, had dumped him in with Olivia under threats he would change his mind.

  Olivia was right. There was no apology, no explanation to fix what he'd done. No one knew where they were and help was not coming. He’d miscalculated, hadn’t thought things could go so wrong at the chateau, and now they would both pay the price.

  The wagon's gate squealed open. Ty squinted into the dim light at a silhouette that was already barking orders for them to climb down. With no other choice, he complied.

  They were in a forest. After a quick survey, he amended the thought. It was a camp, a soldiers’ bivouac concealed in a forest. Rebels until a few weeks ago, the men occupying its makeshift lodgings would soon be welcomed as soldiers of the empire.

  A bayonet pierced his shirt, prodding him forward. “Move.”

  As long as he cooperated, the soldiers seemed content with moving him along without heaping abuse. He was happy to be prodded, moving slowly enough to gain his bearings. Where they were being led was another matter. If he had to guess, the hole in the camp's center had once been a well or a mine shaft. In an effort to protect the king or whoever rode and hunted in these woods, it had been mounted with a collar and an iron grate. There was no question that if he and Olivia went into that hole, they wouldn't make it out unless it was for their execution.

  There was one last hope. With a glance at Olivia that he prayed would convey some sort of meaning, he chucked a guard, the one he'd heard called Dumouriez, gently with an elbow. “Flask?”

  “Fuck off.”

  He smiled companionably. “No. I have one. Fish it out and I'll share.”

  The guard grabbed his chest and laughed. “Fish it out and I’ll keep every drop.”

  “Be a sport. This is a dying man's last request. One mouthful.”

  “Fuck yer’ mother. I’ll have it to myself.”

  “Very well,” Ty ground out. “It's in the pocket sewn inside my shirt. Just one damned mouthful?”

  He watched a war play out on the soldier’s face, fully expecting him to refuse again.

  While Dumouriez fished inside his clothes, Ty looked at Olivia again. She was only half watching them, and when he got her attention he mouthed a single word: Run.

  What? she mouthed back.

  “Here we are. Open up.”

  Ty turned his face away. “No, you bastard. I’ve changed my mind. Keep it and damned well choke on it.”

  Thick fingers grasped the hair at his crown, forcing his head back. “Oh no! If you’re going to groan about it, let’s celebrate together!” Dumouriez’s grin revealed gapped yellow teeth.

  “Run, Olivia!” There was no more time for explanation. Dumouriez jammed the flask against his lips, prying down on Ty’s chin in order to fill his mouth with the bitter liquid. He wrested his face away, sputtering, but despite his efforts there was no keeping some of it from trickling down his throat.

  “Hey! Hey, that's enough now! We agreed to share.” Guffawing, Dumouriez shoved him back w
ith a meaty fist and planted the flask atop a nearby crate. “I'm saving mine to celebrate, once the firing squad is done with you.”

  Ty hardly heard the insult. Euphoria came first, as always, stealing his most important thoughts. His lips tingled and then his arms felt heavy. It took a herculean effort to turn his head again and look at Olivia gaping beside him.

  Run.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  She knew what Ty had said, and when his body hit the ground and didn't move, she had run. Toward him, not away. What had he thought would happen, that she would just leave him there? What an obnoxious ass.

  Shaking his shoulder had no effect, and she certainly wasn't carrying him anywhere.

  Looking as shocked she felt, Dumouriez bellowed for the other men. Now was her chance. Olivia turned her back to him and drove the sole of her boot into his knee cap. He doubled over screaming and she ran opposite the way they had come.

  Dodging wide oaks, her legs burned with the effort of jumping gnarled roots. Tangled grass and brambles grabbed her skirts as she passed.

  At the top of a small rise, she stumbled. Her collar jerked up, strangling her, and her bodice tightened. She hadn't heard the guard come up behind her. He must have been hidden in the trees. So close to escape, so far ahead of the others. Olivia decided he would have to kill her to keep her there. Twisting, stabbing back with one elbow, she fished inside her bodice with the other, fingers searching for the vial she’d secreted there. She once again thanked God for the inept soldiers back at the chateau. Despite groping her breasts on more than one occasion, not one had thought to search between them.

  The moment she could turn enough to face the soldier, she thumbed free the cork. A snap of her wrist and the acid struck him full in the face.

  There was a pregnant pause where they both froze. He didn't let go and seemed slightly puzzled for a moment. Then, he screamed, stiffening and doubling over. Despite this he still held her fast, gripping tighter at her hair with one hand. Her scalp stung and his effort bent her neck until her back ached. With the other hand, he pressed at his eyes. That lasted until the blotches over his cheekbones deepened to scarlet. Skin puckered like an old blister and began to weep. His shrill cry had ended, but it was only then that he truly began to panic. “My eyes! I can't see. I can't open my eyes!”

  Finally, he released her, grabbing at burning flesh, spinning in a circle. She stumbled backward and fell. The yelling turned to shrieks, pain and fear, and then an unintelligible babbling as fumes choked his throat. Despite the gruesome effects, she felt only relief.

  Getting to her feet, she turned to run again. She’d broken the guard’s grip, but he’d done his job, holding her long enough for help to arrive. A blow caught her in the kidney, sending her sprawling forward. Her heavy boots tripped her up, toes digging into loose soil. Stumbling, flailing, Olivia tumbled down the hill, finding every stone and branch on the way.

  “Aubert, get her up!”

  Dumouriez. He'd finally limped himself along behind.

  Aubert grabbed her wrist, hauling back on it until the joint burned. Tears stung her eyes, and she scrambled to get feet under her before he broke her arm.

  “What did you do?” Aubert screamed the words, flecks of spittle landing on the smooth line of his black mustache. “What did you do to Calver?”

