by Marie Laval
‘Ah. I see.’
He turned away, grabbed the pillow and the blankets and made a makeshift bed on the two armchairs. She slid into the cold, stiff and scratchy bedcovers, pulled the quilted counterpanes up to her neck and curled into a ball to keep warm. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Saintclair had said. She would meet Fouché soon, and perhaps have the chance to ask him about Joseph Nallay. Even better, if the former minister of police travelled with his agents, she might even see him. This time she would establish the man’s identity for sure. And if as she suspected he was indeed Christopher, she would take him back to Norton Place, where he belonged. She fell asleep, a smile on her lips and her heart filled with hope.
It was only dawn, but already raucous voices shouted orders outside, dogs barked, horses stomped and neighed in the courtyard. The dragoons were getting ready to leave. Marie-Ange sat up and yawned. Capitaine Saintclair was fast asleep, stripped down to his shirt and sitting at an awkward angle in the armchair. The blankets had fallen off in a heap on the floor.
Reluctantly Marie-Ange had to admit she was glad he hadn’t left her alone in the room. It had been a noisy and troubled night, especially when a whole gang of dragoons, fired up by too much liquor, had come pounding on the door in the early hours. They hadn’t known Saintclair was in the room. It had only taken him a minute to send them all back downstairs but she dreaded to think what might have happened had she been on her own.
Barefoot and in her white nightdress, her breath steaming in front of her in the freezing cold room, she tiptoed to the fireplace. She placed a handful of twigs and a couple of logs onto the grate and looked around for a box of matches. There was none. She didn’t want to go down and ask the innkeeper for a light, not when there were still so many soldiers around. Then she remembered Saintclair had taken a box of matches from his coat pocket the previous evening.
She picked up the coat and tentatively slipped her hand in one of the pockets. Her fingers touched something cold and narrow, probably a folding knife, and a hard leather box, for cartridges or gunpowder. She tried another other pocket and this time felt a soft tobacco pouch and a box that made a rattling sound when she shook it. There were the matches. A piece of paper fell on the floor as she pulled the box out of the pocket. It looked like a letter. The first lines caught her eye as she recognised Uxeloup Malleval’s handwriting. Curious, she raised the paper to the window to read.
‘This is to certify that your debt of honour will be cancelled as soon as you have delivered Madame Norton at Beauregard. Should you fail to do so, I will call for the immediate transfer of the deeds of your St Genis house in repayment of your gambling debt, unless, that is, you can repay the five thousand Francs you owe me. UM.’
Thoughtful, she folded the note and placed it back into Saintclair’s pocket.
So there was the real reason behind his trip to escort her from Devon to Malleval. He had claimed he was bored and had taken the assignment as a favour to a friend. The truth was he was indebted to Malleval. She lit the fire and stood a while in front of the flames, rubbing her hands together to warm them and pondering the new information.
Uxeloup Malleval was prepared to give up a lot of money, or the deeds of a house he had won at cards, in exchange for her presence at Beauregard, ostensively to make sure she received her inheritance. It appeared most generous of him. It didn’t however tally with what she knew of him and of his father. A noise made her spin round. Saintclair was awake and looking at her.
‘Good morning, Madame,’ he said, his eyes skimming over her body. A slow, seductive smile appeared on his lips. ‘There’s nothing like a beautiful woman in her nightshirt before breakfast to put me in a good mood.’
He stood up and towered over her. The room felt suddenly very small.
‘G-g-good morning,’ she stammered, crossing her arms over her chest. She couldn’t get Christopher’s dressing gown to cover herself with because Saintclair stood between her and the bed. The fireplace behind her didn’t allow the possibility of stepping back either.
Saintclair lifted a hand and gently brushed a curl off her forehead. Her breath caught in her throat. His touch burned her skin and sent shivers over her at the same time.
‘Whatever are you doing, Capitaine? You forget your place,’ she snapped, shocked as much by his gesture as by the way her body had responded.
