Undercover Cavaliere

by Judith B. Glad

  "They?" One hand swiped across his face, paused while his fingers explored scabs and strips of adhesive tape holding the edges of cuts together. "I... Damn. It's all stirred together, like a crazy nightmare. Heureaux? I remember him. But what--"

  "Gabe, will you accept that we're safely hidden for now? How do you feel?"

  "Like sh-- As if someone had taken a singlejack to me. How badly is my leg damaged?" Even as he asked, his fingers were exploring as low on his thigh as he could reach. They plucked at the splints.

  "I don't know. It's serious." Before he could demand more information, she said, "It wasn't safe to get a doctor, so we did the best we could. Please, can we talk later? I want to get you out of that coffin while you're still alert and not hurting too badly. Do you think you can sit up?"

  They were both sweating by the time he was sitting upright. "You're not going to be able to lift me," he warned her.

  "No, but I'm hoping that together we can tip you out. If I pad your leg with my blanket, do you think you can roll?"

  He considered. "Wrap my legs together in the blanket. Got any line?"

  "Yes. I'll get it."

  Getting the blanket around his legs in the confines of the tapering coffin brought sweat to Gabe's face and tears to her eyes. At last they were wrapped and tied together to his satisfaction. "That'll work. On the count of three, help me tip to the right." He leaned to the side. "One... Two...Three."

  She lifted, he lunged, and the coffin spilled him onto the floor.

  She heard the hiss as he drew breath between clenched teeth. "Are you all right?"

  "I'll live."

  He didn't sound as if it was a prospect he looked forward to.

  * * * *

  Shortly after he was settled on the doubled-over blanket that had been Gina's bed, Gabe admitted to himself that he needed laudanum. "I can't string two thoughts together. Just don't give me so much you knock me out."

  She tipped the small brown bottle over the cup and allowed three drops to fall. "This is a little bit less than I've been giving you. It may not be enough."

  "I can stand pain, as long I can think while I'm hurting." When he'd swallowed the bitter draught, he lay back and tried to relax. Tried not to think of how he'd manage with a permanently locked knee. He'd just gotten used to having it be stiff and clumsy.

  It's not that bad. Just banged up a bit and swollen. They wouldn't have left me here for her to take care of if it was serious.

  When he woke again, the room was filled with shadows. Regina was a darker shape against the strips of rosy sky beyond the louvers. "What are you looking at?" His tongue was clumsy, his words slurred.

  "Nothing, really. It got too dark to read, so I came up here to watch the river. There's more traffic than I realized."

  "Read? You have books?"

  "Just two. I found them in one of the boxes, along with some dirty clothes. Unfortunately everything is too small for you."

  "Will you read to me? It might take my mind off..." His gesture might have been at his leg, or at the other appendage that showed no sign of life, despite her being all but undressed.

  "I can't Gabe. We don't dare show a light. Yesterday..."

  As he listened to her account of the searchers, a great icy mass grew in his gut. He'd known his life might be forfeit at any time. It was part of the game. But not Gina. She'd volunteered for nothing. To her this was just a silly spy game, played by men who enjoyed the thrill of the chase.

  Maybe she's been right all along.

  He stretched out his hand. "Come here."

  "What? Do you need--"

  "I need you. Here. Close to me." He pulled her close, feeling the dampness of her sweat-slick skin. She smelled like she'd been working hard all day, but underneath was a faint, familiar scent of lilac. Just like her mama.

  Much as he wanted to protect her, he knew she deserved to know what they faced. "If they were looking for us, they won't give up. I'm not sure myself where we are, but something, some clue, told them where to look."

  "Peter said this was a place only a few knew about. He was keeping it in reserve. Just in case."

  "Then he was betrayed. It's not just me they're after." Earlier, while he'd been drifting into drugged sleep, memories had surfaced. Memories, or crazy dreams. "Do you know how Peter... How they found me?"

  It wasn't too dark for him to see her frown. "Weren't you with them all along?"

