Sir Maurice stood as she entered, clearly waiting to hand her into the vacant chair she had occupied before. Some thudding in the rooms above made her wince. Hammering began below.
On impulse, she changed direction, swerving toward the Villins instead, and sat down. “They may tear your inn apart,” she said abruptly. “Would it not be better simply to show them your secret cellar?”
“No.” Villin grinned. “Looking will keep them busy.”
“Until what?” She gazed at him, wondering if the Frenchman was right about traps.
“Morning, if nothing else, when the alarm’s bound to be raised.”
Isabelle looked around the few drinkers who had been herded in from the taproom. “Won’t they be missed? Will their wives not come looking for them?”
“In the dark? With little ones at home? Not Tapper’s missus, nor Johnny’s. Reg lives alone. Wouldn’t be the first time Bain and Harry had stayed out all night, either. Several times I’ve swept them out of the taproom the next morning.”
“Well, don’t tell them that,” Isabelle warned, nodding her head toward the guard. “We’ve more chance of being rid of them if they’re afraid of discovery.”
“They don’t seem to be afraid of much,” Villin said in disgust. “Swanning in here bold as brass!”
Isabelle lowered her voice further. “If you have a means of signaling anyone who could help—”
“Not from here, madame,” Villin said regretfully. “Need to get out onto the marsh.”
Isabelle frowned. “We need to get out. This is ridiculous.”
Villin nodded sympathetically.
His wife leaned forward. “Don’t fret, madame,” she murmured, and as Isabelle moved closer, she glanced significantly down at her apron. Isabelle’s eyes followed instinctively. Mrs. Villin’s plump fingers drew a large key partially out of the pocket, then shoved it back in again.
Isabelle smiled at her. “How clever of you.”
“Move aside, madame, if you please,” the guard interrupted.
Clearly, she was blocking Villin from his view. Like most men, he believed the only danger would come from members of his own sex.
She frowned at him. “My good man, this is silly! The doors are locked. On top of which you have men enough to guard them. Why should we all sit in here?” She pointed to the family at the next table. “This lady and gentleman should at least be allowed to take their child to bed. You cannot frighten him like this!”
The child in question was, in fact, sleeping blissfully through the crashing from above and below and seemed quite oblivious of either angry voices or his parents’ tension.
But, rather to Isabelle’s surprise, the guard began to look harassed. “Take it up with the captain, madame, not me.”
“I will,” Isabelle retorted.
But his attitude was interesting. He didn’t like holding the family at gunpoint. He was a soldier used to fighting other soldiers, not women and children. If they all felt the same way—and she had a feeling even their captain did, for he hadn’t been pleased to see the little boy—then surely it was to the captives’ advantage.
Sir Maurice, re-seated once more, was pretending to be asleep when she walked past him. His head rested against the wall behind him, and his eyes were closed. But there was something petulant about his rigidity she did not like. Ignoring him, she continued to the family, whose name she had discovered was Ferris, and sat down beside the mother, being careful not to squash the sleeping child.
“How fortunate he sleeps so soundly,” she murmured. “Would you like me to take him for a little to let you rest? I have been a governess, you know.”
Mrs. Ferris placed her arm more protectively over the boy.
Isabelle noticed the gesture but persevered. “He would still see you as soon as he wakes.”
Mrs. Ferris, looking like a startled deer, said nothing. It was her husband who replied a little hastily. “Thank you, you’re very kind, but the movement might wake him.”
“Of course.” Isabelle hesitated. “I also wanted to say, I do not believe they will hurt him or you, Mrs. Ferris.”
“You would say that,” Mrs. Ferris burst out. “Being one of them!”
“Marian,” her husband protested.
“Well, it’s true,” Mrs. Ferris insisted, her voice rising with her indignation, loud enough now to attract the attention of the captives as well as the guard. “Don’t you see her making up to them as if they are best friends? Of course, because they are!”
It was hardly the first accusation of treachery made against her. She said only, “I see no reason why you would imagine so.”
