“Why did men come from Paris to arrest your friend?”
“I have not the least idea. Most likely it is nothing at all but some jealous neighbor who has denounced her in an argument over strayed cows.” She folded shirts and laid them on the bed. “I do not know why gardes have come all the way to Normandy to fix upon Bertille and Alain. Paris is full of suspicious characters to arrest. The very dogs and cats in the street belong to secret societies. Look at you. You are a man of a thousand questionable activities and they do not come after you. That coat, behind you, on the hook. Will you hand it to me? Yes. That one.”
“You’re part of it, whatever it is,” he said.
It was inevitable he would see this. He was not an idiot. “On the contrary. I have nothing to do with anything. I am prosaic as cucumbers. The hat as well, please.” She smoothed the coat flat so it would bundle neatly and took the hat from him to set on top.
“Will you leave with your friends?”
“No.” She knelt and pulled shoes out from under the bed. Two pair. She took the new pair and left the old. So much must be left behind.
He waited till she’d finished with that. “You can’t stay here. You can’t go back to the chateau.”
She set a last pair of stockings on the pile of clothing, pulled the corners of the quilt together, and tied them. Guillaume LeBreton stood blocking the door, fixed firmly in place, like several boulders piled together.
This man could take her to Paris. With him beside her she would not have to skulk through the fields at night and take the back roads, avoiding every village. She would travel more quickly. He could probably even talk her through the gates of Paris, into the city.
She did not have to trust him. She only needed to make use of him.
And there was no one else. “You’ve been paid for bringing me this far. I’ll pay you more to take me all the way to Paris. To my father.”
LeBreton had been cool and menacing as he questioned the garde sergeant. Now that implacable concentration was directed toward her. She felt herself weighed and measured, plucked apart and studied. He had come to various conclusions regarding her. Nothing in his face would reveal what they were.
She would not let herself be afraid of him.
He said, “How much?”
Money. He thought first about the money. It was a pleasure to deal with a man so straightforward. She did not feel any disappointment that he was not gallant. “My father will give you twenty louis d’or.”
“A hundred.”
“That is an impossible price. My father is not made of money.”
“Gold louis. Not paper. Not silver.”
“You could smuggle giraffes across France for that price. You could—”
“And I take that ring. The one on your finger. You give that over and I hold it till I get paid.”
“You put a high price on—”
“I’ll get you to your father.” It was said with great determination. She entirely believed him. It was that iron resolve that would get her across all the miles between here and Paris, regardless of who might be hunting her.
Sometimes only the wolf can protect you from bands of wild dogs.
She had to twist the ring back and forth to get it off. She wore it always. She had sold her jewelry, year by year, to pay for La Flèche. She had not sold this small ring. It was gold, engraved with bands of flowers. It had belonged to her mother, who died when she was born. Her mother had been pretty, from the pictures of her. She must have been patient, too, since she had been married to Papa for a decade and not murdered him. One needed great helpings of patience, dealing with men.
Finally she had it off.
LeBreton dropped her ring into the pocket of his waistcoat. “You shouldn’t be wearing that anyway.” He tamped the ring down firmly with his forefinger into the very bottom of the pocket. “It doesn’t match what you’re pretending to be.”
BERTILLE washed Charles’s face and went to say good-bye to her flowers and her cows. One would think she was leaving behind a cousin or two, at the least. She clucked over the state of the cottage as she made one final search for a silver spoon, unaccountably missing. LeBreton helped Alain load his anvil. Bertille washed the apprentice’s face. She washed the baby. Then she washed Charles’s face again. Adrian found Bertille’s sewing kit.
Then it was finally time for them to leave. Bertille held her close in the garden, among the roses. “Take care.”
“I am the most cautious of mortals. You know that.”
“So I see.” Bertille reached out to lay fingers upon her lip, where it hurt. “Put cold cloths upon this. It will not swell as much.”
