by Vikki Vaught
The Viscount's Salvation
by
Vikki Vaught
The Viscount's Salvation
Copyright © 2016 by Vikki Vaught
Cover design by Danielle Doolittle
All rights reserved. This book, or any part of it, cannot be reproduced or distributed by any means without the express permission in writing from the author.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
DEDICATION
This has been such another exciting journey for me. While this book is set in 1803, a time when the medical profession didn’t understand or have a name for PTSD, Cortland suffers from it. My heart goes out to all individuals who have to live with this disorder.
I want to thank my fantastic editor and friend, Tammy Souch. Her advice and suggestions always make my books so much better. I also want to mention my wonderful proof reader, Laurie White. Thank goodness for my awesome team of beta readers: Donna Salzman, Karen Henderson, Linda Levine, Cindy Emerson Baxter, Anissa Cook and April Renn. Your great feedback helped immensely, as always.
My heartfelt thanks goes to readers everywhere, for your willingness to give me a chance by reading my books. Last, but by no means least, I want to thank my husband for putting up with me when I’m lost in my world of books.
Thank you for reading The Viscount’s Salvation, Book 3 in my Honorable Rogue series. Look for the next book in this series, John’s story, in 2017. Reviews are the lifeblood for authors. If you enjoyed my story, I hope you will take a few minutes and write a review. Fellow readers will appreciate your words of wisdom.
CHAPTER ONE
Clichy, France
Early October 1803
Hiding in the bushes lining the edge of the footpath, a young lad watched the horror unfolding before his eyes. A huge oak tree stood in the middle of an open field with a British soldier tied to it. He whispered to his sister, “Do not look, Aimee.” She buried her thin, scared little face against his chest and whimpered. “Non, ma petite. Do not make a sound.”
The youth watched as the French soldiers taunted the man while one of their comrades brought a whip slashing down upon the poor man. Blood poured from the deep lacerations across the soldier’s back and shoulders. The officer in charge moved around to stand nose to nose with his prisoner. “You will tell us what you know, mon ami. We know you are l'infâme espion, Le Raven.”
“I know nothing!” And the soldier spat in the leader’s face. For his insolence, he received a punishing blow across his face, so hard, his head jerked back. Blood immediately sprang from his nose and mouth.
Gerrard watched as another man administered a dozen more lashes on the poor man’s mutilated back. Surely the stranger could not withstand much more. He had to admire this brave man as he continued to defy his captors.
The officer in charge folded his arms across his chest and huffed, “We shall give him more time to contemplate. String him up, but not tight enough to kill him, just tight enough to slowly squeeze his neck. We will leave him hanging from the tree while we meet with the rest of our comrades. I’m sure le général will want to question him further.”
He motioned to his men. They mounted their horses and rode toward the abandoned château close by, leaving their prisoner hanging so his feet barely touched the ground. The British soldier’s head fell forward, and he slumped as he lost consciousness.
Realizing the opportunity, Gerrard whispered, “Make ready to run.” He had to work fast if he was going to help the stranger. Once the soldiers were out of sight, he shot out of hiding to the man, his sister following on his heels.
“Est-il mort?” Aimee asked, glancing over her shoulder in the direction the men had ridden, then looking back at him, alarm in her blue eyes.
Gerrard met her gaze and shrugged his shoulders. “I shall check, ma petite.” He placed his fingers against the man’s neck, rubbed raw from the rope tied around his throat. An erratic pulse beat, but at least it was a pulse. “Stay back, Aimee. I will cut him down.”
Gerrard pulled his blade from the waistband of his breeches and slipped the knife under the rope wrapped around the poor man’s throat, slicing it in two. Using every bit of strength he possessed in his wiry twelve-year-old body, he caught the man around the chest and eased him to the rain-soaked ground. He knelt beside him and tried to revive the stranger, but to no avail.
He turned to his sister. “We must pull him to our cave before the soldiers return. Grab his feet, and I will wrap my arms around his chest.”
Aimee nodded and did her brother’s bidding. After immense effort from both children, they managed to get the man behind the bushes, then rolled him down the hill and dragged him into their hideout. By the time they had him in the cave, they were both sweating, even though it was a chilly, wet night. Catching his breath, Gerrard left Aimee gathering their meager blankets to wrap around the man, while he arranged the shrubs they used to conceal their hiding place. Once he was satisfied the cave could not be seen, he joined Aimee.
“Mon frère, what shall we do?” Aimee whispered. While she was only seven, the terror they had endured over the last couple of weeks had already trained her to be on the alert at all times. Gerrard had tried to shelter her, but he’d had to make sure she understood the danger to their very existence.
They’d been in hiding ever since soldiers raided and looted their farm two weeks before, killing their parents and grandparents, while he and Aimee hid in the root cellar. They had barely made it out alive when the soldiers torched the cottage and the barn, after stripping the dwellings of any possessions they deemed worthwhile.
From his hiding place, he’d watched in horror as the vile men tied up his père and grand-père, then took turns raping his gentle mère and grand-mère before slitting their throats. Their cries would stay with him for the rest of his life. Dieu merci, he’d done all he could to shield his sister from the atrocities committed on that dreadful night.
