by Louise Allen
Even glimpses of snow on the distant Alps could not make the journey seem any cooler. Nicholas tossed aside his coat and loosened his neck cloth and Cassandra followed suit, too hot to worry about her shirt sleeves and exposed throat.
The road was rough, the low scrub of the maquis crowded close and the postillions were nervous. In every inn along the way, people were telling vivid tales of banditry, and now they were convinced every clump of trees contained brigands waiting to attack the carriage.
As the shadows lengthened, Nicholas cleaned and checked the pistols in the carriage holsters. When he reached for the balls to reload, Cassandra leaned forward and reached for one of the long-barrelled weapons. ‘Please show me how to shoot them, ‘I’ve always wanted to try.’
‘Don’t touch. They aren’t harmless toys to be played with, Cass.’
‘I know that. But what if we’re attacked by these brigands we’ve heard tales of at every inn along this road?’
‘The postillions have horse pistols,’ he began, then broke off, looking thoughtful. ‘Perhaps there is something in what you say. Look, it loads like this. Leave the hammer down and don’t point it at anyone. When you need to fire, you cock it like this.’
Cassandra watched as his strong thumb lifted the hammer, then eased it back down slowly.
‘Here.’ He handed her the unloaded gun. ‘Try with this one.’
The hammer was stiff and she had to use both hands to cock it, the metal cold and unfriendly against her hot hands. Suddenly she didn’t want anything to do with guns, but he took her hand in his, aiming it and the weapon out of the window.
‘Like this. Hold it steady and squeeze the trigger. Aim for the body, it’s the biggest target, you are more likely to hit something than if you aim for the head.’
Cassandra swallowed hard and handed the gun back. ‘Thank you.’ There was nothing exciting in the prospect of killing or maiming a man, however villainous.
Fréjus, however, was reached without incident. They put up for the night in a passable inn where the patron boasted of the parties of English tourists who had passed that way the week before.
‘They all took the sea passage, of course, milord. To avoid the brigands, you understand.’ The man rolled his eyes to emphasise the dangers. ‘Desperate men, milord! They would slit your throat for the clothes on your back. Much safer to take my brother-in-law’s boat.’
Nicholas turned from the landlord’s cheerful relish of the dangers ahead to see Cassandra turn as pale as a ghost.
‘Nicholas, not another boat? You didn’t say anything about another boat.’ She was trying to speak calmly, he could tell, but the colour of her face, the pitch of her voice were as good as a scream of panic.
‘All right, Cass,’ he said calmly. ‘We’ll say no more of it today and tomorrow we can look at the sea. Perhaps you’ll feel better when you see how calm it is.’
Next day the sea was indeed calm, but Cass was not reassured. When he tried to get her closer to the boat it was as though her feet were rooted in the shingle beach. In vain, the landlord’s brother-in-law demonstrated the fine lines of his craft, the strong arms of the boatmen and the wisdom of the captain. Cass shook her head mulishly and refused to move.
‘The lad was almost drowned on our way down the Rhône,’ Nicholas explained to the landlord, who was obviously of the opinion that a firm master would simply toss the young valet on board and be done with it.
‘Les anglais,’ he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief at such indulgence.
‘Thank you, Nicholas,’ Cassandra whispered fervently, some of the colour restored to her face by his decision to turn down the hire of the boat. ‘I know I shouldn’t be such a coward.’
Nicholas cast a swift glance round. They were alone except for the small group mooring the boat. He gave her a swift, hard hug. ‘No, you’re not a coward. You very nearly lost your life and I should never have suggested it.’
Cassandra shivered in his embrace, despite the hot sun on her back. He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath the fine lawn shirt, the delicate bones of her shoulder… He let her go abruptly and strode ahead, shouting to the postillions to harness the horses. Stupid to forget, even for a moment. Touching Cassie was an indulgence he dare not allow.
The road left the coast to cut inland through the thick forest of pine and chestnut hugging the slopes of Mont Vinaigre. The rutted dusty track climbed steeply in hairpin bends up the flank of the mountain to a height of almost a thousand feet.
