Friends and Foes (22 page)

Sorrel could only hope she hadn’t pushed the men beyond bearing. She needed more time, and acting as though she might tumble off her horse at any moment seemed to be working. Though she hurt from hip to ankle, Sorrel found her balance steadier than she’d expected. The men, however, didn’t need to know that.

While they argued over what to do with her, Sorrel thought frantically. From her position, she’d never get hold of their weapons. She didn’t know how to fire a pistol anyway. Bélanger’s knife sat sheathed directly against his side. She couldn’t get that without being stopped.

There had to be something else she could use to defend herself. She thought briefly of the iron stirrups but quickly dismissed the thought. Since they were tied to the saddle, the possible ways to wield them were extremely limited.

Several colorful expressions ran through her mind. She had no other strategies but knew her opportunities were quickly running out. She hadn’t a weapon nor the skills to use one. The only true talent she’d ever really possessed was that of being a bruising-good rider. That ability had long since been taken from her.

And yet her mind wouldn’t let go of the thought. She had once been the best rider in all of Kent, perhaps beyond. She, conveniently enough, sat on a horse. If she could somehow gain control of the reins—

Don’t be daft. You aren’t the rider you once were.

But what other course of action could she take? During her ride with Philip she’d kept her seat until fever rendered her too weak. But she wasn’t ill any longer, and she’d learned a great deal during that ride about how to adjust to the change her injuries required. She would never be able to take a fence, nor ride at a full gallop, but she might manage to maneuver the animal quickly and agilely enough to get away. Provided, of course, Bélanger and Le Fontaine did not simply shoot her as she rode off.

Better to make the attempt than simply wait to be executed. She hadn’t lived her life as a coward, and she would not die that way.

Now, how to get the reins?

A soft rustling immediately caught her attention. An animal maybe? The sound had come from just beyond the small stand of trees not far off. For a moment she entertained the idea of someone having come to assist in her escape, but the thought quickly followed that it might just as easily be one of the men’s comrades come looking for them.

She had no time to waste. The dilemma of taking control of her mount needed to be paramount in her thoughts.

Another noise stopped her short. Bélanger and Le Fontaine took note of it, too. In unison their heads snapped in that direction. Conversation halted between them immediately. Neither seemed relieved nor expecting company. Sorrel took that as a sign their possible new arrival was not in league with her captors.

If only she could get the reins from Bélanger while the men were even a little distracted. She slid her hand slowly forward, careful not to draw attention.

“Do you see anything?” Bélanger asked his companion.

Le Fontaine shook his head, taking a step closer to the trees.

Sorrel inched her fingers gently along the horse’s neck toward the bridle. She shifted her weight forward, glancing at Bélanger to see if he noticed. Farther she stretched, but the truth became quickly obvious. She couldn’t grab for the reins without drawing attention to herself.

Think, Sorrel.

Bélanger’s eyes darted in her direction. “What are you doing?”

“I am attempting to find some relief from the pain this ride has caused me. Shifting position is the only recourse you have given me.”

He glanced briefly at Le Fontaine before returning his unsettling gaze to her face. “Your ride will be over soon,
ma chère
. Pl
ay nice and I may let you sail with me rather than see you dumped in the ocean once we reach our ship.” He ran his free hand down her leg. She kicked back, throwing off his touch.

“I’d far prefer the second option,” she spat.

He only smiled before facing away once more. “Did you find anything?”

Le Fontaine turned back toward them. “No. It was likely only an animal.”

“Come,
ma fille
. We’
ve some distance to cover. I have a feeling you’ll see things my way soon enough.”

Sorrel leaned low over the horse’s neck, one hand grasping hard at the front of her saddle. Her balance was not at all what it had once been. She’d grab the reins at the first opportunity.

“Let us be on our way,” Bélanger called out.

“And no more stops,” Le Fontaine added. “I don’t care how much pain she—”

The loud report of a gun shattered the night. Sorrel barely managed to stay mounted as she and the horse both jumped, startled by the sudden sound. What was happening? Who had fired?

She saw Le Fontaine crumple to the ground without so much as a moan.