‘And where would that be, Madame? Of course, I forgot. The stables.’ He shot her an amused glance. ‘Don’t worry, I’m going,’ he added before she could answer. He rubbed his chin. ‘I need a wash and a shave. I’ll ask the landlord to have a pail of hot water brought up to you at once.’
Grabbing his boots in one hand, he unbarred the door and went out.
She stood for a moment in the middle of the room, annoyed with the man and with her reaction to him. Around him she sounded snooty and disagreeable when she had never paid much attention to the issues of class or status. Heavens, how could she ever think she was superior to him, or to anyone else, just because her mother was a Beauregard and her husband a member of the English gentry? She lived in a run-down manor house and the only reason she was travelling across France was to collect an inheritance to enable her to fix a leaky roof.
She didn’t feel superior to Saintclair at all, but it was true she didn’t like him and despised his manners. However she would have to put up with him until they reached Beauregard. After that, she did not plan to ever lay eyes on the man again.
A servant girl brought the promised bucket of warm water. Although there wasn’t much time to get ready Marie-Ange had a wash and got dressed. As an afterthought she pulled Christopher’s dagger out of her travelling bag and slid it inside one of her boots.
When Saintclair came back, he was clean-shaven, his dark hair damp and combed back. He turned away and proceeded to peel off his shirt. Although she carried on with her packing, she couldn’t help stealing a glance towards him. Her heart skipped a beat and she stifled a gasp with her hand. His broad back and powerful shoulders were criss-crossed with scars. A lifetime on the battlefields had certainly left marks on his body—on his heart and soul too, she would wager.
He pulled a fresh shirt out of his travel bag and put it on.
‘I hope you’re ready to face a few excitable dragoons downstairs,’ he remarked as he turned to her after tucking his shirt into his breeches. ‘They’re so loud I gather some have already supped a cask of ale for breakfast.’
She sat on the bed and let out a sigh, realising she had been holding her breath whilst staring at him.
‘Still, it was fortunate you were here last night,’ she said, aware of sounding a little breathless. ‘I…I am grateful.’
‘That’s part of my job,’ he replied matter-of-factly.
Her cheeks felt too warm and her hand shook when she picked up her hairbrush and brushed her curls in fast, vigorous strokes. Watching him get dressed had given her a tight, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. She platted her hair and tied a green ribbon at the tip.
‘I had a word with the dragoons’ officers in charge,’ he said. ‘They are en route to Lyon. There’ll be no room left in the barracks by the time I get there.’
She looked at him. ‘You live in barracks in Lyon? What about your family?’
‘They live in my house in St Genis, a small village a few leagues to the south.’
The house he had lost at cards to Malleval.
‘Lucie’s physician recommended a change of air for her health, so I…ahem…acquired the house for her and my parents.’ He put his jacket on. ‘Ready?’
They went down to the dining room which by then was almost empty. After a quick breakfast of hot porridge and coffee, it was time to set off in the cold, grey morning on the road to Dijon.
They made good time, blessed with a mostly empty road all day, stopping only a couple of times to rest the horses and eat. When daylight started to fade, Marie-Ange reclined on the seat of the carriage, closed her eyes and started to doze off as she li
stened to the eerie hooting of owls in the forest. The drumming of horses’ hooves on the path and men shouting close by brought her upright. The coach jerked to a stop and she was thrown onto the floor.
Chapter Five
‘Nobody moves or I shoot!’
Angry shouts were followed by gunshots and sounds of a struggle.
‘Damn the bastard! Hold him down and knock him out. I don’t want him shooting any more of us. And get that bloody coach driver on the ground right now,’ someone yelled.
They were being attacked. Marie-Ange felt for the knife she had slipped inside her boot earlier but the door of the carriage flew open before she could pull it out.
‘What have we got here?’
A man wearing a dirty brown overcoat, his face partly obscured by a black large-rimmed hat leant forward, grabbed her arm, yanked her from the carriage and threw her onto the frozen ground. She cried out in pain, and panic took her breath away as she took in the scene around her. Three men lay dead on the ground, probably shot by Saintclair before he was disarmed, a couple of highwaymen stood near the coach driver who lay in a puddle of partly frozen mud, another two held Saintclair down. The cuirassier struggled but the two men kicked him until he slumped on the ground with a groan of pain.