“That is good advice. I am sorry you must leave and lose—”
“Don’t blame yourself, Marguerite. We knew this might happen. The house in Bernay is ready. La Flèche will survive this. In a week Crow will go east, beyond the fighting. Heron has his safe haven prepared. And Wren will finally go to England. You know Wren can take care of herself.”
It had been Wren, four days ago, who came at midnight, sneaking up the back stairs of the chateau. Wren pursued, her sparrows in danger. Wren, desperate for help. She needed clothing. Money. Food from the kitchen.
Bags were ready for just this emergency. She took out one and then another when she heard the cry behind her.
“No. Oh, no.” Jeanne stood at the window. Jeanne—the Wren—was never afraid.
She ran to see. Lights threaded the night, along the road, among the trees. Men poured across the lawn toward the chateau, shouting. They pounded the door, broke windows. Two horses, two riders, led the mob. She shouldered a bag. Handed the other to Jeanne. “Through the kitchen. We’ll go out the back.” There was no time for more. “I’ll take care of the sparrows. You go to Heron. You know where?”
“The mill.” Jeanne patted her skirt. “I’m carrying a knife. They will not take me alive.”
“Don’t be dramatic. If you’re alive, I’ll get you free.”
Outside, a voice yelled for the de Fleurignac bitch. “Bring her here. Bring her to me.” The torches sent shadow and light flickering across the curtains. Smoke rose from the library below.
She pushed sabots onto her feet. A pouch of coins lay in the drawer. She tossed, and Jeanne caught it neatly.
Jeanne yelled, “Marguerite!”
A man burst into the room. Tall. A coarse face. He wore the jacket and striped trousers of a sans-culottes. A Jacobin. He was armed.
Jeanne threw herself on him. Knocked the pistol from his hand.
He caught Jeanne. Pushed her backward, down on the writing table. His hands crushed her throat. In filthy speech from the gutters of Paris he promised death.
Papers and books scattered. The letter opener slithered off the desk, to the floor. The ivory handle glowed against the carpet. She found it, took it in her hand, and slashed him across his face.
The man screamed. Jeanne rolled away, free. The night lamp fell from the desk and smashed. The papers on the floor caught fire.
There was blood everywhere. Jeanne was on her knees, sobbing air in and out. A red mask twisted in the red light of burning. The man reared up and staggered toward her. Grabbed her and caught her. When she fought him off, her hands were red with blood. The curtains went up in flame.
“Wren is in England by now,” Bertille said.
It was bright daylight around her. She was in Bertille’s beautiful garden, not the chateau. She swallowed and put the memory away. “Wren is halfway to London, as you say. And you have escaped. I’ll solve the rest of this.” She touched Bertille’s face. “Go with God. Be in his hand always. I’m glad you are out of this.”
“I am Dove.” Plump, comfortable, indomitable Bertille shook her head. “Remember that. I was the first. Before Jean-Paul and Wren and Crow. Before your secret signals and your safehouses and the dozens of couriers. I was there when it was only the two of us and a compartment under the seat in your coach. I am La Flèche as much as you are.”
<
br /> “I would rather you were safe.”
“Chut. We do not do this to be safe. When I am settled in the house in Bernay, I will pass the word. If you do not send sparrows my way, I shall go to Paris and remove them myself.”
“Bertille . . .”
“Now we will cry. I must leave before we do that.” Bertille said that even though tears were already on her cheeks. “Take care of your great giant. He is very impressive, that one. And in the name of God, Marguerite, brush your hair. It is a shame upon the honor of French womanhood.”
There was nothing to do then but watch the cart creak slowly out of sight over a hill.
Twelve
“RIGHT, THEN. PRETEND I’M A DESERTER, COME UP from the army in the Vendée.”
“I would rather not.”
“I spotted you.” LeBreton waved in the general direction of west. “Over there. I take off after you. I’m big and I’m angry and I’m dangerous.”