Sorrel didn’t waste a single second. She grabbed for the reins, but Bélanger took tighter hold of them. In an instant, he brandished his pistol and aimed for her. They stood at too close a distance for him to possibly miss.

“Show yourself!” Bélanger shouted into the eerily still night. “Show yourself, or I’ll shoot her dead!”

“I am afraid those terms are entirely unacceptable.”

Sorrel nearly gasped aloud. Philip! That was Philip’s voice!

Bélanger seemed thrown off by the response. He inched closer to the horse, aim still more than true.

“If you shoot her,” Philip continued, still entirely concealed, “I’ll have no choice but to kill you. Now you don’t want that, do you?”

Bélanger followed the sound of Philip’s voice as easily as Sorrel did. He was somewhere very near the trees Le Fontaine had searched but a moment ago.

Sorrel’s heart pounded hard in her chest. How could she get away? More important still, how could she be certain Philip escaped as well? They were both in very real danger.

“What terms do you prefer, then,
Monsieur
?” Bélanger’s eyes scanned the darkness as he spoke. “Shall we mark off ten paces and fire on each other like gentlemen? Or have you a prisoner to swap for mine?”

“I do not take prisoners, as your friend there has so clearly demonstrated.”

Sorrel could not pin down Philip’s exact location—his voice echoed off the trees scattered about. How she prayed Bélanger could not find him either.

“What terms, then, do you suggest?”

While Philip kept Bélanger occupied, Sorrel searched for the slightest opportunity to assist in her own escape. Bélanger held his weapon a bit away from himself, elevated enough to point up at her. Surely she could find a means of knocking it away, especially considering his current distraction.

“My terms are thus,” Philip answered. “You lower your weapon and I won’t shoot you in the head.”

Just enough of his dandified mannerisms touched Philip’s tone to do Sorrel’s heart good. The familiarity of it settled her nerves a tiny bit.

“You must think me a fool. If I lower my weapon, there will be nothing to stop you from firing on me.” If anything, Bélanger looked more determined than before.

“Yours is a one-shot pistol,” Philip called out. “I suggest you use that bullet wisely.”

Sorrel’s heart lurched as Philip stepped from the protective cover of darkness provided by the nearby trees out into the moonlight. He held his pistol aimed at Bélanger.

The Frenchman shifted his focus firmly on Philip. Good heavens! Bélanger meant to shoot him.

She’d not have another opportunity. Sorrel shifted her weight and kicked at his hand with all the strength she had. His hand and weapon wavered as he stepped back to keep his balance. Philip would not have a clear shot so long as she remained close. Bélanger’s grip on the reins had slackened. Sorrel grabbed at them, heart racing as she took control of the horse for the first time.

Maneuvering on horseback came as naturally in that moment as ever it had, though the movement proved painful and tricky. A quick flick and pull of the reins turned the horse about in a swift movement. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bélanger regain his position.

She leaned low over her horse’s neck even as her enemy aimed his pistol directly at her. She pressed her feet hard into the horse’s flank, setting him swiftly into motion.

In French, Philip shouted, “Shoot her and you’re dead where you stand!”

A gun went off. Sorrel pulled her horse to a stop as she realized
she
hadn’t been shot. Her eyes fell on Philip. Had he shot Bélanger? Had the danger passed?

Philip didn’t look in her direction. He stumbled backward, before falling to his knees.

No!

Bélanger had his knife in hand once more, having apparently tossed aside his now-useless firearm. He moved menacingly toward Philip’s bent frame.

Sorrel nudged her mount into motion again, swiftly changing its direction. The sudden shift nearly unseated her. She wrapped the rein around one hand and firmly gripped the front of her saddle with the other as she rushed in Bélanger’s direction. So help her, she’d run him down if necessary.

The Frenchman heard her coming and turned to face her, knife wielded. She didn’t know the horse’s temperament well enough to guess how it would react. It might kick out, might suddenly halt. She’d be thrown. But if she didn’t do something, Philip might very well be killed, if the shot hadn’t killed him already.

Sorrel urged the horse on. She could feel herself slipping. Her joints were not equal to the severe jarring they were enduring.