“You speak French,” Mrs. Ferris muttered.
“I imagine you might, too,” Isabelle said wryly. “And your husband almost certainly does.”
“She is just overwrought,” Mr. Ferris said quickly. “She means nothing by it.”
She quite clearly did, but Isabelle let it go. “I only wanted to give you my opinion,” she told them, “in case you find it reassuring. I don’t believe they are naturally brutal men.”
“Tell that to Lieutenant Steele,” Mrs. Ferris snapped.
But Isabelle had had enough and rose to her feet. “My dear lady, from what I observed, the lieutenant could easily be dead long since if that was what they wished. So could the rest of us. But if you prefer to wallow in unnecessary fear and alarm for the rest of the night, I shall do nothing to stand in your way.”
“I’m sorry ma’am,” Ferris said nervously. He lowered his voice. “I do value your opinion, but I doubt it means we can simply walk out the door without being shot.”
“Not yet,” she agreed. “Excuse me.”
“Why do you bother?” Sir Maurice asked as she took the chair opposite him. He didn’t trouble to open his eyes.
“Because I know what it is to be afraid,” she said. “And I wish it on no one.”
His eyes opened. “Ma chérie, you have never been afraid of anyone in your life.”
She smiled lazily. It had always been what she had wanted people to think. She didn’t know why she had admitted to the weakness now, before him of all people, but she was happy enough to go along with his idea that she was joking.
He sat up straighter, smiling back. “It is not quite the escape we planned, is it?”
Although he spoke softly, it was still loud enough for Lieutenant Steele and probably Mr. and Mrs. Ferris to hear, too. Obviously, he saw no need to preserve her reputation—whatever remained of it.
“Not for any of us,” she agreed without looking at him. “Lieutenant, how are you?”
“Not much use in a fight, I’m afraid,” Steele replied ruefully. He looked very pale and tight-lipped. Clearly, he was in some pain.
“Would a glass of brandy help?” she asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“Monsieur,” she addressed the guard at once. “May we have a glass of brandy for the lieutenant?”
Mr. Villin stood. “I can get that. In fact, why don’t I get refreshments for everyone? My wife could make tea for the ladies.” He smiled faintly. “And yourselves.”
If there was an insult in his last words, the guard didn’t see it. “One at a time,” he said. “First, you get brandy for him.”
Carefully, Isabelle did not look at Mrs. Villin who no doubt planned to use her key at the first available opportunity. Perhaps she had passed it to her husband. Isabelle’s heart began to beat faster as Villin slouched out of the room. But the guard followed him as far as the doorway, from where he could see part of the taproom as well as keep his eye on the rest of his captives.
Villin returned smartly with a large glass of brandy, which he presented to the lieutenant with a bow.
Steele gave him a weary smile in return and reached for the glass with his good arm. “My thanks.”
“You might have brought the bottle,” Sir Maurice drawled.
“He said one at a time,” Villin pointed out, glancing at the guard for permission.
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br /> “Sit down,” the guard growled. “No one needs more brandy.”
“What about tea?” Mrs. Villin asked.
At that moment, quick footsteps in the hall heralded the return of Captain le Noir. There were grimy fingerprints on his face, as though he’d clasped it with his dirty hands. His clothes were no better.
“Tea,” he agreed unexpectedly. “Excellent notion. Madame, if you please—for all of us.”
Mrs. Villin and Lily both rose to their feet.
“Can’t carry all that myself,” Mrs. Villin pointed out before either Frenchman could object. “Of course, you’re welcome to help if you want, but Lily will be more use.”
Captain Noir looked amused. “Undoubtedly,” he agreed. “Caron, go with them.”
Obediently, their guard, Caron, followed them out of the room while the captain sank into his vacant chair and ran his gaze around all the captives. He didn’t linger on Isabelle but on Steele, with his brandy, before moving on. If he had a pistol, he didn’t trouble to bring it out. Yet, for some reason, no one took advantage. No one even moved.
