Gabriel froze at the use of his title. “Why do you address me so? No one here knows me as anything but ‘English pig.’”
“Release me,” she insisted coolly, as though she were bargaining for a new bonnet and not her life. “I will say no more until you do.”
Gabriel considered. “Tell Georges to drop his knife and kick it to me.” He had no idea how many more weapons the man carried, but at least Georges would have one less and he would have one more.
“S’il vous plait, Georges.”
He nodded and tossed the knife to the floor. It landed behind Gabriel.
“Merci, Georges,” she said.
“Il n’y a pas de quoi toujours, ma soeur.”
So Georges could speak. Was the man a servant or a friend? Her husband?
Gabriel released her. She stepped away, but not far. Not more than a foot.
“Before I go anywhere with you, Madame Nun,” he said, making the title an insult, “tell me who you are, who sent you and what your plan is.”
“I will tell you nothing but this: You will change clothes with Georges and you will trade places. First he must trim your hair and cut off some of your beard.” She smiled, cynical and unfriendly. “Or everyone will think you are a prisoner trying to escape.”
“He will take my place? Then he is more fool than I am.” He turned to the man. “Why are you willing to do this?”
“For money.”
“Of course. Why else. May you live to enjoy it.” Gabriel still held his weapon at the ready as an insidious hope edged aside his doubt. “Where do we go once we are away?”
“The less you know, the better.”
For whom, he thought, but did not ask again. Gabriel leaned close so he was breathing into her ear. She barely responded, but he saw her throat work as she swallowed. “I demand this. Tell me the name of the woman who thinks to save me.”
When she turned to answer, her mouth was almost on his. “Not save you, my lord, only rescue you.”
Her skin was lovely, her lips even lovelier. He moved a fraction closer, drawn by the scent of her, the invitation in her eyes irresistible. As she said her name, “Charlotte. Charlotte Parnell,” her lips touched his. The feather touch of her mouth was like a magnet, and for a second his entire being melded with hers. She stepped back and now there was no temptation in her, only impatience.
Charlotte Parnell. Her name was not much of a concession, but this pyrrhic victory was all she would allow. He saw that by the way she turned and headed for the door.
“Decide, my lord. I will have no qualms about leaving you to the guillotine.”
“I will go. If someone is paying you, then who am I to deny you your prize?”
“Very good, monsieur,” she said, as though it had been a difficult choice.
Gabriel nodded and moved into the light so Georges could trim his hair and beard. The man worked with confidence and speed. Was he a barber when he was not playing at theatrics? And what were they to each other? he wondered again. Lovers? Gabriel shifted his gaze to Charlotte, standing to his right, holding the lantern.
No. Georges worked for her, not the other way around. They were not intimate. He was sure of it. Her eyes were fixed on his face, not on the barber’s.
They stared at each other, and Gabriel hoped he was half as good as she was at hiding his thoughts. “You are either a consummate actress or a little mad.”
She nodded, not unpleased with his comment, and lowered the lantern. Georges had finished with his barbering.
Georges undressed and Gabriel followed suit. He looked from one to the other as he worked his collar buttons, half expecting an attack of some kind. Nothing happened. Georges continued undressing. Charlotte Parnell watched.
Tugging his shirt out of his breeches, Gabriel pulled it over his head and let it fall to the floor. His cravat was long gone and his jacket used now as a blanket.
With some calculation he turned from them as he began on the front closure of his breeches.
“Stop,” she commanded.
He did, because it was exactly what he had hoped for.
“They did this to you? Why?”
Holding still, he felt her fingers trace the still-sore lines on his back. Her touch was comfort and pleasure, too much pleasure after months without.
He faced her, and now that he was not entrapped by her touch, tried to decide how to use this sympathy to his advantage. Honesty. It would confuse her. Besides, it came naturally. “I was fool enough to try to escape.”
She shrugged as though she had already lost interest. “Your breeches.”
As he pulled them off, she was the one who moved away to gather up the clothes Georges had let fall.
They made quick work of the exchange. Georges wore a regular set of men’s clothes beneath his religious garb. As he put on Gabriel’s shirt he stopped and inhaled. God help him, it still smelled of the sun.
He took the pantaloons the French bourgeoisie now favored and handed Georges his breeches. He tucked his weapon into the pocket and looked around, moving his eyes only, for the knife Georges had kicked away. On the floor nearby and just out of reach.
When Gabriel sat on the floor to exchange shoes, he sat as close to the knife as he could manage, almost had it in hand when a pair of slippers came into view.
“You would not deny Georges protection, would you, my lord? You have your knife. You will leave him his.”
She nudged the knife to her partner, who picked it up without a word.
“Where is your weapon, madame?”
“Where you can never reach it.”
Her complete confidence was her undoing. “Do not be so sure that your mind and body are beyond compromise, madame. Arrogance is the first step to failure. I speak from experience.”