  "No. At least I don't think so. I met Heureaux. We made the exchange." When he thought of her and the other innocents crammed into those barrels, handled like so much molasses, his anger swelled into fiery rage. "Afterward I was supposed to go to my hotel and Peter was to take the merchandise--you--to..." He shook his head, seeking the next step in their plans. Nothing.

  "There was a house in St. Cloud. That's where they took us. We were there for a night and a day. They brought in the coffins and the hearse. Peter said they'd sent the barrels on a boat as planned. They brought you and the girls here in coffins, using a real hearse."

  Again he shook his head. "I can't remember. It's not important, though. Peter said this was his bolt hole?"

  "Not exactly. He called it his secret place. I don't think any of the others knew about it until we got here."

  "Then how...?"

  "I don't think they all went on the boat with Peter," she said, while he was re-examining every possibility of betrayal he could think of.

  He gaped. "Not all of them?"

  "I can't be sure, but it seemed as if two men stayed behind. The angle wasn't good. I could only see part of the dock."

  "Damn." He wished he knew who had been with Peter. But she only knew the one name.

  "Exactly." Her tone was even, but there was a note of tension in her voice. "We're in trouble, aren't we?"

  Much as he wanted to reassure her, he said, "Yes. If they find us, they'll kill us."

  "Then it's up to us to make sure they don't find us." Her fingers tapped on one of his splints. "Could you stand? Walk if I helped you?"

  He bent his good leg, straightened it. There was strength there. And in his arms. Not as much as he'd like, but enough, pray God. "If I have to. Or if I can't, I can crawl."

  "Then we'll do just fine." Her teeth flashed in a smile.

  He knew she was humoring him. Trying to reassure him, and he loved her all the more for it. "How--"

  "Later." Again that flash of teeth in the dimness. "The other night, when I was afraid you'd never wake again, I realized how precarious life is. How precious each moment can be. This is probably not exactly what the doctor ordered, but it's what we need. Lie back. Let me love you."

  He did, silently cursing the nagging pain in his leg. I'll not take any more laudanum. I need to be alert.

  She removed the strip of canvas that was his only pretention to modesty.

  He willed himself to respond. "I don't know if I'm capable."

  "Pooh! I've been bathing you. I know better. Even when you were unconscious, there was life here."

  Her hand enfolded him, and he felt a faint stirring of interest. "Life maybe, but not enough." As she continued to fondle him, he strained to feel desire.

  It was there, but only in his mind. His cock lay flaccid and uninterested. "Great God, Gina, this is not funny. I want you, but... I can't." It was a humiliating confession.

  "Then don't. If we never had intercourse again, I would still love you." With a final gentle pat, she covered him again. "Let me hold you while you sleep. That will be enough."

  "I could... For you..." Words failed him.

  "Thank you, but no. Not tonight." Scooting closer, she lay her head on his shoulder. "You've been drugged. You're probably in pain. No, don't deny it. I can see the tension in your face. It was silly of me to expect you'd be interested."

  Pulling her closer, he turned his head to kiss her forehead. "I am interested," he said. "Always. What's that saying about willing spirit but weak flesh? Well, that's me."

  "Only tonight," she said, ma
king it sound like a promise.

  I hope so. Great God, I hope you're right. The thought that he might never again make love to her was more terrifying than facing a painful death.

  * * * *

  When she woke the next day, Regina had a feeling something was different, even before she opened her eyes. The stifling heat was the same, as was the smell, compounded of tar, dead fish, and sewage. What had changed?

  She lay still. Listened.

  After a long, tense moment, she realized she couldn't hear Gabe breathing. Until now he'd snored whenever he slept, a soft, continual buzz, as if his nasal passages were just a bit congested. It was a common reaction, Peter had told her, to the opiate. She lay almost paralyzed, afraid of what she would discover when she turned to look at him. Oh, please... Not quite a prayer.

  The longer you put it off, the worse it's going to be. She rolled to her side and pushed herself up on one elbow.

  His gray eyes stared back at her, filled with the questions she hadn't answered the day before. He opened his mouth, ran his tongue over dry, cracked lips. "Where? What..."

