Leigh Sparrow

by In Pursuit of the Black Swan

  “Yes.”

  “He alive?”

  “Yes, thank the saints.”

  “The captain has been helping locate a lot of missing people. I shouldn’t be sayin’ more, ye ken.”

  “Of course.” Something about this young soldier struck her as familiar. “I daresay I believe I’ve heard the captain mention you before.”

  “Did ye now?” he asked.

  “Yes, I distinctly remember him mentioning he wanted you covering his back.”

  His face lit up. “Yes, I’m the one to do it, to be sure.” Then he chuckled. “Although, once I nearly had to cut off his hand.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “You’ll be going back to England now?”

  Alexandra stared at him and finally answered. “Yes. On a ship out of Calais.”

  “You don’t say! Our ship is putting out of Calais. The Dauntless. Mayhap you’ll be sailing back with us. We might be seeing you aboard.”

  Alexandra felt a stab of joy. “You mean you’re sailing back to England?”

  “We go back, but we never seem to be staying very long. Mostly delivering passengers and cargo. Yes indeed, it’s tough sailing into England and not being able to go home. It’s easy to get homesick in this kind of work, especially with a war going on.”

  He shifted in his seat and rubbed his chin. “The captain talks about his family a lot, especially some younger brother. Calls him the brat. Says I sort of remind him of the lad. Tells some mighty funny stories. The lad must be quite a terror.”

  Her eyes widened and she raised her hand to her mouth. Suddenly confusion filled her, and she wanted to cry.

  The coach shuddered to a halt and she saw they were back at the boarding house.

  “Well, nice to make your acquaintance, Miss.” He opened the door and helped her out. “Never met one of the captain’s lassies before. Didn’t know he had one. He definitely held out for the bonniest.” He walked her to the front door. “Godspeed back to England, Miss.” He gave with a curt bow and stepped back toward the coach.

  “Same to you, Mr. McPhee,” she replied.

  He stopped and looked back. With a broad grin, he gave a smart salute. “Lieutenant McPhee, at your service, lass,” he corrected, and climbed back into the coach.

  Chapter 15

  Once back in her room, Alexandra carefully slipped out of her beautiful gown and pulled on a night rail. She flung herself onto the bed and closed her eyes, trying to recapture the night.

  “Oh, Edward, I have found you!” she whispered with awe into the dark. She had always adored him, well, except when he was not infuriating her.

  She tried to picture his face, but could not. They had taken their masks off only in the shadows. But she could still taste his wonderful mouth as it pressed against hers. She could still smell his clean masculine scent. Her head swirled at the vivid recollections of his touch.

  Ashford would be so proud of him for so many reasons. Edward was so tall, even taller than his father, and his shoulders were broader. His voice was deeper and richer, but still it was Edward’s voice. His hair had been trimmed shorter instead of being pulled back in a queue, yet it was long enough to seem wicked and roguish. She hadn’t expected him to be so changed. She hadn’t expected this. Well, perhaps Uncle Ash didn’t need to know everything that happened tonight in the garden.

  The intense attraction she felt for this devilish stranger had stunned her, and yet now it made sense.

  It was Edward. Her Edward. She loved him so much it hurt.

  But what will he do when he discovers Gabrielle Demerre is really the termagent? She had pretended to be Ian because she could not bear to see his animosity. He was so wonderful when he was laughing and joking with Ian. Only it had never been Ian. What if he discovered that she was really the brat? That she had duped him not just tonight, but throughout their entire childhood?

  Tomorrow he promised to help her find Edward. Ironically, she chuckled at the thought that he would be searching for himself.

  Suddenly, she sat up with a gasp. Oh, no-no-no-no. Tomorrow! Edward would recognize her! Even though it had been five years. He would be furious. He would still despise her. If he called her a French harlot simply for stuffing her bodice, how much worse would he think for what they did in the garden?

  She couldn’t face him. It would be better if she remained the elusive Gabrielle Demerre, who shared a brief assignation with him. He could never know it was her. She must leave. At first light. At least now she knew he was alive and well.