As they jolted over the deep ruts, Cassandra dozed uneasily while Nicholas sat with one hand resting on the holster set in the coach door, fighting to keep alert, despite the heat that seemed to bake through the very fabric of the coach.
At last the coach descended into the little fishing village of Cannes.
‘Are we there?’ Cassie asked. ‘Wherever there is.’
‘Almost.’ Nicholas relaxed against the cushions with a deep sigh. Keeping alert for the last twenty miles, keeping his eyes off Cassie, had left him with a stiff neck, a dry mouth and aching arousal.
Cannes was no more impressive than Fréjus had been and the inn was considerably worse. It was a relief to leave the next morning after a breakfast of coarse bread and evil coffee and now, with the threatening mountain road and its danger of brigands behind them, he could relax.
The route from Cannes to Nice lay along the coast, a winding, often alarming road hanging on the very cliff edge. The sea sparkled blue below them, sometimes hidden by clumps of pines, and white farmhouses set in the hillside made the land seem peopled, even though they saw scarcely anyone except a goatherd and his dog.
After the insignificant village of Antibes, the road dropped almost to sea level offering a continuous view over the dazzling Mediterranean with fishing boats bobbing at anchor. Cassandra stuck her head out of the carriage window. ‘What a wonderful smell. Hot pine resin, the sea and the scent of herbs.’
‘And dust.’ Nicholas seized the hem of her waistcoat and hauled her back into the carriage. ‘Get back in, brat, or you’ll be out of the window at the next bump in the road.’
‘Why are you laughing at me?’ Cassandra demanded, when she saw the grin on his face.
‘You look like a retriever pup who has just had her first scent of game.’ But as he looked at her indignant face, flushed with heat and excitement, her hair awry, her eyes sparkling, he thought he had never had the urge to kiss one of his gun dogs.
The carriage suddenly slowed and one of the postillions shouted out. Nicholas put his head out of the window. ‘What is it? Why are we stopping?’
Then he saw the problem, a broken-down farm cart was slewed across the road, its meagre contents spilling out and the ancient driver tugging at the reins of an equally ancient mule.
‘Get down one of you, and help him or we’ll never get to Nice,’ Nicholas ordered. The man did as he was told, walking awkwardly in his heavy boots. He vanished round the cart. Seconds later there was a sudden cry, then silence.
‘What the devil?’ Nicholas jumped down, leaving the door swinging. ‘Stay there, Cassie, while I see what is happening.’
Cassandra leaned out, watching as Nicholas strode towards the cart. The drover took to his heels far too nimbly for the old man he appeared to be. Then there was a thump swiftly followed by a cry and the second postillion slumped to the ground from his horse, a knife-hilt protruding between his shoulder blades.
For a moment she was frozen, then she scrambled across the carriage to the open door. ‘Nicholas! Behind you!’ she shouted, as two men emerged from the cover of the cart, each with a cudgel and a curving knife in his hands.
Everything happened so fast it was blurred. Nicholas turned, stooped, picked up a rock and threw it hard, catching the nearest brigand in the centre of the forehead. The man fell as if poleaxed. The second brigand cursed and began to back away, holding the murderous knife in front of him.
Nicholas snatched up the fallen man’s knife and strode toward
s the retreating man as a shadow slipped from cover behind the horses, arm raised.
‘Behind you!’ Cassandra shrieked again, but too late. The man had brought the cudgel down in a crashing blow on Nicholas’s shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground, then kicked his head.
Cassandra saw red. Without conscious thought her fingers curled round one of the pistols, slipping it from its holster. The smooth wood of the butt felt right in her hand and this time the hammer pulled back smoothly under her thumb. She brought the muzzle up, aimed at the broad, leather-jerkined back, and fired.
The recoil shot her backwards painfully onto her tail-bone. Eyes streaming, shoulder numb, she scrambled down from the coach, brandishing the other pistol.
‘Get away from him! Get away or I’ll kill you!’ she yelled in English, but the message must have been clear enough. The brigand grabbed his injured colleague and stumbled off into the pines. Of the man Nicholas had hit there was no sign.