What could she do? Her dagger was in her boot, out of reach for now. Her heart beat so hard it hurt and she didn’t think she was breathing anymore. The man with the black hat pulled her to her feet, put his finger under her chin, and raised her head sharply.
‘Pretty…But she sure don’t look rich.’ He opened up her cloak to reveal her plain green dress, pulled her hands in front of her and clucked his tongue. She wore no jewellery, only her wedding band. He turned to his acolytes and laughed. ‘Too bad! I’ll have to take payment in kind.’
Saintclair fought to break free again. This time the men kicked him so hard he stopped moving altogether.
‘Don’t damage her too much,’ one of them called. ‘Save some for the rest of us.’
The highwayman grinned, uncovering yellow stumps of teeth. He pushed Marie-Ange inside the coach, scrambled in beside her, and slammed the door shut behind him. She quailed away from him against the squabs of the carriage.
‘Just you and me, ma belle,’ he grunted, his eyes glinting with lust. He unbuckled his pistol belt and threw it down before giving her a hard shove.
She tried to kick him and push him away, but it was to no avail. He ripped the cloak off her shoulders, pinning her to the seat and placed his forearm across her throat. She could hardly breathe, let alone fight him off. She stopped struggling as he proceeded to fumble with her skirts and petticoats. Her only hope was to get the dagger out before he could molest her. Lulled by her apparent consent the man removed his forearm from her throat. She drew in a deep breath into her starved lungs, forced a smile, and slowly pulled her knees up towards her chest, affording him a good view of her drawers and stockings. If she distracted him she might be able to slide her hand into her boot and get the knife.
Her ploy seemed to work. The man opened his eyes wide and started panting as he thrust one hand under her skirt and groped her roughly between the legs. Fumbling with the laces on his breeches, he then climbed on top of her, inserted a knee between her thighs, and forced them wider apart. She must be quick. The men would kill her, together with Saintclair and the driver, once they had finished with her.
She forced a smiled and, playful, pushed the man’s hat off with one hand. It took all her willpower not to retch when she fondled his thick neck and greasy hair whilst sliding her other hand down his body. Cautious, she moved her fingers down her leg towards her boot.
‘You’re a vixen, woman.’ The man’s words were slurred, his breathing short and raspy. He groaned when he finally managed to undo the last of his ties. The feel of his hot, bulging flesh throbbing against her bare thigh gave her heart a jolt. She would not let that happen to her. It was now or never.
She managed to pull the dagger from her boot and bring it up by her side. In a swift movement, she held the tip against his throat.
‘Move off me,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper and her hand shaking so badly she feared she would drop the dagger.
He became very still.
‘What the hell?’ He growled, his eyes focussed on her face.
She tightened her grip on the handle. ‘I mean it. Get up, slowly.’
She would get hold of the guns he had discarded in his haste. And after that…she didn’t know, she hadn’t thought that far ahead.
His lips twisted into a grimace. ‘Oh no, ma belle, I don’t think so.’
Everything then happened too fast. He grabbed hold of her wrist and tried to prise the dagger off her fingers. The blade sliced through the palm of his hand. He cried out, pushed her off the seat. Her back slammed against the floor and he fell on top of her.
The dagger made a slurping sound as it went deep into his chest. His eyes opened wide in shock, blood squirted out of the wound, and he shuddered violently. With a whimper she pushed him off her, pulled her skirts down and sat up. She couldn’t stop shaking as she wiped the blood off her hand on her dress, again and again. A sickening, metallic smell filled her nostrils. Her head spun, her chest heaved with fast, shallow breaths and bile rose in her throat.
But now wasn’t the time to be sick or faint. The others were outside and she had to help Saintclair. She glanced around to locate the man’s weapon belt, pulled his two pistols out of the holsters and extracted a couple of cartridges from his leather pouch before proceeding to arm the pistols.