  Sleep eluded her. Her body still reeled from his touch. Tossing in her bed, she felt claustrophobic, as if the room were closing in. Rising, she crossed to throw open the window. The cool night air flooded into her lungs, calming her tangled emotions.

  Soon the sun would rise. She should prepare to leave. Oh hell, she was catching the Dauntless—their ship! How could she face Edward if he was on the ship? Seeing his scorn would shatter her heart. He had never recognized her as Ian, so she would dress as Antoine Saviennet, cover her face again with the beard, and then simply keep out of sight.

  Taking the ice-blue gown, she hugged it against her body and buried her face in the fabric. His scent still lingered on it. She didn’t want to send this gown with the rest of her clothing. She didn’t want to part with it. If all the petticoats were removed, with clever arranging, perhaps it would fit in her pack. Without the petticoats, there really wasn’t much to it, except thin satin, pearls and those amazing blue sequins. The ones around the neckline were truly dazzling.

  She still had some francs, her letters to board the ship, and Winston’s signet ring which she placed back on a string around her neck.

  With the knowledge that Edward was alive, Alexandra felt a different sense of urgency. She needed to return quickly to England so Ian and Lady Bertha could stop worrying. Before Uncle Ash discovered what she had been about.

  At least she had succeeded in her purpose. She had located Edward. Now she would go home, back to her old life. She would enter society and try for once to make some friends.

  But this night had changed everything. She knew what his lips felt like on hers, how his skin tasted, what made his heart race. He knew her most secret of places. To face his disdain now would crush her. She could never see him again.

  On the street outside below her window, a small group of uniformed French soldiers gathered. Their laughter echoed as they shouted, stumbled, and swayed out of the tavern across the street.

  Alexandra listened to their chortling and slurred French while she finished her packing. “…that’s demmed right… general says ol’ Bonaparte wants it blowed to bits first thing.”

  Her brows furrowed as ominous hackles crept up her spine.

  “Those bloody Brits will have a fine surprise when they get back to the docks…cocky Brit Capt’n will finally get his due…Dauntless won’t be leavin’ port…worthless crew to a blasted end.” The words and laughter faded as they staggered down the street.

  Her head whirled as their words began to sink into her brain. A jagged chill shot through her. Good God, did they actually say Dauntless? Had she truly translated correctly? It sounded like an ambush, like someone was going to kill Edward and his men, possibly later this morning.

  Flexing her fingers to stop them from trembling, she hastily pulled on her trousers and boots. Glancing in the mirror, she decided there wasn’t time to do another beard, but she tied her hair back and pulled her hat low to her brow. The packages with her other clothing would need to be abandoned.

  She scrawled an urgent cryptic message to be sent to warn Jacques, the only real contact she knew. But she needed to alert the Dauntless directly in case Jacques wasn’t actually connected with them. Thanks to Lieutenant McPhee, at least she knew the Dauntless was in Calais.

  Her saber was strapped at her side and her pistol was stowed in her coat pocket with extra bullets. Bertha’s gun was strapped to her leg. Thank goodness she had the foresight to purchase extra bullets and powder; she ha
d a very bad feeling about this.

  Grabbing her pack, she dashed to the livery to locate her horse. In the dark stable, she quickly saddled her mare. Once astride, she fled Paris through its western gates in the predawn hours. In the chilly darkness, she wept silently as she rode through the eternal night. She pushed the mare to the limits, hoping not to break her.

  Chapter 16

  In the distance, a barrage of shots rang out. Some Alexandra recognized as cannon. Cold sweat covered her body and her stomach was a bundle of knots.

  Her worst fears were realized. She was too late.

  Her pistol was packed and loaded. She pulled it out of her pocket. The smooth handle felt like an old friend in her hand. Over the next rise, the din of a raging battle pummeled her ears, but she was too far away to do anything. From her vantage point, she saw hundreds of men were waged in combat, like toy soldiers so far away.

  “Please, God, let Edward be alive!” It was her fervent prayer.

  She urged the mare forward into the fray. Reaching a clump of trees, she tethered the mare and raced ahead on foot.