Cassandra ran, stumbling in her haste, and fell on her knees beside Nicholas. He was stirring, his eyes black in a deadly white face. ‘Nicholas?’
‘Stop pointing that pistol at me,’ he managed, then broke off, retching painfully.
‘Sit up.’ Cassandra half dragged him into the shade of the cart and propped him against the wheel. ‘I’ll fetch some water.’
After several deep draughts, he reopened his eyes and looked at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘Bloodthirsty brat. Where are all the bodies?’
‘One of the postillions is all right, he only had a tap on the head. He’s looking after the other one in the carriage. The brigands have gone.’
‘I am not surprised.’ His eyes were closed again.
‘I only shot one of them,’ Cassandra protested. ‘I think the others were taken by surprise because they didn’t know there was anyone else in the carriage.’
Nicholas shifted his position and grimaced. ‘I thought I’d broken my collarbone, but I don’t think I have.’ He opened and closed his hand, wincing.
Cassandra probed gingerly. ‘No, I don’t think you have either, but it is bound to be very badly bruised. Can you get up? We need to get all of you to a doctor, I have no idea if there is any head damage. And besides, what will we do if they come back?’
Unsteadily, leaning on her shoulder, Nicholas made his way back to the coach. The stabbed postillion was slumped silently in one corner, the other stood holding his head and moaning.
‘There’s money in it for you if you can drive us on to Nice,’ she said firmly to the man with the headache. ‘You have done well, the Earl will not fail to reward you generously.’
It was almost dusk by the time they entered Nice at a decorous trot. Cassandra was too preoccupied with her patients to heed the famous groves of oranges and lemons or admire the white bastides, their doors and windows smothered in brilliant blooms.
To her relief, Nice was every bit as civilized and fashionable as the other coastal towns were not. The hotelier summoned a doctor with dispatch and made them comfortable in his best suite, while the wounded postillion was carried off to the servants’ quarters to have his wound dressed by the barber surgeon.
‘Monsieur le docteur will be here soon,’ the hotelier announced. ‘It would be best if you get your master undressed and into bed while you wait. I will send up wine and hot water.’
‘Undressed…er, I…’
‘You are his valet, are you not?’ The man shrugged his shoulders at the stupidity of the English. ‘You have not had a blow to the head also? You understand what I am saying?’
‘Perfectly,’ Cassandra replied haughtily. ‘I will look after Monsieur le Comte. You may leave.’
Nicholas was slumped back against the pillows, his face faintly green in the subdued light. Cassandra bit her lip, undecided how best to get him undressed. She told herself that she was being unnecessarily modest and, in an emergency such as this, propriety could not count, especially with a man suffering from concussion. Even Godmama would tell her not to be such a little ninny.
She pulled off his shoes and stockings, then his neck cloth. He did not stir. Emboldened, she unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it loose from the waistband of his breeches and tried to ease it free from behind his body. After a few minutes struggling to no avail, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him forward to rest against her breast while she slid the shirt free over his head.
She should have let Nicholas back down onto the pillows, but instead, Cassandra found herself holding him, his naked back warm and smooth under her fingers, his heart beating rhythmically against her chest. She had never realised that a man’s skin could be this smooth, that the play of strong muscles would be so alluring to the fingertips.
Her hesitant, gentle touch seemed to rouse him and he stirred, murmuring incoherently. His lips moved against her throat and Cassandra stiffened with shock at the intimacy and pleasure of the sensation. How long they would have stayed like that had not the doctor’s knock at the door intervened, she did not know.
Doctor le Blanc greeted Cassandra in excellent English, clucked with disapproval to find Nicholas still half-dressed and had him out of his breeches, into a nightshirt and between the sheets in a trice.
She was relieved to see how competent and efficient the doctor seemed. He kept up a constant flow of inconsequential but reassuring chatter while he probed and checked Nicholas from top to toe.
