by Shana Galen
“Now what?” Chevalier asked. “I don’t think they’re too concerned, and if their friends are bringing more of them, we’ll be taken. You can’t shoot a mob.”
She could die trying, but she didn’t want it to come to that any more than he. “Now I give them something to concern themselves with.”
Carefully, she climbed down the tree to one of the lower branches. Fortunately, the tree still had some foliage to conceal her in the dark. Unfortunately, it would also hamper her aim, so she had to move out on one branch where the leaves were sparse and where the branch was thin. She balanced her weight on another branch below. Then she took aim and fired.
The shot did not hit the men. They were definitely out of range, but it was close enough and true enough in its aim that had they been but a few feet closer, one would have been hit. The men shouted and backed further away. Alex loaded the pistol again, then climbed to the ground.
“Let’s go!” she demanded, looking up at him.
“Oh, good. More running,” he muttered.
“And you thought organizing a revolution was difficult. Climb down and run ahead. Hurry!”
He started to protest, but she spoke over him. “You are not leaving me. I have the weapon. You do not. Go and I’ll follow, keeping the pistol trained on them. If I have to shoot, I will. But you keep running, and I’ll catch up.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I told you there is a posting house not terribly far. Follow the road until you reach it. Stay out of sight and wait for me there.”
He’d been climbing down as she spoke, and now he stood beside her. She shifted her gaze to him for a moment, then back to her targets.
“I’ll go under one condition.”
She started in surprise as his finger traced lightly over her cheek. Didn’t the man know one should take more care with a person holding a loaded pistol? “What’s the condition?” she asked.
“Don’t get yourself killed.”
She gave him a quick smile. “And deprive you of the pleasure of sending me to the guillotine? Never.” She focused on her targets again. “Now go before they find their misplaced sense of courage.”
“Yes, citoyenne.” He saluted, and before she scowled at his use of citoyenne, he was gone. The provincials didn’t notice for a few moments, but she knew the second they did. Their red-capped heads jerked up and they started to move forward. Alex gave them a moment to close the distance, then fired at the ground. The flying dirt and rocks must have hit one of them in the face because he stumbled back and cried out.
Or perhaps the range was less than she’d gauged?
“Stay back!” she yelled, beginning to back away herself. “If you move, I will shoot. As you see, I can reload”—she was doing so at that very moment—“and I am not afraid to fire.”
“You will go to hell, bitch!” one of them called. She thought it was the taller one on the left. Next time she would aim for him.
“But you will be there first. Now, turn around and walk back the way you came.”
The men looked at each other and murmured something. She couldn’t allow them to discuss this if she were ever to catch up to Chevalier. She was confident enough in his abilities that she believed he could make it to the posting house and stay out of sight, but she did not know how he would make it back into Paris without creating questions about his loyalties. The league could not afford those questions. And this was probably all for nothing because he’d already said he’d never help them rescue Louis Charles.
But she had to try anyway.
So before the men could say more than three words, she moved closer and fired again. They were still out of range, but her shots were true, hitting the earth directly in front of them. She moved back again and reloaded. She felt three more balls in her pouch and swore. If this game of cat-and-mouse continued much longer, she’d be out of ammunition.
“Walk away, citoyens!” she called again. “Or you won’t be able to walk anywhere.”
The men began to back away, and Alex cursed under her breath. Were they so stupid they could not follow simple instructions? She fired again, her shot falling short but the sound proving she still had ammunition and could aim. “I said turn your backs, you imbeciles!”
The men immediately turned their backs and began to walk. Alex wasted precious time reloading and then took off after Chevalier. Once or twice she looked behind her, checking to see if the provincials had started after her again, but they either kept far enough back or had given up.
Her bet was they kept far enough back.
She was walking—rapidly, at least—by the time the posting house came into view. She skirted the front and went the long way around it, coming at it from the back. The sun would be up in an hour or so, but the posting house was relatively quiet. Still, a posting house was never completely at rest, and she was careful not to make any noise as she entered the yard and moved around the various detritus from the kitchen and the coaches.
“Chevalier!” she hissed, looking behind an empty trough. She turned in a circle, her eyes scanning the shadows. She heard the footstep too late and before she could swing around, the hand covered her mouth while an arm grasped her about the waist.
She brought her elbow back hard into the man’s belly, and he let out a grunt. “This is some welcome,” he muttered in her ear.
“Dewhurst!” she said—or she would have if her mouth hadn’t been covered.
He released her and bent slightly. “No, that’s quite all right. Don’t apologize. My fault. I forget how jumpy you are.”
“Jumpy? I have my pistol in my hand. If I were jumpy, you’d be dead.” She looked about. “Where is Chevalier?”
Dewhurst’s eyes narrowed. “I thought he was with you.”
“He was. We ran into some old friends, and I sent him ahead. He should have reached the posting house before now.”
“I didn’t see anyone but you arrive. I’ve been here the last several hours.”
Of course he had. He’d probably lost his pursuers immediately and come here straightaway, relaxing in the warm stable during the storm.
“Oh, damn it all to hell,” she swore.
“My thoughts exactly. Why did you let him out of your sight?”