“Did you find your missing friends?” Isabelle inquired with undisguised mockery.
He met her gaze. “You know I did not. Yet.”
“If you bring down the inn, people might notice.”
“I shall, of course, endeavor not to do so.”
“You do know you’re achieving nothing here,” Sir Maurice offered.
“I know I have achieved nothing yet,” Noir corrected. “The night is young.”
“The night is getting on a bit,” Sir Maurice retorted. “It’s my belief you are not quite sane.”
“Then you share the opinion of a good portion of the French army.”
“Is that why you are not with the grand army in Russia?” Sir Maurice sneered.
“Oh, no. I’m sure insanity was preferred for that undertaking. Sadly, I was injured and kept back for other tasks.”
“Like looking for nonexistent, escaped prisoners?”
“Precisely,” Noir agreed.
“But what will happen in Russia?” Isabelle asked. “The Tsar has not surrendered.”
“Why should he? He just needs to wait for winter.”
“Then the French will retreat?”
“You would have to ask the emperor.”
“Then you think he was wrong to invade Russia?” Maurice pounced, openly mocking.
“Of course I do,” Noir said unexpectedly. “Utter foolishness and an inevitable waste of life.”
Isabelle was intrigued. Sir Maurice, after a stunned moment, said, “Are you not afraid to disagree so openly with your emperor? To criticize him?”
Noir laughed. “Why, are you going to tell him?”
“No, but she might,” Mrs. Ferris muttered audibly with a glance of loathing at Isabelle. “But, of course, you know who she is and who her husband was.”
Noir looked mystified.
“The man you had never heard of,” Sir Maurice said helpfully.
Noir’s gaze moved quickly from Maurice to Isabelle, and she saw that he already knew.
“What a coincidence,” he murmured without interest.
His eyes were unreadable, but again, she thought they saw too much. For example, that Sir Maurice was too busy being clever to stand up for her. For a moment, she even wondered if Noir might defend her himself—which was the one thing guaranteed to make her position worse. But his gaze moved to the door where Mrs. Villin and Lily were entering with trays of cups and tea pots.
“Tea, thank God. I’m parched,” Isabelle announced.
Mrs. Villin poured, and Lily carried the first cup and saucer to Noir, who frowned and jerked his head across the room.
Obligingly, Lily brought it to Isabelle. “Go ahead, madame,” Lily breathed. “It’s not poisoned.”
Noir and Caron took theirs last. Then Noir sent his henchman down to help in the cellar. Isabelle thought the soldiers were all down there, now, for she no longer heard bumping from the rooms above.
Sir Maurice, presumably, deduced the same. “I think you might permit us to retire,” he said to Noir. “The doors are locked, and you may as easily guard them as all of us. I see no reason why the ladies at least—and the gentlemen among us—should not sleep in as much comfort as is possible in the circumstances. Without inconveniencing you, of course.”
“Of course,” Noir repeated. “But no. On the whole, I prefer you where I can see you.”
“Consider the child,” Isabelle pleaded.
He wrenched his gaze free and leapt up. “I said no,” he snapped and began pacing the room. Isabelle thought it was so he didn’t have to look at the sleeping boy.
Apart from the rhythmic pacing and the odd muffled curse and crash from below, silence fell in the coffee room. In time, all the captives began to nod off.
Isabelle leaned her head back and closed her eyes, too aware of the man moving about the room to sleep. A foot brushed her ankle, which she ignored until a leg pressed against hers. Sir Maurice.
As though shifting in sleep, she turned in her chair, moving her body as far away from him as she could get.
Had she ever enjoyed such blatant flirtation? Yes, once, when she was young, when Pierre had broken her heart, and she had turned to Patrick Verne…
I loved Patrick. What on earth was I thinking of to come here to a man I don’t even like?