  The late afternoon sun was sweltering. The scent of death hung in the air. Weary soldiers at the nearest proximity fired muskets from trenches quickly dug, allowing them to take cover below ground level to dodge the gunfire. Many bullets had found their targets as indicated by the numerous bodies strewn about on the ground.

  A bullet whizzed by Alexandra’s ear and she hurdled to the ground. She crawled to a fallen tree and peeked around it in a low crouching position. Uniformed French soldiers attacked from the far side of the battleground, and it looked like the English were nearer, as if Edward’s troops had been heading for Calais and rode right into the ambush. Most of the English wore plain-clothes.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Alexandra glimpsed a French soldier aiming his musket directly at her. Lifting her own flintlock, she fired at him. He dropped to the ground.

  Oh, Lord God, she had just shot a man! And she would need to shoot more.

  From behind her tree, Alexandra killed five more French soldiers. Then more bullets whizzed her way. She dove behind a small knoll and scrambled to a different location. A cluster of plainly clothed men lay low in a trench, covered in mud, sweat, and blood. They valiantly continued to fire at the French army. She crept up to join them.

  “I’m English!” she shouted in her manliest voice as she crawled closer. They acknowledged her with only faint nods, and repacked their guns with more powder and balls, and kept shooting. Many of the men barely knew how to hold a weapon, much less fire it, and they were missing many of their targets.

  A French soldier advanced towards their trench from the side. Quickly taking aim, she fired. Her bullet soundly hit him through the chest. The weary soldier next to her gave a grateful nod before reloading his own weapon.

  As dusk fell upon them, the shooting subsided, with more and more dead blanketing the battlefield. Alexandra kept reloading her pistol and continued to fire. Hitting almost all of her targets, she knew she was an excellent shot. Her ammunition was nearly exhausted.

  After what seemed like a lifetime, the shooting ceased altogether and the remaining French retreated. An eerie silence hung over the battlefield as the sun mournfully dipped below the horizon as if it could not bear to shine upon the grizzly desolate scene.

  Alexandra rose from her trench and began searching for Edward. If Edward had been leading the procession, he most likely would have been at the far end, closest to the French army. Her heart splintered at the thought of him dying. Cautiously, she crept along, moving from trench to mound to tree, staying under cover as much as possible. Many men lay as lifeless heaps; others moaned in agony. Dead horses were scattered about, some with soldiers still in their saddles.

  Alexandra could not imagine hell itself more horrid and gruesome. She agonized at wanting to rush to help the many injured, but first she needed to find Edward. More than once, she turned over a macabre corpse, terrified it was Edward, as she numbly searched the battlefield.

  At last, lying back against a wall of sod, she spotted Lieutenant McPhee’s mop of red hair. He was alive and bleeding from his arm. “McPhee!” she called out to him.

  He looked up, but his hazel eyes were glazed over like he was already half gone.

  She dashed over to him, ripping a piece of cloth from her shirt tail, and proceeded to wrap his arm.

  “Where’s Captain Devon?” she shrieked, her voice ragged and broken.

  With a blank look, he slowly nodded to his right, just enough that her eye caught it. She squinted through the dusty dimness in that direction. About fifty paces away, a clump of a man lay face-down in the dirt. She raced there in a fright, dreading what she would find.

  Gently, she rolled the body over. The man’s face was matted with dirt and weeds, and he was covered in mud. Blood oozed from the right shoulder forming a dark pool across his coat. It was a lot of blood.

  Alexandra screamed; at first no sound came out, then her lungs exploded with a wail of agony. She didn’t recognize the sound coming from her. It sounded far away, like a wild cat off in the forest. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. She feared she would swoon, and forced her mind to stay conscious.

  “Edward!” She sobbed, brushing the mud off his cold face. “You cannot die!”

  She wanted to curl up next to him and die too. Ripping another strip of cloth from her shirttail, she tried to pack his shoulder. The oozing blood was still warm. His breathing was shallow, yet he still breathed. But he was unconscious.