Her hands still trembled but she worked fast, like Robert had shown her. When the pistols were loaded, she said a silent thank you for the shooting lessons he had given her the previous summer on the moors near Norton Place, took a deep breath, and kicked the door open.
As she jumped down, a pistol in each hand, the highwaymen spun towards her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. She aimed at the two holding Saintclair and shot them straight through the chest. Saintclair immediately scrambled to his feet and retrieved a pistol from the ground. He checked the priming and aimed at the remaining two highwaymen.
‘Come here, you two, slowly,’ he ordered coldly. ‘Throw your weapons on the ground and kneel down.’
The men looked at each other and shrugged before stepping forward. They placed the firearms on the ground and knelt down.
‘Now, put your hands behind your head.’
They did as they were told.
‘What now, Capitaine?’ The coach driver enquired.
‘Get something to bind them with,’ Saintclair instructed. The driver searched the box next to the driver’s seat, produced some rope, and proceeded to bind the brigands’ hands and feet.
‘Make sure it’s tight. We’re not taking them with us to Dijon, they’ll only slow us down. We’ll leave them here for the gendarmes to find tomorrow.’
He walked past Marie-Ange, who hadn’t moved since she shot the highwaymen, peered inside the carriage and cursed.
‘Shame, I wanted to kill the bastard myself,’ he said. He pulled the lifeless body out. It fell on the ground with a heavy thud, the carved bone hilt of Christopher’s dagger sticking out of his chest.
‘How the hell did you manage that?’ he asked, turning to her. ‘You saved us all.’
She still didn’t speak but stood shivering and staring at the dead man, the pistols gripped tightly in her hands.
‘If I’m not mistaken, this is the second time I owe you my life,’ he added. ‘I’m beginning to think the sailors were right when they said you were an angel.’
‘How can you call me an angel?’ she said as tears pricked her eyes and slid down her face. ‘I have just killed three men.’
Saintclair frowned. He retrieved her cloak from the carriage and placed it onto her shoulders before gently easing her grip around the pistols and taking them from her. He slid them into his belt and started to turn away to deal with the dead bodies when a whimper escaped from her
lips, then another, and another.
She was in his arms before she realised it, her trembling body pressed close to his own.
‘It made such a horrible noise. I didn’t want to kill him, but he wouldn’t do as I said. He wanted to…he was going to…’ She hiccupped as more tears streamed down her face.
‘And the other two, I had no choice, you know that, don’t you? I’m not a murderess.’
He held her more tightly and rested his chin on the top of her head. ‘You were very brave. You did what you had to. They would have killed us all.’
His arms were around her, warm and strong. She buried her head against his chest and for a few moments all she heard were his heartbeat and his breathing. He rubbed her back, his touch leaving a slow, burning trail along her spine. Then he pulled away and looked down, his blue eyes overly bright as they searched her face.
‘We need to set off now. Dijon is still a good distance away. Will you be all right?’
She sniffed, wiped her wet cheeks with her hands. ‘Where is my dagger?’
‘Here.’ He stepped aside, pulled the knife from the dead highwayman’s chest and wiped it on the man’s coat before handing it to her.
She slid the knife into her boot without a word.
‘Well done, Madame,’ the coach driver called to her, a beaming smile on his face as she climbed into the carriage. Turning to Saintclair he added, ‘Such a small woman, who would have thought she had it in her to dispatch three men to the devil?’
Saintclair didn’t reply. He jumped on his horse and set off at the front.
‘You can’t leave us here all night,’ the brigands protested. ‘There are wolves in the forest. And bears.’
‘Do not fear. They won’t come near you. You stink too much.’ The coach driver laughed and whipped the horses into a trot.
They reached Dijon two hours later. Immediately after checking in at an inn on the market square, Saintclair ordered a stable lad to fetch the gendarmes.
‘We might as well get comfortable and order some food while we’re waiting.’ He took her arm to lead her to the lounge.