“It was the only way. What do we do now? Should we split up? One of us take the road toward Paris and the other backtrack?”
Dewhurst rolled his neck to one side and then the other. “I don’t think we’ll find him, and we run the very real risk of meeting our friends again. No doubt they will have reinforcements as soon as the sun is up.”
“Then what do we—” She broke off abruptly as the kitchen door opened and the man himself stepped into the yard. He spotted them, jerked back, and turned back to the posting house. Dewhurst grabbed his collar.
“Not so fast.”
“Oh, it’s you, citoyen.” His gaze landed on Alex. “And you. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I told you to stay out of sight.”
“And I was out of sight. You didn’t see me.”
“But anyone inside the posting house might have!”
“Citoyenne Martin, give me some credit.”
“I will. When you earn it! And the next time you call me citoyenne, I’ll punch you.”
He looked at Dewhurst as though expecting an explanation. Dewhurst just shrugged.
“We’re wasting time here,” Alex said. “The sun will be up soon, and that will make it easier for the provincials to find us. We had better go now.”
“More running?” Chevalier asked with a sigh. “I have a better idea.”
“Oh, really?” She put her hands on her hips and waited.
“There’s a cart over there. The farmer is inside. He stopped to wait for the storm to pass, then drank too much and passed out.” He gave Alex a meaningful look. “These are the things you hear hiding in the kitchen.”
“Go on,” Dewhurst said.
“He’ll probably depart when it’s light. I propose we hide under
his produce and stow away. When we’re close to Paris, we jump off.”
Dewhurst looked down at Alex. “You have to admit, it’s a good plan.”
“Fine. As long as there are no chickens. I don’t want to be pecked for the next several hours.”
TRISTAN WAS PLEASED there were no chickens or any other animals on the cart at present, but something with digestive faculties had occupied it recently because no matter where he turned his head, he could smell feces.
Dewhurst obviously didn’t care. He’d fallen asleep and was snoring softly. Alexandra heaved annoyed sighs every few moments, letting him know she was less than pleased.
“Oh come now, cit—Alexandra. This can’t be the worst place you’ve ever had to hide.”
“The sewers are worse,” she admitted. “But at least down there one can keep moving. Is that farmer ever going to wake?”
He could hear people milling about and taking their leaves, but no one had saddled the workhorses to the cart yet. “Are you certain you would rather I call you Alexandra than...the other?”
“You might as well. It’s not as though we haven’t spent two nights together now.”
“They haven’t exactly been enjoyable.”
“No, but certainly climbing trees together and shooting at provincial patriots together means we can be a bit less formal. You may even call me Alex, if you wish.”
He shook his head, though she could not see it under the old horse blanket they’d climbed under, moving the baskets of fruit in front of them so their presence was not so obvious.
“When I was in England, I knew a man named Alex. It’s a man’s name, not suited for you.”
“No one except my father ever called me Alexandra. Do you want me to think of you like my father?”
He did not, but after they returned to Paris, he would not see her again. Unless it was in the back of a tumbrel. As he did not want to consider that possibility, he said, “It might not be the worst idea.”
“Have it your way.”
He was about to speak again when a man he surmised to be the farmer called for his horses. Finally, the cart was readied, and they were off. Alexandra woke Dewhurst to ask him if they were traveling in the correct direction. The big man peered out from under the blanket then ducked back under before answering in the affirmative. A few moments later, Tristan heard him snoring again.
Tristan wished he could sleep. Instead, he lay awake, uncomfortably aware of the scent of Alexandra tickling his nose just as he had managed to ignore, for the moment, that his thigh pressed against hers. How she still managed to smell like spring even after all they’d been through and amidst a cart smelling faintly of manure, he did not know. He knew he smelled like damp wool and straw. By the time they reached Paris, he’d smell of damp wool, straw, and shit.
“Chevalier?”
He heard her voice, a bare murmur over the rattle of the wheels on the road. He didn’t answer right away, and she moved closer, her thigh pressing into his more firmly and her breath on his cheek. The back of a produce cart was the last place he should ever find arousing, but in that moment he could think of little but turning his head and kissing her.
“Chevalier?”
“What?” he said tersely.
Now she seemed to pause. He wished he could see her face, but when he turned his face, the horse blanket obscured all but the dark shape of her.
“Will you do me a favor?”
The gall of these royalists and traitors. She’d dragged him out of Paris, almost got him killed, and now in the back of a farmer’s cart, she wanted a favor.
“No.” He felt small and petty, but he didn’t owe her anything.
Except your life.
Not fair. He had saved her life as well. And he wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t blackmailed him.
“Then will you do it for yourself?”
He sighed. “Is this about the boy king again?”
“Go and see him, Chevalier. You are one of the few who can obtain access. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps my information is incorrect, and he does not suffer. Then you may gleefully tell me how misinformed I am.”
“And if I do not want to see the boy?”
“Then you are a coward,” she hissed in his ear and withdrew.
“That is the way to convince him,” Dewhurst grumbled from the other side of the cart. “Call him names.”
“Shut up, Dewhurst.”
