No Longer a Gentleman (5 page)

In a world of endless monotony, even small changes were instantly noticeable. Grey was running in place when a key in the lock brought him instantly alert. The door hadn’t been opened since the time he’d come close to killing Durand. Ever since, Durand had spoken through the little window when he came to taunt Grey with stories of great French victories and predictions of the imminent defeat of the British.

But if Durand or Gaspard were visiting, they would know what key to use. A guard? No one else was allowed down here. Grey approached the door, every muscle in his body taut. Beside the door were ten years’ worth of neat scratches to mark the days. Thousands of marks measuring endless days. If there was even the remotest chance he could escape, he’d attack.

The door swung open to reveal a woman. The shock temporarily paralyzed him. Dear God, a woman, the first he’d seen in ten years! She was old and drab and forgettable, but unquestionably female. The sheer wonder of that held him immobile.

He recovered from his surprise when he realized this was his chance to escape this damnable cell. She’d never be able to stop him, especially since she didn’t even hold a weapon. He charged toward her.

He was grabbing for the keys when she tripped him, caught his outstretched arm, and used his own speed to sling him to the floor with his arm twisted agonizingly high behind his back. He lay on his belly gasping. Years of constant exercise and an old woman could flatten him?

“Are you Lord Wyndham?” she asked in a swift, low voice. “I come from Kirkland to help you.”

She spoke in English. It was so long since he’d heard the language that it took him a long moment to interpret the words. Wyndham. Kirkland. Help?

She said in French, “So you’re not Wyndham. No matter, if you want to escape, I’ll help you if you promise not to attack me again.”

He replied in the same language, “I am Wyndham. Haven’t spoken English in years. Wasn’t attacking you, just trying to escape. Let me up?”

She released his arm. He scrambled to his feet, feasting his eyes on the sight of another human being. Better yet, a clean, normal woman. He impulsively wrapped his arms around her and crushed her warm body into an embrace, his heart pounding.

She swore and shoved at him.

“Please,” he said, his voice shaking. “I’ve been so … so hungry for touch. Only a moment. Please!”

She relaxed and let him hold her. Dear God, she felt good! A warm, breathing woman with a sweet old-lady scent of lavender that made him think of his grandmother. He never wanted to let her go.

After too short a time, she pushed away. “Enough,” she said, her voice compassionate. “We must leave. Almost everyone in the castle is ill with influenza, so I think we can walk right out if we’re careful. I have a pony cart where you can hide till we’re away. Do you have anything to take with you?”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Not a single damned thing except for Père Laurent in the next cell.” He took the keys from her and began fumbling through them.

“Try this.” She touched a key. “It’s similar to the one that opened your cell. Can the priest move quickly?”

“He’s been ill. I don’t know how much longer he’ll last in this beastly place.”

The woman frowned. “That could jeopardize our escape.”

“I’m not leaving without him,” Grey said flatly as he slid the key into the lock.

“Very well, then.” The woman might be old and drab, but she knew when not to waste time arguing.

Grey’s hands were shaking as he tried to unlock the door. Such a simple action, yet deeply unreal after ten years when he had done nothing so simple and normal. But the cold iron key was solid in his hand, and that throw to the floor had been very real.

“Who are you?” he asked as he jiggled the key in the stiff lock.

She shrugged. “I have had many names. Call me Cassie or Renard.”

Cassie the Fox. Given that she’d managed to enter the castle and release him, it was a good name for her.

The door swung open and Grey finally met the man who knew him better than anyone else in the world. Laurent was lying on his pallet. On the stone wall above his head an irregular brown cross had been drawn in blood. The priest’s personal shrine.

Père Laurent levered himself up on one arm as the door opened. He was thin, white haired, and ragged, but Grey would have known him anywhere by the calm wisdom in his face.

“Grey.” The priest smiled luminously as he stretched out a hand. “At last we meet in person.”

“Meet and escape, courtesy of this lady here.” Grey took his friend’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “We must move quickly. Can you manage?”