  What he deserved. What they all deserved. She bit her tongue, holding in the retort. For Ty's sake, for the sake of the assignment, she had to stay alive. Aubert's flaring nostrils and the furious vee of Dumouriez's brow, coupled with a soldier's screams farther back toward camp warned she was very close to failing.

  Her silence only seemed to enrage Aubert. He raised a fist, and she turned her face. There really was no blocking or dodging a punch without free arms. Knuckles bit her cheekbone, smashing her teeth together, and light exploded behind her left eye. She crumpled, her captor letting her fall.

  Her cheek burned and tingled. A cold trickle near her chin said she was bleeding. Before she could gain her feet, a second swing caught her in the mouth. Gums throbbed, and her bottom lip felt inside out.

  She almost cried out when they grabbed her by the arms and hauled her up. Calver was on the ground a few feet from where she’d fallen, his arms around his head, and his shrieks having quieted to a steady moan. Olivia bit her swollen lip, determined not to show the same weakness, and held quiet.

  The march back to camp was agony, her head pounding in time with each step. Aubert shoved her along, taking every opportunity to jam her with a rifle butt.

  When they reached the camp, Dumouriez grabbed her sleeve, jerking her almost prone in the dirt. “Search her! And this time do it right!”

  The two men were ruthless. Fingers dug and stabbed, nails raking everywhere. Hands worked over her breasts and jammed up between her legs, punctuated by snickering. She hardly noticed. They were being thorough, and that meant it was just a matter of time before they found the papers.

  They wrestled her skirts, and her worry transformed to reality. There was a ripping sound and then shouts. “Take these to the farm, to the baroness. Don't stop until they're in her hands.”

  She closed her eyes. Intelligence gone. Philipe dead and likely Ty as well. She was about to be executed and no one knew where she was. As much as she wanted to deny it, things were beginning to look a bit like defeat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Judging by the smell, she’d been spot on when she’d guessed the soldiers had been using the pit as a latrine. She sat still, her body numb except for burning wounds, keeping against one wall and out of deeper slop toward the middle.

  The guards above must have no idea she could hear them, or perhaps they didn’t know she spoke French. Perhaps they were just too stupid to keep anything to themselves.

  “Madame wanted them brought here and finished.”

  “Why would we lock them in the pit, if we’re just going to kill them? I think she means to do more with them first.” This from a younger sounding man, a voice she didn’t recognize from this morning’s fracas.

  “She's going to be furious if she finds out we haven’t already buried them.”

  One of the men shifted and she caught a thumping, a boot or rifle butt. “This one is already dead, so we're fifty-percent in the right, either way she wants it.”

  Olivia’s heart jumped into her throat. Please, please let them be wrong. As angry as she was with Ty at the moment, just the thought of him injured tore her heart. Dead? She couldn’t entertain the thought. There was so much she needed to say, so much she needed to fix. She prayed that he was too stubborn, and the guards too lazy, for what they claimed to be true.

  Breathing through a wave of cold panic, she struggled to catch the rest of their exchange. “... means we can take our time with the bitch.”

  “You can goddamn have her. I'll keep what she left of my nose. And what about the lad’s eyes? Ugh!”

  “Ought to have slit her throat right then. Before we do a thing, I'm settling the matter. Do we kill them or keep them?” demanded the second guard.

  “How's that?” challenged the first.

  “I'm riding to the farm and asking her myself.”

  “And then you'll come back, no matter what she says, and tell me you were right. Plow yourself. If you go, I'm going too.”

  “Well, let's go together, majesty. Chevois can mind this one, and I can be proved right that much sooner.”

  Impossible. They could not be leaving together. But sure enough, a moment later the soldiers' bickering faded under the hoof beats of two horses. That only left one in the camp by her estimation. One, she could manage.

  Soldiers so green gave her hope that perhaps Napoleon’s oncoming assault would not be a lasting one. These men couldn’t follow a simple order to dispatch two prisoners. The baroness had left two of the stupidest men in France to guard her. Their officer wasn't much better, and he seemed to have little control over his men.

  She wasn’t complaining; she wouldn’t
be staying that long.

  Her hands and feet found purchase in the pit's muddy slope. Grit seeped into her shoes and buried field stones tore remaining fingernails as she climbed. Within reach of the grate, she used one of the rocks to bang the iron bars, waiting, holding her breath to see if anyone else came. There had been a third guard, but if he was there, he showed no sign. She had to risk it. There was no telling how long it would take the others to return.

  Poking numb fingers through her tangle of wet, matted hair, she at last found the small braid. It originated just above her nape, and it was buried out of sight and not easy to feel. With slow, measured pinches she worked the silver hairpin free of her braid's weave.

  Gaining as much leverage as she could in smooth-soled boots, Olivia raised both arms through the grate, feeling until she bumped its hefty padlock. This would be tricky. She needed the lock horizontal so that the pins would fall properly as she picked it. Thanks to the half-ring it was threaded through, getting it perfectly upright wouldn’t be possible. She threw a silent curse in what she imagined was the general direction of Ty’s prone form. This was his area of expertise.

  She made herself concentrate. This would just take a little time, but she could do it. Breathing deeply and calming her hammering heart, she got to work. First, she twisted the pin in half at its arc. Bending one length into a hook against a bar overhead, Olivia grasped the lock and pulled it down toward her. With the hook, she scraped, and with the other half, she applied pressure to the mechanism, encouraging it to turn when she had the pins set right.

  It was precise work, hard enough in the best conditions. Cold hands, poor footing, and no view of her progress made for slow going. Bars dug into her inner arms, muscles aching. Wrists burned at the awkward angle. She was losing her grip. She doubted the estate that Thalia was using was far from here, and the guards could be back any moment.

  Suddenly something gave, there was a clang, and the pin rotated. The lock came off in her hand. She could hardly believe it and sat stunned for a moment.