“That does not require great amounts of imagination to picture. Nevertheless—”
“You come panting up the hill, meaning to hide in these bushes around up here. But I catch up to you. And look what’s loose here.” He lifted her braid. Picked it right from her shoulder and closed his hand around it. His knuckles were scraped with dozens of fine, red-brown lines from where he had hit the gardes. “I grab hold of this, which any man would, by the way. You have an irresistible braid. Now what? What do you do?”
Adrian, who was keeping an eye upon the road, snorted.
She said, “I would offer you a bribe.”
“I don’t feel like being bribed.”
“I would employ some clever stratagem. I would fool you into thinking I was the mayor’s wife. I would pretend to wave at him, coming up the hill there. When you turned that way, I would hide.”
“What if I found you?”
“If you are going to write the tale to your own liking, then any sort of disaster might overtake me. What if the sky poured down poison toads? What if I were abducted by Bulgarians?” She did not like to be held against her will, not even so lightly as the hold he kept upon her braid. She sparked inside with a swarm of little angers, like crackles of fire. “Very well. I would hit you.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Hard. Possibly here.” She doubled her hand into a fist and brought it forward slowly, to rest against his chin.
Those damned laughing eyes of his. Seconds passed while they looked at each other. Slow, important seconds. He said, “That’s a butterfly landing on me.”
“I know.” She dropped her hand. “I am a mouse beneath the cart wheel if I meet villains upon the road. This is a sad fact of life.”
They were on the hilltop that overlooked Bertille’s house, in an orchard hidden by long windbreaks of hawthorn and alder. Adrian lay at length upon a horse blanket, propped on his elbows, looking through a break in the low brush with a pair of night glasses, studying to see if anyone would come to Bertille’s cottage. The night glasses folded and unfolded from a metal case that pretended to be the handle of a valise. Such glasses belonged on some naval vessel, watching ships, not in the baggage of an honest seller of books. But then, LeBreton was so obviously not an honest seller of books.
“Stand there and I’ll teach you how to be a mouse with fangs.
“I do not want fangs.” One could not discourage LeBreton. He ignored her attempts.
He smiled, just with the corners of his eyes. The rest of his face was perfectly sober. “You are going to be dangerous. So. Let’s say I’ve just chased you up this hill. We’re pretending you don’t have a cradle handy, which could happen if you were out in the countryside like this. What you do . . . No. Give me that.” He took her fist and unfolded it. “If you have to hit somebody, you put the thumb out of the way so it don’t snap off like a stick of barley sugar. You do like this.”
She looked at what he advised to do with her thumb. “I cannot believe that is right.”
“You are many things, Mistress Maggie, but a pugilist is not one of them. Now listen. You have one chance—if you’re just as lucky as hell—you have one chance to hit this deserter.”
“Or bandit. Let us be fair and say he could be a bandit.”
“Or bandit.”
“Or an officer of the dragoons. Or perhaps a persistent farm laborer. There is always that.”
“So there is. Pay attention. You’re going to fight this man with all the cleverness you got in you. He’s coming along like this.” He raised his arms up, wide. “What do you do? I’m being terrifying.”
“You are ridiculous. You are like a dancing bear rearing up, saying, ‘Hit me.’ ”
“You can’t count on getting attacked by some little fellow. Now, if I’m attacking,” LeBreton took the fist he’d made of her hand and held it pressed against his stomach, “you don’t hit me in the belly, since that’s not going to do you any good.”
“I will not hit you in the belly.” I have tried that. It does not work. “I will not hit you anywhere, Monsieur Dragoon-Brigand-Deserter. I will run.”
“Run like the devil. That’s your first choice. But if you can’t run . . . if you’re cornered . . . You take this.” He opened her fist and curved her fingers together to make a claw. “You come here.” He brought her fingers to his eyes. Set her fingernails to his eyelid. “You dig in. Go for both eyes if you can. He can’t chase you if he can’t see.”
“I cannot do that. I could not.”
His eyelid was soft as velvet. How amazing that this man should have any vulnerable place upon him.