The priest swayed and would have fallen without Grey’s support. He exhaled roughly. “I fear not. You must go without me. Better you escape than all of us be captured.”

“No!” Grey slid his arm around Laurent’s waist. The older man was just skin and bones, seeming so fragile that he might break, but once again, human touch was a pleasure deeper than words could describe. “I leave with you or not at all.”

Cassie frowned. “Père Laurent is right. We must escape from the castle, avoid pursuit across France, and travel back to England. The good father doesn’t look as if he can climb the stairs.”

“I’ll carry him!” Grey spat out.

“He is very stubborn,” the priest said mildly to Cassie. “But if we can get away from the castle, I can be left safely with a niece while you two run for your lives.”

“Very well.” Her eyes were worried. “But we must move quickly. Sergeant Gaspard could return at any moment.”

As Père Laurent reached out and touched the blood cross in a gesture of farewell, Grey hissed under his breath, “I hope the devil does return.”

Luckily Cassie the Fox didn’t hear him.

Cassie’s instincts were screaming that they must move faster as she led the way down the passage, and those instincts had saved her life several times over. But with Wyndham half carrying the priest, they moved slowly. She wondered if he’d be strong enough to carry Père Laurent up the stairs after years of abuse and inadequate food.

Her unease spiked when she heard irregular footsteps ahead. At a guess, a man descending to the guardroom. “Someone’s coming,” she said in a low voice.

She was reaching for her concealed knife when Wyndham said with icy menace, “Gaspard. That’s the sound of his peg leg. Here, take Père Laurent.”

Wyndham caught up with Cassie and transferred the priest’s weight. She automatically took Père Laurent’s other arm so he wouldn’t fall. Which meant her knife hand wasn’t free.

Before she could protest, Wyndham swept past her with an expression so savage she was stunned to silence. He moved like a wild beast that had been released from a cage, his loping stride taking him to the guardroom in seconds.

The peg-legged man appeared in the door at the bottom of the stairs. His jaw dropped as he saw a prisoner racing toward him. “Merde!”

Snarling curses, Gaspard pulled a pistol from his greatcoat. Before he could cock and aim the weapon, Wyndham was on him with a growl that was barely human.

There was an audible snap as Wyndham broke Gaspard’s neck. The sergeant dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The end had come so quickly it couldn’t even be called a fight.

Cassie must have made some sound because Père Laurent said quietly, “I am not a violent man. But I will say that Gaspard got less than he deserved.”

Reminding herself that Wyndham would have learned Hindu fighting skills at the Westerfield Academy, Cassie swallowed her shock. But as she supported the priest along the last stretch of the passage, she wondered if she’d released a mad wolf to run wild.

By the time they reached the guardroom, Wyndham had pulled the dead man out of the stairwell and was rapidly stripping off his clothing. “Père Laurent, these garments will keep you warmer,” he said tersely.

A practical man, Wyndham. Cassie said, “I put the guard behind the desk. He should still be unconscious. He’s taller so his clothing would be a better fit for you. Just don’t kill him, please.”

Wyndham piled Gaspard’s garments on the chair, then pulled out the still-limp guard. “You do good work,” he said with approval. “First I’ll help Père Laurent dress.”

Cassie could understand that an aging priest might not want a woman’s aid. She bent over the guard and released his bonds so she could undress him.

He was starting to stir, so she knocked him out again. She was careful not to cut the blood flow so long that his mind would be damaged. She did her best to avoid hurting or killing anyone without a good reason.

He was heavy, but Cassie was a lot stronger than she looked. By the time she had the garments off, the priest was dressed and sitting at the table gulping down a bowl of stew. As she poured wine for him, he said apologetically, “We weren’t fed since yesterday morning.”

“Almost everyone in the castle is ill,” Cassie explained. “I volunteered to take trays around, which is how I was able to find you.”

“I suppose Grey and I must be thankful that no one ever came near us, which seems to have spared us the illness.” Laurent wiped up the last of the stew with a piece of bread. “Le bon Dieu works in mysterious ways.”