‘Very good, my lord, very good,’ he said as Nicholas stirred and opened his eyes. ‘No breaks, I am happy to say, although that is a most serious contusion on your shoulder. It will be painful for some time as it is so near the bone, but nothing a fit young man like yourself cannot endure. And you are concussed, so it is important to rest as much as possible in subdued light. Drink plenty of good water and no strong drink.
‘You have found a most excellent hotel, which is fortunate when you consider the number of your countrymen resident already in our lovely town.’
‘Does that account for your excellent English, monsieur?’ Nicholas asked as the doctor pulled his nightshirt back over his shoulder. It sounded as though his teeth were clenched.
‘But certainement, milord. Many of my patients are of the English nobility, here for the excellence of the climate and the efficacy of our sea bathing. I would recommend a course of immersions for your wound.’
Cassandra had retreated to the window when the doctor arrived, glad of the opportunity to regain her equilibrium. She rubbed her fingertips together, still feeling Nicholas’s body so warm and strong and yet, for once, so vulnerable.
It had seemed such a good idea to reassume her former rôle, but however much she might play the boy, she could no longer deceive herself that her feelings for Nicholas were anything but those of a woman for a man.
‘Cass? That is your name, is it not?’ The doctor was at her elbow and had obviously been talking to her for some time. ‘I have sent a message to the apothecary to prepare a salve. It must be applied three times a day and rubbed in well. The day after tomorrow, milord must go down to la plage and immerse himself in the sea for ten minutes. It does not matter if he cannot swim.’
‘He swims very well,’ Cassandra replied absently.
‘So much the better. Gentle exercise will help. Au’voir, milord, send for me if you have the slightest discomfort.’ He bowed himself out of the chamber as Nicholas shifted uncomfortably against the piled bolsters.
‘Slightest discomfort? French understatement, no doubt.’ He looked across at and held out a hand to her. ‘Cassie, come over here. You saved my life, you know.’
Cassandra walked to him as though he pulled a string and took his warm, strong hand in hers.
His fingers closed over hers and stroked the knuckles. ‘And how are you? It must have been a terrible shock.’
His sympathy was enough to precipitate the tears she had been fighting for hours. Two large drops gathered and rolled down her cheeks and she hung her head to hide them.
‘I thought you wer
e going to be killed. And the knife in the postillion’s back and the blood… and those terrible men…’ She took a deep breath and asked, ‘Do you think I killed him?’
Nicholas didn’t answer. Instead he pulled her onto the bed beside him, gathered her against his good shoulder and held her until the tears dried. Gradually in the safety of his arms, Cassandra felt her tense body relax, her eyes felt heavy. Without conscious thought, she snuggled closer and let herself drift. Under her cheek, Nicholas’s breathing slowed and as she drifted off she realised that he too slept.
Chapter Twelve
She was woken. by a soft knock on the door. For a long moment, Cassandra could not remember where she was. She blinked and looked up to find her eyelashes almost grazing Nicholas’s unshaven chin. As she blinked up at him his eyes opened and the expression in them was like a slap.
‘Cassie? What on earth..?’
The knock came again as she scrambled off the bed, scarlet with confusion, avoiding Nicholas’s eyes as she pulled down her waistcoat.
‘Entrez!’ he called when she was a safe distance from the bed, but his voice carried less than its usual authority and Cassandra guessed he was as shaken as she at the position they had woken up in.
The door opened to reveal a little party assembled outside: the apothecary’s assistant with a package sealed with wax, a chambermaid with a tray full of food, a waiter equipped with cutlery and a cloth, and the patron to supervise all.
At least they provided some diversion. A glance at the clock on the mantel showed her that she had slept in Nicholas’s arms for over an hour and she had no notion of what she should say to him now.
By the time she had laid a tray on Nicholas’s knees, poured him a glass of wine and settled herself with chicken casserole, she had decided that the only thing to do was to play Cass the valet to the hilt. She must drive from his consciousness all awareness of Cassandra, the woman who had slept beside him in his embrace. She was honest enough to recognise that if he took her in his arms again, she would do nothing to stop whatever might follow and she wanted him to hold her so much…