  Before he could speak, she clapped her hand over his mouth. "Shhh. Speak softly."

  Bending close, she said, in case he'd forgotten, "We're in a warehouse somewhere outside of Paris. Your...friends took the others to England. Someone betrayed you, so they had to change their plans. They said they'd come back for you...us."

  Little as Peter had told her, she was perfectly capable of putting the pieces of Gabe's drugged ramblings together with what she already knew. Perhaps her knowledge was incomplete, but she'd wager it was accurate.

  Again he nodded.

  There must be something about this spy business. Peter had showed that same calm acceptance of a situation. If she'd been in Gabe's place, she would have been asking questions a mile a minute.

  His lips moved against her palm.

  She lifted it. "What?"

  "Water?" His whisper was faint.

  "Oh! Of course."

  She scrambled to her feet. After dipping water to fill the saucepan that was her only cooking pot, she pumped up the stove and lit it. She filled the tin cup with more water and took it back to him. "Can you sit?"

  He attempted to roll to his side, but the merest movement had him groaning and falling back. Beads of sweat bloomed on his forehead and upper lip. "Help me?" he said, a mere breath of sound.

  "Of course," she said. "Just a moment."

  She fetched the big spoon and the small bowl from atop the crate that served as their table. "Let's relieve your thirst, then I'll help you sit up." Slowly she fed him the water in the cup. Only a little of it dribbled from the corners of his mouth and down his neck, but it was enough to dampen the pad under his head and neck. She'd replace it with her petticoat later.

  "Nuff," he said, when he'd emptied the cup for the second time. Again he ran his tongue across his lips, and this time it carried moisture to wet them. He worked his jaw up and down, sideways. "It's later. I want answers."

  "It's all right to talk. Just keep your voice low. I think they were just looking into every warehouse along the river yesterday, because they didn't stay long enough to really search. If they were looking for us at all.

  "Peter believed the girls were in danger as long as they were in France. And I warned him that Minerva's parents would create a big fuss--they're the sort of self-important people who do. He wanted to have someone there get in touch with them, try to get them to cooperate in saying that it was all a big mix-up. The sooner he could do that, the better. He left you behind because he was afraid you'd...well, he just wanted your leg to be doctored. I volunteered." She wiped his chin with a damp cloth. What she hadn't told him was that Peter had been afraid he'd cry out from the pain moving would cause him, despite the laudanum. Any sound could have been dangerous, if they were being watched.

  "That makes no sense. Why you?"

  She could see he wasn't going to settle for a simple explanation. "Because, you idiot, I was the only person who wasn't necessary to their escape." Biting her lip, she debated telling him the rest of the story.

  "Bullshit." Even in a whisper, his disbelief was obvious.

  She threw up her hands. "All right, I'll tell you. Peter didn't say, but I don't think he entirely trusted the others. He knew someone had betrayed you. Not your project, but you. He wanted to make sure he got the girls to England safely, and he was afraid to leave you behind with someone whose loyalty he questioned. For some unaccountable reason, he seemed to think you were important."

  Rising, she went to the stove and moved the now steaming kettle to the table. First she poured an empty wine bottle half full of hot water, and then she emptied the rest into the big wooden bowl. Immersing the cloths she used for compresses into the latter, she swished them around with the handle of the spoon. As soon as they were cool enough not to burn his skin, she would apply them to his knee. In the meantime, she would prepare his breakfast and hers.

  The sausage was oozing grease and the cheese was growing mold. Regina had eaten worse in her time, but she didn't relish the idea of either one. Still, it wouldn't do to be picky. She divided the remaining sausage into four portions--enough for today and tomorrow--and hacked at the next-to-last loaf of hard, dry bread until she had one large and several small chunks. Soaked in the portable soup, they would give Gabe something besides liquid for sustenance.

  He was gaunt, his eyes sunken into the sockets, his ribs no longer hidden behind solid muscle. Nearly a week now since he was hurt. He'd had had little to drink, practically no solid food in all that time.

  She'd eat the sausage, for it would not set well on his shrunken stomach. And she'd save the cheese, in case bread, wine and beef broth were not enough to satisfy him.