She wondered with odd detachment if she still loved Patrick, who had only ever “nearly” loved her. And who had married a younger and much more lovable woman. A woman who would have been her friend if not for Patrick. But no, his marriage to Cecily seemed to have dampened her own feelings. They were, latterly, only a crutch to hang on to, to prove she could still love. Her heart felt cold and lonely. But a liaison with Maurice Ashton was not the cure for that. She could never love him. He left her…unmoved.
All men did now.
Without warning, the dark, turbulent face of Captain le Noir flitted into her mind. Those wild, desperate eyes and the almost insane stubbornness that drove him. She could not help wondering what his life had been like, what tragedy he hid…
Oh, yes, typical Isabelle, she thought ruefully. The only man who had intrigued her in years was a Bonapartist soldier who had taken her prisoner.
With his expressive face dancing across her mind, she drifted into a strange, half-sleeping doze, from which she woke abruptly when someone brushed against her skirts.
Damn you, Ashton, she thought in outrage as her eyes snapped open. There was still a lamp lit close by, and by its glow, she saw at once that it had been a much smaller figure than Maurice Ashton who had bumped into her. A small, tousled, blond boy toddled across the room toward the window, while his parents slept, slumped together on the bench.
At the window, Noir appeared to have stopped his relentless pacing to gaze out into the darkness, totally ignoring his captives.
“Hello,” the little boy said, arriving beside him.
Noir glanced down at him without obvious surprise. “Good evening.”
“Is it still night time? It must be if everyone’s asleep.”
“I suppose it must.”
“You’re not asleep,” the boy observed.
“That’s true.
“What are you looking at?” The boy climbed unaided on to the window seat to peer through the gap in the curtains. “Are you looking for something?”
“Yes, I am, but they aren’t there.”
“Will you go and look for them in the morning?”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to.”
“I could come with you,” the child offered.
Noir’s face softened into a smile that made Isabelle’s heart beat faster. “I wish you could.”
“I’m Sam,” the boy said, smiling back and holding up his hand.
“Armand,” said Captain le Noir as he bent and solemnly shook the boy’s hand.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Ferris cried, her frightened voice tearing into the
rather touching scene. “Get away from him!”
Fortunately, perhaps, the boy dropped Noir’s hand to skip across the room to his mother. “Mama, mama, this is my new friend, and please, in the morning, can I help him find his lost things?”
She clutched him to her, ignoring his uncomfortable wriggling. By then, everyone was awake again.
“Take the boy and go to your chamber,” le Noir commanded, then glared as the parents simply stared at him. “Quickly, before I change my mind.” He resumed his pacing as the family scuttled out of the room.
Little Sam kept trying to look back over his shoulder. “Good night! Good night, Armon!”
“I take it the rest of us are not to be allowed the same courtesy?” Sir Maurice drawled.
“For once, you are entirely correct.” Noir stopped at the door, stuck his head out, and yelled out, “Boucher!”
A muffled voice answered from the depths of the building, and Noir strode across the room once more. Another of his men, presumably Monsieur Boucher, trudged wearily in a few moments later, speaking in colloquial French.
“No trace, sir. I don’t know where else to look. The bedchambers are clear. There’s no easy way into another cellar, and they can’t block it up and tear it down every time they get a delivery or want a fresh barrel!”
“I’ll take another look,” Noir muttered. “You stay here and watch them. Do not fall asleep.”
“How much longer are we going to wait, Captain?” It was said with resignation, but absolutely no fear.
“I don’t know,” Noir’s voice replied impatiently. He was long out of sight.
Boucher sighed and took out his pistol as he walked across to the window seat, where he sat down and regarded his captives. “Long night,” he observed in English.
No one answered him.
Isabelle, aware suddenly of intense observation, turned her head to find Mrs. Villin’s gaze upon her. The innkeeper’s wife lifted her brows encouragingly and glanced at Boucher.
Isabelle’s breath caught. She understood at once that with Noir out of the way and Boucher clearly exhausted, the Villins wanted to take the chance of escape. She could not disagree.
The Broken Heart Page 4