The silence that followed felt even more oppressive than the damp wool of the horse blanket draped over his face. When he returned home, he would take a bath, no matter how weary he was or how much trouble it might be to haul and heat the water. And he would eat a full meal. He’d worry about his next meal another day. Tristan wanted to be clean and full.
And he wanted to sleep. Alone. He did not want to wake with Alexandra’s warm body pressed to his or the scent of daisies in his nose.
Finally, he heard Dewhurst whispering, and Alexandra kicked him. “Get ready.”
He would have kicked her back, but she was already moving. She’d scooted to the edge of the cart, pushing produce back and out of her way. Tristan heard more whispering and then a thud.
“Now!” she said and threw the blanket off. Tristan blinked in the sudden brightness.
“Hey! What are you doing there?” the farmer called.
Tristan turned to look, but Alexandra moved. She scooted to the edge of the cart and slid off, rolling neatly and then rising to her feet and running into the nearby field where Dewhurst was already waiting. She glanced over her shoulder once. “Come on!” she yelled.
Tristan looked at the road, then her, then the farmer. That was a mistake. The farmer brought his whip down across Tristan’s back, and he flinched. But he didn’t wait any longer. Following Alexandra’s example, he crawled to the edge of the cart and prepared to jump. He shouldn’t have looked down. The ground was moving too quickly beneath his feet. He might have scooted back again if the whip hadn’t cracked just behind him. An apple from one of the baskets was hit and pulp flew across Tristan’s face.
He looked up again. Alexandra and Dewhurst were growing smaller as the cart moved away. It was now or never. He looked down at the fast-moving road. She had jumped and landed easily. Surely there was nothing to this. Closing his eyes, he pushed away from the cart and jumped.
For a long moment, he felt as though he was flying. Tristan almost smiled. This was not so bad after all.
Then he landed, hard and with bone-jarring finality, on the merciless ground. He would have grunted, but he had no air in his lungs. He raised his head just in time to see the darkened face of the farmer looking back at him and hurling insults.
The road was not packed as it often was on market day, but even Tristan knew he could not stay in the road long before another conveyance came along. He rolled to one side and tested his legs, rising gingerly to a sitting position. He must have injured something, but he wasn’t certain what it might be because every inch of him hurt.
He rose unsteadily to his feet and stumbled off the road. Dewhurst was jogging toward him while Alexandra was walking at a more leisurely pace, her skirts held off the ground in one hand.
“What the devil do you call that?” Dewhurst asked. He reached Tristan and slapped a hand on his shoulder. Tristan flinched.
“You could have broken your neck jumping like that.”
Tristan scowled. “I was a printer. No one told me how to jump off moving carts.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry. You’ll learn in no time. I’m the son of a duke.”
Tristan stared after him as he headed across the road and into the brush on the side. The son of a duke? That was impossible. Where was the superior air, the haughtiness, the reluctance to dirty one’s hands? This man behaved more like the son of a pig farmer than that of a duke.
“What is it? What did he say?” Alexandra asked, finally reaching him.
Tristan shook his head.
“We’re about a mile or so outside of Paris. We
wait here until nightfall and then we’ll sneak into the city.”
More waiting. Tristan’s belly rumbled. His bath and his meal would have to be put off until tonight.
She stood on tiptoe and peered into his eyes. “Can you hear me? Did you hit your head?”
He wanted to smile at the concerned look on her lovely face. Her green eyes were large in her pale face, and her hair looked as though a family of mice had made their nest in it. He had the urge to smooth it down. But when he reached for it, she caught his hand and thrust it back. “I’ll see you safely into the city, and that’s all. After that, you either help us or you follow the rest of your countrymen to the guillotine.” Her eyes narrowed. “You understood that, didn’t you?”
Oh, he understood well enough. He’d been right about Citoyenne Martin all along. She played a dangerous game, only in the end, he would be the victor.
Nine
Alex had insisted they blindfold Chevalier before leading him into Paris. She hadn’t wanted him to know the secret entrance they used to avoid the guards at the gate. She’d used it on numerous occasions, and she didn’t want to find the guard lying in wait for her the next time she squeezed through.
She didn’t trust Chevalier any more than she had the day she’d met him. The league wanted to believe Chevalier was just a pawn in Robespierre’s schemes, but she’d been skeptical. Yes, he seemed uncomfortable with the bloody turn in Robespierre’s revolution. He also still seemed loyal to the ideals of the revolution. Perhaps the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of the Duc du Mérignac had twisted him so he no longer cared about justice and only wanted revenge.
When she and Dewhurst returned to the safe house, she focused on making plans to move, once again. She’d argued they were not safe now that Chevalier knew who she really was. Ffoulkes had cautioned her to give the man time. In answer, Alex had called him a fool and stomped off to devise an escape plan for Louis Charles with Laurent, the former Marquis de Montagne, who knew the Temple Prison better than any of them.
She and Montagne were still arguing about the best way to smuggle the boy out of the prison when Ffoulkes stood in the attic doorway. Alex ignored him. “He may be small for his age, but I cannot carry him. Perhaps if we found a real washerwoman, one who has built up that sort of strength.”