She turned from him with an abrupt, graceless step, and he counted this proof that some part of her was vulnerable
He took Georges’s shoes and left the man barefoot. “Georges,” he whispered, “this trade of clean for filthy, shoes for bare feet is too generous. Almost as puzzling as your willingness to stay behind. Who is paying you to risk your life so?”
Gabe looked from one to the other. Charlotte shook her head. With some effort he did not demand an answer. But he would have an explanation later.
By the time Charlotte Parnell was satisfied that his new clothes were as they should be, with the brown robe covering all, Georges was in the spot Gabriel had made his own, on his knees, his head lowered almost to the floor, as if praying a penance.
She handed Gabriel Georges’s hat and the lantern. “Carry the light low,” she whispered, “as though we need it to see our way. Keep your head down,” she insisted, “and say nothing.”
Pushing the heavy cell door open, the two of them began to walk toward the light at the end of the stone corridor. Gabriel’s escape attempts had never won him freedom beyond this length of corridor. His previous failures dogged him as he concentrated on walking in Georges’s too large shoes. He knew the spot where his first attempt had ended. There was still dried blood on the stone floor. The second and third were more vague in his memory.
The light seemed a hundred miles away as they began walking toward it. As they moved closer, elation mingled with the fear that had his hands shaking.
He concentrated on the woman next to him, dispelling the possibility of failure. Her hands were tucked in her sleeves. Even her walk was decorous. Despite that, he was sure that if the guard took one good look at that face he would know she was acting.
As they were about to step into the lighted entry, he paused, then stopped completely, frozen to the spot, two or three steps from the light.
She turned to him and nodded, her expression sympathetic for the first time. “It is the next step. This is not freedom, only the path to it.”
He shook his head, doing his best to dispel the sense of disaster looming. What jail had she been in that she could understand his insane wish to stay precisely where he was, to risk no mor
e than this?
He followed her and she made escape look easy, pausing at the guard’s desk, murmuring something about prayers for his health. The man responded with another gut-churning cough and a wave toward the door. Gabriel’s surprise became suspicion. Had she bribed everyone? Not with prayers, he was sure of that. With money? Her body?
As they began to move away from the guard, there was a bellow from down the hall. Every swear word he ever learned tumbled through his brain, even as the jailer reached for his weapon. It was not where he first looked. By the time the jailer gave up and grabbed a club, the roar was joined by shouting.
As Gabriel was readying himself for a fight, certain they had been discovered, the jailer insisted they leave. “They will drop the gate and it will be hours before they open it again.”
Charlotte hurried him from the entry, not that he needed any encouragement. They crossed the courtyard, walked under the old-fashioned portcullis, where, as predicted, two men were wrestling with the turning mechanism.
“It’s rusted open,” one guard announced to the other. “Call for the soldiers!”
Gabriel followed Charlotte. They made their way down the narrow street, which emptied into a wider one. As they reached it, a handful of men in uniform hurried past. Charlotte stopped to watch them. Gabriel tugged at her arm.
“No,” she said, “they will wonder if we do not appear curious.”
“What about Georges? Is he in danger? What will happen to him?” He did not want to be responsible for another dead man.
When she did not answer him right away, he turned from the parade of racing soldiers to see what else had caught her attention. “How interesting that you should care, my lord,” she said, considering him with curiosity. “I would wonder what kind of man you are if I did not already know.” She looked back to the prison. “Georges knows precisely what to expect.”
There was nothing soft about her, Gabriel realized, except for her body, which he suspected she used as coldly as she used Georges. Her feather-light kiss when she spoke her name had been as calculated as the disguise. He had not known it then but would not forget again.
“Keep your head up. Look interested.”
“I am,” he said, wondering what it would take to ruffle her. Nothing as simple as a kiss.
He crossed himself and tried to look religious, nodding at the comments of the crowd gathering around them. Speculation on the possibility of a prison riot. The toll the prisoners would pay for attempting it. The likelihood the guillotine would be busy tomorrow.
Sweat popped out on his brow despite the coolness in the air. Each man who looked their way was a jailer about to seize him. He kept his head down and his hat pulled low, and mumbled the Latin names for the roses his mother had treasured. His family. Was he any closer to seeing them?
Eventually a few in the crowd moved toward the prison, but the rest drifted in the direction of the boulevard. Charlotte followed them.
Moments before they reached the avenue, she took the lantern from him, doused the light and stepped into an alleyway. It was dark and smelled worse than the prison. Gabriel wondered at her sanity. Unless they were being followed and this was a further means to escape.
No, for they stopped after only a few steps. They were in deep shadow here, but his night vision was excellent. He watched as she pulled off her head covering, as well as the apron and brown robe.
Good Lord, he thought, as he took in the change in her appearance. Her hair was not dressed in any style, but rather a mad cap of curls and tangles that made him think she was happiest in bed.
He could not see the color of her dress, but it was not what one noticed first. Her breasts drew all the attention, and he swallowed with effort as he considered the cut of her gown, so low he was sure any moment all would be revealed.