  Alexandra called to McPhee to help her. He didn’t respond. Dashing back to him, she struck McPhee across the face with her palm. “Come on, I say! Get up, Lieutenant!”

  Finally, his eyes lifted to her and he made a futile effort to rise. She slung his arm over her shoulder and helped him stand, half-carried him over, and plopped him down by Edward. “Stay here with Edward. I’ll get my horse.”

  When she returned with the mare and an extra horse, McPhee actually seemed more coherent.

  “Is he still alive?” she asked.

  He looked at her blankly, but nodded.

  “Let’s get the both of you on the horses. You must help me, Thomas, I can’t do it myself.”

  She helped McPhee struggle to his feet again. In a raspy voice, he murmured, “I can help.”

  Together they sat Edward up and hoisted him onto the mare, draping him face down over the saddle. Then Alexandra helped McPhee get on the other horse; afterward she climbed on the mare behind Edward.

  “How far to Calais?” she asked McPhee.

  “Less than an hour.”

  As they rode off, Alexandra was relieved to see other injured soldiers being toted off by the few survivors. She stopped a quick moment to pick up some extra ammunition from dead soldiers, and gave a gun to McPhee. They pressed on toward Calais.

  Once they reached Calais, they located the shipyard. But there was no Dauntless. Alexandra’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach.

  “What do you think we should do, Lieutenant?” She did not know how much more they could endure, especially Edward, who could die at any moment.

  McPhee slumped in confused shock on his horse with no answer.

  “There’s an inn. The Gateau Bleu. We’ll go there,” she finally said. “I have to return the mare there anyway.”

  The ramshackle tavern at the inn was crowded. Alexandra wove her way to the bar and approached the proprietor. “I have some men seriously injured. We need a doctor,” she said in French.

  “If they be English, go away!” he snarled.

  Alexandra’s temper ignited. She pulled out her pistol and pointed it straight at his bulbous nose. “I need a doctor and a room—and I need them immediately. I’ve already shot over fifty Frenchmen today, so one more shall not make one bit of difference. And trust me. I can shoot.” She was thankful that the pounding of her heart wasn’t audible.

  The proprietor blanched, his eyes locked on the pistol barrel. H
e stammered, “I’ll send for a doctor, Mademoiselle. You’ll have to get them upstairs yourself.”

  The tavern grew silent. The motley group of patrons watched the exchange with curious amusement. Alexandra was not even trying to be a man any more. In fact, she was a very irate female and God help anyone who dared to cross her.

  Two hefty sailors chugged tankards of ale at a nearby table. Alexandra glared at them. “You two! Help me get my men upstairs.”

  They glanced at each other and shrugged. Then they rose from their chairs. “Where to, Madmoiselle?”

  The doctor took forever to come and Edward looked worse, if possible. Alexandra fretted, washing the mud off him and trying to clean his wound.

  McPhee actually looked better.

  Alexandra was so nervous she thought she would pull out her own hair. She paced the floor from Edward’s bed to the door, watching for the doctor. “Thomas, I’m going downstairs to see if the damned doctor is here yet. Watch Edward,” she said.

  When she got to the bottom of the staircase, the doctor arrived.

  “Thank heavens you’re finally here!” she cried.

  “Yes, and I understand there are several more wounded on the way,” he replied soberly.

  “I daresay, you have your work cut out for you this day,” she said, leading him up the stairs.

  Chapter 17

  The doctor extracted a lead ball from Edward’s shoulder and cleansed the wound. Then he gave Alexandra some herbs and medicines for him.

  “He doesn’t look good, Mademoiselle; he’s lost too much blood. My advice is to take him back to England on the next high tide, and if you are very lucky, perhaps he might live.”

  Alexandra paid the doctor twice what he asked for and thanked him.

  Looking at the coins in his hands, he said, “There is one small ship at the docks, a frigate, and the captain is downstairs in the tavern. Fortunately for you, he is not French. If you have more of this,” he said, nodding to the coins, “perhaps you might persuade him to sail you to England. I would hurry. French soldiers will arrive in swarms very soon.” He gave her a sad nod and left.