“Yesterday, you would’ve said you couldn’t hit somebody over the head with a cradle. See how wrong you can be?”
“Or you can stab them.” Adrian had turned on his side to watch them and be amused. “Doesn’t take much strength.”
“Except she ain’t going to carry a knife around in her boot, her not being a bloodthirsty blot upon the landscape like some I could mention.” LeBreton let her go. She noticed, then, that he had been holding her hand all this time. “A knife just encourages you to stand and fight when a sensible person should be running. Now pay attention. If you can’t get to his eyes, you go for a man here.” Crudely, LeBreton reached down and cupped himself between the legs. “You kick his cock. Hard as you can. Or you reach down and grab hold of his nob and yank it right off.”
I cannot do any of this. “That is a very unpleasant idea. I would rather not think about it.”
“Well, just as a secret between the two of us, it’s unpleasant for a man to think about, too. What I’m saying is, you can hurt somebody my size if you go about it right. Look at the boy here.”
Adrian’s chin lifted. His expression was inscrutable.
“I wouldn’t want to face him in a fair fight, leaving aside that the term fair fight don’t actually exist in his vocabulary. He’d hurt me, and he’s smaller than you are.”
“I’m nastier.” Adrian went back to being attentive toward Bertille’s house.
The fields behind this hill and Bertille’s valley had been left fallow. Sheep grazed there in a tight, suspicious flock. Every once in a while a fretful bleat came from that direction. Adrian inspected them with the glasses, frowning.
LeBreton was waiting to get hit.
She did not indulge him. “Let us pretend I am encouraged by the examples you present. I do not run. I perform horrible measures upon your eyes. This irks you so much you strangle me. It is a dismal prospect.”
“At least you fight. Could be, that’s enough. Maybe a friend shows up. Maybe your soldier brigand goes into an apoplexy and drops dead. Now.” He raised his arms and shuffled forward. “Hurt me. Do it right.”
He will not cease nagging at me until I fight with him. She tried to hit him.
“Try again. Go for my eyes.”
He was very fast. “I am not—”
“Again.” He lunged at her. She had no time to get ready. Her hands shot up.
“That’s better,” he said.
The next time, sh
e feinted to the right when he came in.
“Good. Again.” He circled. Closed in. He let her graze his cheek before he knocked her hands away. “This time, surprise me. Kick for the crotch.”
Ten more times. Twenty more times. Sometimes she tried for the eyes, sometimes for intimate parts. By this time she was breathing hard and entirely prepared to hit him in the cock with her knee. She did not quite succeed. Not quite.
“You’re getting vicious,” he said. “I couldn’t be prouder of you.”
Adrian, who had been watching, raised his hands and clapped slowly. “That was fun. If I’d known you wanted your eyes gouged out, I’d have obliged.”
“You try that, one of these days.” LeBreton’s hands rested on her shoulders, lightly. There was no reason to keep them there, but they stayed and stayed and she did not move away. He took the edges of her fichu where they tucked into her neckline and spread them flat against her skin. “It’s all in knowing how, Maggie. The next man who corners you in a stable, you kick him in the bollocks.”
She smiled at that. Then she looked into his eyes and saw herself in his thoughts.
When she was a child, she had wondered what color the eyes of dragons would be. Now she knew. They were brown, stirred with ambiguous thoughts. Thoughts that folded and fit together the way those night glasses did.
Guillaume LeBreton had dragon eyes. She was inside him there, in his mind, in that bright, hot center of him. There was no way on earth to tell what he was thinking.
Neither of them said anything. They stood this close and his hands were on her. What they weren’t saying was the loudest thing in the landscape.
“When you’re through doing that,” Adrian said, “come over here and take a look.” He gave the night glasses over to her, not LeBreton. She knelt.
LeBreton eased the brush back. “Visitors.”
She put the glasses to her eyes and swept in a dizzy way along the brown and green of the road to find where the men were. Yes. She adjusted her sight, squinting, and she could see.
The Forbidden Rose Page 9