Fortunately, as the marauders rode away, torrential rains had slashed down upon the cottage, putting out the flames. After the downpour stopped, he had foraged around in the smoldering mess and found a few articles of clothing for both of them, several blankets, and some other items from their family. He had taken all he and Aimee could carry. Those additional garments could be used later to keep them warm. Then he had lifted the floorboard and grabbed the horde of coins his parents had hidden away. Once that was done, they had wandered for hours before he located the cave.
Pushing away his morbid thoughts, he joined his sister. Together, they bathed the dirt and grime from the stranger’s injuries with the water they had collected earlier. The man remained unconscious, his breathing shallow.
Gerrard searched the stranger’s pockets, finding a dirty handkerchief with the letters CFW elegantly embroidered on one of the corners in blue thread. Definitely not the handkerchief of a laborer. Leaning against the side of the cave, he took up vigil. Exhausted, Aimee curled up against him and fell asleep. Gerrard held her close as his eyes grew heavy. Dawn would come, bringing even more burdens—if the man lived through the night.
The first thing Gerrard did the following morning was to check and see if the man had survived. The stranger’s skin looked ashen under the bruises covering his battered face. His nose looked crooked, so it was obviously broken, but he detected the steady rhythm of a pulse when he checked the soldier’s carotid artery.
When he touched the man’s brow, it scorched his fingers. Fever had set in. He would need to take one of their precious coins to the village and buy a bottle of cheap w
hiskey to cleanse the stranger’s back. Then he would gather the herbs his grandmother had used on his father, after the marauders had cut him when they had escaped from their château five years before.
While only a lad of seven when that occurred, he had already become interested in the herbs and potions his grandmother used to treat cuts. He remembered her telling his mother how important it was to thoroughly cleanse the wounds, because cleanliness seemed to keep them from festering as often.
He gently shook Aimee’s shoulder. When she awoke, he told her, “I need to go to the village. While I’m away, watch over our new ami. If he awakens, try to get him to drink some water.”
“Be careful, mon frère. Those soldiers will be hunting for this man,” she urged, as fear flitted across her face.
“I shall, ma petite,” Gerrard assured her. “They will have no reason to question me. I shall be of no importance to them. They would never suspect a lad of twelve could possibly have helped their victim escape.”
He kissed his sister on the forehead. After rearranging the shrubs, making sure their hideaway could not be seen, he walked the two miles to the village.
At the outskirts of the town, Gerrard slipped past the women gathered around the well. He made his way to the tavern, where a young bar maid swept the stoop. Therese waved as he approached. “Bonjour, Gerrard. How are ye this blustery morn? I’m surprised t’ see ye so early.”
Gerrard leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “I come seeking whiskey. Would you be able to procure a bottle for me? I have coin.”
Therese gave him a knowing look as she put her hands on her ample hips. “Now what would ye be wanting whiskey for, mon jeune garçon?”
Since Therese did not know him well, he quickly assured her, “It is not for me. My grand-père sent me. He’s feeling poorly and needs it to abate his pain.”
Still suspicious, she tapped her foot and folded her arms across her generous chest. Then her expression softened. “Let me see yer coin, and I’ll get ye th’ bottle, but don’t ask me t’ do this again.”
Reaching into his jacket, he pulled a coin from his inside pocket and gave it to the barmaid. She raised it to her teeth and bit it. Then with a saucy grin, she went inside. Gerrard sagged against the building, his knees shaking. Dieu merci. For a short time, he’d thought she would refuse him. God must be watching out for the stranger.
After several minutes, Therese returned with the bottle and handed it to him. He gave her a grateful smile, “Merci beaucoup,” and slipped the whiskey into the burlap sack he had with him. He touched his brow in salute, then turned toward the road leading from the village.
As he made his way down the road, several French soldiers rode toward him. Even though the cold and wet morning chilled his bones, he broke out in a sweat when one of the men called out, “Halt.” The soldier reined in his horse. It was the officer from the night before, the fiend who had tortured the stranger so mercilessly. “Have you seen a tall man with wavy brown hair? He is an escaped prisoner.”
Gerrard’s knees knocked together, and his heart beat so hard, he feared it would leap from his chest. He gathered his courage and met the man’s dark gaze. “Non. I have not seen anyone other than the women at the well and Therese, the barmaid at the tavern.”
The soldier sighed, then briskly said, “If you see such a man, come see me at the château. I will reward you handsomely for information.” He touched his hat then led the other soldiers down the road.
Scampering toward the woods as fast as his skinny legs could carry him, Gerrard did not breathe easy until he was hidden behind the bushes lining the forest. After his pounding heart slowed, he swiftly made his way to the edge of the stream near the cave. He filled the bucket he’d left earlier with fresh water and gathered the herbs he needed to treat the wounded man.
As he approached the hidden entrance, he scanned the area to make sure no one was around before removing the shrubs. After he had the entrance hidden again, he asked his sister, “Has the man awakened?”
Aimee shook her small head, her golden locks framing her petite face. “Non. He has not opened his eyes, but he has been muttering in his sleep, calling out for someone. It sounded like ‘Anissa.’ Do you think it could be his wife or sweetheart?”