They drew nearer. Sorrel braced herself for whatever reaction the horse might have.

It bucked, kicking its legs out at the livid man who stood too near their path. Sorrel grasped the saddle, grabbed at the horse’s neck—anything to keep from being thrown.

It wasn’t enough. She felt herself slip, though without the force she’d feared. She fell, landing hard on the ground. Disoriented, she crawled, despite the pain searing through her leg, trying to move clear of the horse’s hooves. Flashes of memory clouded her vision. She’d be trampled again. She knew she would.

Sorrel scrambled, desperate. She put some distance between herself and the angry animal, but the relief was short-lived. The horse shot off like a bolt of lightning, leaving her the only barrier between Bélanger and Philip, who still hadn’t moved. She had no weapon, no means of escape.

But she would not back down.

Sorrel watched the Frenchman approach, his breathing heavy, either with rage or the effort of avoiding a rampaging horse. She glanced back only briefly to make certain she blocked Bélanger’s path to Philip.

“You are a foolish woman,
ma fille.
” The words crackled in the air. “Now you will die here alone in the cold like the imbecile behind you.”

He still had his knife. Sorrel had nothing.

“I do believe I should like to hear you beg first. Beg for your life,
ma chére
.”

She spoke not a word, refusing to cower before him.

Moonlight glinted off the wide blade of his dagger. Each step brought him closer. Sorrel shifted from her crawling position to her knees. If she could manage it, she’d face him standing, not kneeling as though pleading with him. She grabbed hold of a low branch on one of the trees that had concealed Philip but a moment earlier. Straining with the effort, Sorrel pulled herself to her feet. She swayed but managed to remain upright.

“A brave show,” Bélanger acknowledged. “But too late.”

Sorrel took in a deep breath and told herself to face death calmly. He stepped closer yet, no doubt moving purposely slowly to prolong her suffering. She simply watched his approach in silence.

“You ought to have accepted my offer while you had the chance. I would have made—”

An explosion sounded from behind. Bélanger’s face froze in shock, and he dropped his knife. He swayed.

“I told you I don’t take prisoners.”

Philip! She turned toward him. Where he’d been little more than a motionless heap but a moment earlier, he sat back on his feet, pistol yet pointed at Bélanger. The Frenchman fell to his knees then dropped silently. No sounds, no movement.

Sorrel lowered herself once more to the ground, pain and exhaustion taking a sudden toll. She’d been so afraid Philip was dead. She’d fully expected to be killed herself. She couldn’t form a single coherent thought.

Philip seemed to have no such difficulty. “Well, that was an adventure.”

The fear she’d been feeling turned swiftly into an odd mixture of relief and anger and heavy emotion. “If you were only pretending to be shot, I’ll never speak to you again,” she said, forcing down a fresh wave of tears.

He slowly moved, sitting himself on the ground, his back against a tree. “And if I wasn’t pretending?”

She heard strain in his voice. He was hurt, after all? Or was he merely teasing her? “So help me, Philip Jonquil, if you’re making a joke in a moment like this I’ll . . . I’ll kill you.”

Enough light broke through the trees for her to see the smile spread across his face. “That’s my Sorrel.”

She pulled herself along the ground to where he sat. Philip’s eyes never left her face. As she reached his side, he gently touched her cheek with his hand. She leaned into his caress, pressing her hand against his.

“Did they hurt you, my dear?” he whispered.

Sorrel shook her head.

Philip studied her doubtfully. His eyes settled on her neck, and he tipped her chin up. So much of her ached that she’d not thought of the wound Bélanger had given her with his knife.

“They did this,” Philip said.

“It isn’t bad,” she told him.

His expression didn’t lighten. “I should never have let you come along tonight. I should have locked you in the attics or something. Anything.”

She would not allow him to blame himself for what had happened. “Philip—”

He cut across her. “You might have been killed. I was terrified I wouldn’t find you in time.”

“But we’re safe now.” She took his hand in both of hers. “We’re—” His hand was wet to the touch.

Sorrel looked down at it. Good heavens! His entire hand was covered in blood.

“Philip, you’re bleeding!”