She nodded at him. He stopped staring and mimicked her actions. Taking his robe, she stuffed it and her habit into a lavender-scented barrel that was near a boarded-up doorway. She set the lantern on top of the lid and raised her hands to her hair, not smoothing it so much as pressing it to her head. Was she wearing a wig? She shook out her skirts and took his arm. They left the alleyway, moving toward the town center. This time he did not hesitate to step from the alley, even as he sifted through explanations for his pallor and weakened appearance, so much more obvious in regular clothes. He ran a hand over his very short hair and looked up, beyond the steps he was taking, to the world surrounding him.
The boulevard was filled with people, sedan chairs and carriages. Aha, he thought, it is still evening and early enough that everyone in Le Havre has someplace to go.
Charlotte Parnell and Gabriel Pennistan joined them, walking arm in arm. “So people will think we are merely whiling away the time until we can indulge in something more strenuous.”
Mixing with the crowds, feeling the air against his face, Gabe finally grasped the reality of the moment. He was free. He stopped, let go of her arm and raised his hands, making fists, as if he could grab hold of freedom.
Looking heavenward, he saw a few of the brighter stars. He slowed long enough to identify the North Star, but even this wide boulevard was too narrow to show him much of the night sky. He would find an open field and spend hours watching the stars and plan a future that had nothing to do with war or treachery.
She took his arm again and he laughed. It was all he could do to still the sound that was more hysteria than amusement. Who knew that freedom came in degrees? He had no money, no resources, ill-fitting clothes and shoes, which, in fact, belonged to Georges.
He had escaped the stone walls of the French prison, but for now he had no choice. He must follow Charlotte Parnell with no notion of their destination or her plans.
“Where are we going?” Gabriel slowed their pace.
“Walk faster.” She pulled at his arm.
“No. I want answers now.”
“In good time.”
“Now!” He pulled her to a stop. The rest of the evening’s revelers moved around them, some with curious glances.
“Do not ruin this. You could as easily die in the next few minutes as in the last few.” She raised her hand to his cheek. It might have looked like a seductive gesture, but it felt more like a restrained slap.
He took her hand from his cheek at the wrist, caressing the pulse point, then holding it so she could feel his strength.
“You have no choice but to come with me,” she said, pulling her hand free. “I am your jailer now.”
3
SHE RAISED HER OTHER HAND and ran her thumb over his lips. He missed the first of her whispered words.
“…to my house, where we can rid you of the smell of jail, as well as the vermin who have made themselves comfortable on you.”
Mention of a bath made him itch everywhere. He moved a few steps away, amazed she would walk so close to anyone as filthy as he was.
Charlotte pulled him back to her side as a man called out, “If you wish a more willing customer, I would need no convincing.”
She waved at the man, who made to follow them. “Another night, monsieur. This one is shy and will take all my time.” She glanced at Gabriel as if considering some hidden quality. “Though not much of my skill.”
The man laughed as he saluted her and went on his way.
Gabe ignored the insult. Tried to. As they made their way through town, he concentrated on his surroundings, memorizing the route they were taking. When they had made three consecutive left turns, he suspected she was doing her best to confuse him. When he saw the same tavern sign for a second time, he was sure of it.
After more twists and turns, they came to a narrow alleyway. She seemed to have a fondness for them. At the third gate Charlotte stopped. Pushing it open, she hurried him to the back door of a house that appeared completely dark.
She let go of his arm to use her key and Gabe considered running. The rabbit warren of streets and mews might be confusing, but it would give him a dozen places to hide.
&nb
sp; “You would be back in jail within hours,” Charlotte said softly.
“Do you read minds too?” She had not even looked at him as she spoke.
“Even a child would know you have been in prison. Your face is without color, your clothes are ill-fitting and you smell of the place.” She spoke as she stepped into a small room lined with hooks for coats and a single lit candle. The hooks were empty. That was odd. Did no one live here? Or were they all out? He followed her into the kitchen without invitation and felt infinitely safer with a room in front of him and the door at his back.
“If it is so obvious that I am a villain, why did no one stop us on our way here?”
“Because they were all looking at me.”
“That is definitely so.” He laughed at the simple truth.
Leaning against the door, he folded his arms and took a good look her. The dress, trimmed with black lace, revealed more than it covered. “Your expression draws as much attention as your dress. You flirt with every man that passes and then give a charming show of regret, holding on to me as though I am a prize you are afraid you will lose. It is very effective, Madame Parnell.”
“You saw all that?”
“I have studied the sciences for years.” Her surprise was gratifying. “I have learned to observe the smallest detail.” He scanned the kitchen as he went on speaking. A brace of candles cast as much shadow as light. There was no one else in the room, the only sign of life a striped cat that raised its head when they came in.
He drew in a breath, disappointed that there was not more of the scent of a home. No bread baking, the musk from people crowded together, no smell of ale from half-drunk tankards. With a twinge of annoyance he realized that if Charlotte Parnell was his jailer, then this was no more than another prison.
Mary Blayney Page 2