  He was unable to sit up without something to lean against. The position put too much strain on his leg. When she let him down again, he was pale and sweating. She rolled her petticoat and shoes inside the thin blanket they'd used for covering and wedged it under his shoulders and head. It raised them a little, but nowhere near enough that he could drink without dribbling.

  When she took the cup of soaked bread to him and offered him the first spoonful, he sneered. "Pap."

  "Be quiet and eat," she said, suddenly out of patience with him. "Shall I feed you, or can you manage?"

  In reply he took the spoon from her and dipped it into the cup. When some of the warm mixture dripped onto his naked chest, he swore, but refused to relinquish the spoon.

  "You are, without a doubt, the most stubborn, contumacious man I have ever known," she said. It would never do to let him know that inside she was singing prayers of thanks that he was alive and conscious.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The room grew hotter than yesterday as the day wore on. Even though the louvers allowed some air to flow into and out of the small room, heat collected in the confined space. By the time the shadows on the narrow section of visible dock were at their smallest, Regina was considering removing her remaining garments. It's not as if he's never seen me in my altogether.

  Perhaps it was being alone with him, or maybe it was the realization that he could have died. She wasn't sure why her reservations had evaporated, but she was certain that she was never going to let him out of her clutches again. He'd asked her to marry him at least a dozen times. Now she was ready to say yes.

  She turned her back to him and removed her undergarments. As her drawers dropped to the floor, she sighed with pleasure at the small, cooling breeze that wafted across her bare thighs. Using the length of linen toweling, she fashioned a short sarong. It barely covered the important parts of her, but she had far more important things to worry about than her maidenly...her modesty.

  Besides, her underwear stank!

  "I'm crippled, not dead."

  "You're not a gentleman, either. If you were, you would avert your eyes." She looked over her shoulder at him. "I have no intention of broiling alive. You'll be ready enough to kick off your covers in a
n hour or so."

  His mouth twisted. "Kick? I doubt it."

  "Oh, Gabe--"

  He held up a hand as if to warn her off. "Don't--"

  Understanding his feelings, she went to the crate on which the small kerosene pressure stove sat. She hated to add more heat to the room, but the hot compresses seemed to be helping reduce the swelling in his knee. At least the infected cuts had begun healing.

  When he'd awakened this morning, clear-eyed and demanding the truth, she had breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Ever since he'd stared right at her and asked who she was, she'd feared he had forgotten her, had lost all memory of what they had been to each other.

  And ever since then, she had been wondering why she had been so adamantly against following him wherever he went.

  What if he had died in one of his crazy spy adventures? Would she have congratulated herself for not risking her heart, her love?

  "No. I would have never forgiven myself for not taking love when it was offered," she told the greasy sausage she was slicing.

  "What are you muttering about?"

  She put a wedge of cheese, the chunk of sausage and the heel of the next-to-last loaf of bread on the short board that served them as plate and serving tray. "Nothing. Just thinking aloud."

  "I must be getting better," he said when she'd set the tray beside his pallet. "That looks good."

  Leaning over, she peered into the tin cup. "You haven't drunk your water. No food until that cup is empty." His kidneys were working this morning, but she was still worried. Yesterday she'd forced broth on him every time he woke, until he'd complained. Today he'd refused the cup she'd offered him until she promised real food for luncheon.

  He picked up the cup and drained it. "Turn your back," he said.

  She did. Today he'd refused to allow her to help him use the tin can that served as a urinal, even though it clearly hurt him to turn enough to use it without wetting his pallet. Stubborn darned man. But I've know that all my life.

  She took the can matter-of-factly, ignoring his scowl. Once she'd emptied it, she carried the wash bowl to him. "Wash your hands," she said as she dipped her own into the scant inch of water. The barrel still held a few gallons, but she was concerned that they would run out if Peter didn't return tomorrow. Perhaps she should have started conserving earlier, but reusing the water she'd bathed him with had never occurred to her. Nor had reusing what she'd wet the compresses with.