“We shall have to wait until he awakens to find out,” he said. “I brought the whiskey and the herbs. Can you heat this water over the fire? I will need it to bathe this man’s back again.”
Aimee hurried to do as he asked, while he examined his patient. Gerrard pulled down the blanket to look at the wounds. The lacerations on the stranger’s back oozed blood. Mercifully, the cuts did not look as inflamed as he’d expected.
Once the water was heated, he washed his patient’s torso, making sure to remove all traces of blood. After that, he took the whiskey and dribbled it on the open wounds. Immediately the man reared up and cried out, “What the hell?”
“Monsieur, I apologize,” Gerrard sputtered, “I must clean your wounds lest they fester. I shall try to be careful.” After that, the man remained still as Gerrard completed his task. Once he finished, he inquired, “May I ask your name?”
“I…I—” The stranger turned his head and struggled to speak, his voice raspy. “I am Captain Wallingford of His Majesty’s British Army. Where am I, and how did I end up here?”
Gerrard leaned back on his heels. “My sister and I watched the soldiers as they tortured you. After they departed, leaving you hanging from the tree, I cut you down. We pulled you to our hideout. That was yesterday evening.”
The captain rolled to his side, then managed to sit. “Thank you. I am indebted to you for saving me. I’m sure I would be dead by now if you had not. What is your name?”
The young lad executed a bow as taught to him by his mère. “I am Gerrard, Le Comte de Turenne. This is my sister, Aimee.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” the captain replied. “You’re quite young to be on your own. If you are indeed Le Comte, what happened to your parents?”
Gerrard’s heart clenched, but he kept his composure as he told the captain their sad story. “We have remained hidden ever since.”
The captain asked, “Is there no family to take you in?”
“Non. They were killed when marauders discovered our château five years ago. Only my parents and grandparents survived then. Aimee and I…we are alone. I will take care of us, Capitaine. I am strong.”
“I’m sure you have done a commendable job, but you’re what, eleven, possibly twelve? Your sister, six or seven?”
“I am twelve and Aimee is seven.”
The captain met his gaze, his concern apparent in his amber eyes. “Since you no longer have any family, I will see you safe. If you will help me make it to the coast, I’ll take you to England, and I shall make you my wards, unless you have a better plan. As a member of the French nobility, it will be hard to remain safe here.”
Gerrard did not know what to think of the kind man’s offer. Dare he accept? The captain seemed sincere and spoke well. Perhaps this would be the solution to their dilemma. “You are correct. France is not safe for us, but how do I know I can trust you?”
“I own a small estate in England called Addington Hall, and while I’m not a wealthy man, I can offer you a home and will make sure all your needs are met.” He watched the man’s eyes as he spoke, looking for any deceit and relaxed when he did not see any. “My uncle is Viscount Hardesty and is fond of me. His son and I were the best of friends in our school days. I promise, my family is quite respectable.”
None of this surprised Gerrard. He had determined the man was a gentleman even before he awakened. “I must think on this and speak with my sister. Why don’t you rest, and we can speak more on this when you awaken? By then, I will know whether we want to accept your generous offer. I must go hunt for our supper. If you need anything, Aimee will assist you.”
****
Cortland watched the fearless young lad depart. His sister moved aro
und the cave tidying their hideout. He tried to recline on his side, but his back burned, his jaw ached, and his nose felt broken. The last thing he remembered was his tormentors putting a rope around his neck. His hands went to his throat, and felt the ragged scrapes and indentations. No wonder his voice sounded so gruff. It was surprising he could speak at all.
He truly owed his life to these young children, and he would protect them with his own and get them to safety, no matter what the cost. He had endured captivity, starvation, and torture for more than eighteen months. It was hard to believe he was at last free.
After all this time, his sister must surely believe him dead. The last time he had heard from Anissa, she’d been in London with her husband.
At least he did not need to worry over her. Her husband was madly in love with her and their small son. Good Lord, Harry would be eight years old this coming March. The lad would have changed a great deal since he had last seen him the Christmas of 1799, shortly before he left for France.
Pressure from a full bladder jolted him back to the present. Desperately needing to relieve himself, he spoke to the little girl, “I need to go outside for a few minutes. Will it be safe?” Then noticing his bare chest, he swore under his breath. “Damn, I don’t have anything other than my tattered breeches.”
How the hell would he find clothing?
The child looked at him, her blue eyes wide and wary. Cortland should not have sworn in front of the little girl. Anissa would admonish him for his bad language in front of a child. He’d been too long in the company of rough, violent men.
She stammered, “If you s-stay close to t-the cave, you s-should be fine, Monsieur. I will help you.”
“No need, Aimee,” he assured her. “I shall find my way. Do you have anything I could use to cover myself?”
“Oui, Capitaine.”
The child rummaged through a cloth bag and pulled out a rough woolen shirt that had seen better days, but beggars could not be choosers. The little girl handed it to him, and as he tried to pull it on, the sudden movement had him gasping for breath as a sharp jab of pain grabbed him in the gut. Gritting his teeth, he slowly managed to pull the shirt over his head.