Cassie had seen plenty of evidence of that, including the fact that the deity seemed to have a wicked sense of humor. She asked, “Grey?”

“My Christian name is Greydon Sommers,” Wyndham said tersely. “I haven’t felt much like a courtesy viscount in quite some time, so I prefer you call me Grey.”

She understood that very well indeed. She poured the last of the wine into a glass for Grey, careful to keep her gaze averted as he pulled off his ragged garments. The worn, thin fabric would have been transparent if not for the layers of dirt.

“Ready,” he said.

She turned and saw that the guard’s clothes were loose enough to go around his waist twice but the height was close and the outfit was clean and warm compared to his old clothing. If not for the matted tangle of hair and beard falling halfway to his waist, he would look normal. Except for the chancy light in his gray eyes.

“I’ll head out and bring my pony cart to the entrance,” she said. “There’s a landing at the top of the steps. Wait there until I come for you. I’m hoping we can get away without being seen.”

Wyndham lifted a bowl of stew and began scooping it out with his bare fingers like a jungle savage. “The cart will take a few minutes, so I’ll eat first.”

“Just don’t delay our departure.” She headed up the stairs, her steps quick. She hoped the men wouldn’t gulp down the food so quickly they’d become ill.

On the landing at the top of the steps, Cassie opened the door and peered out cautiously. Silence. She headed toward the back door, walking softly. She had to pass through one end of the kitchen to get outside. Madame Bertin was at the far end, snoring audibly in her chair by the fire.

Hoping that would last, Cassie left the castle and crossed the yard to the stables. The wind was sharper and even more bitter than when she’d arrived. There was a storm coming; she could feel it in the air.

Her pony waited patiently, having finished the hay Cassie had appropriated from the stable supply. She pulled off the pony’s rug. It was warm and smelled horsy, but that was a minor issue compared to how the prisoners smelled.

She’d had the cart built with a false bottom capable of carrying useful cargo, and people when necessary. It was reached by a panel that opened along the side. She tossed the rug in. The compartment wasn’t comfortable, but there was clean straw and the horse blanket would add warmth and cushioning. It was big enough for two men, barely.

After driving across the courtyard, she tethered the pony by the back door and went inside again. Madame Bertin still snored.

Wyndham—Grey—and the priest waited on the landing at the top of the stairs, the priest supported by his younger friend. She touched a finger to her lips in a gesture for silence.

Père Laurent looked as if he’d never make it to the cart without collapsing. She bit her lip but needn’t have worried. Grey scooped the old man up as if he weighed nothing and carried him quickly and silently across the kitchen. It was like a Restoration farce, with characters tiptoeing across the stage unseen.

Wondering how Grey had maintained so much strength under prison conditions, Cassie opened the outside door and looked around. The courtyard was still empty. Giving thanks for cold winds and influenza, she held the door open so Grey could carry the priest out.

He stepped outdoors—and froze, his gaze riveted upward. A rapid pulse beat in his throat. He whispered, “I never thought I’d see the open sky again.”

“It’s been here waiting for you.” She lifted the panel that opened the false bottom. “And the sooner we leave, the better the chances that you’ll be able to enjoy it for a long time to come.”

Grey stared at the compartment. He looked like a skittish colt ready to bolt. Guessing the problem, she said, “I know the quarters are tight, but it’s needful.”

He drew a ragged breath, steeling himself. Then he carefully laid his friend in the compartment. The priest said to Cassie in a thin voice, “Take the main road south from the village. That is the direction to my niece’s farm.”

“Very well. When we’re safe away, you can give me more detailed instructions.” She glanced at Grey. “Your turn. Does it help to know that you won’t be locked in? The compartment can be unlatched from the inside.”

“That does help,” he said tersely before climbing into the compartment. “I always thought I’d leave this place in a bloody coffin,” he muttered. “Seems I was right.”

She almost laughed. It appeared he’d retained some sense of humor, so there was hope for the man. “This coffin has fresh air, and it won’t be for long.”

Cassie latched the long door and swung up onto the seat. The first flakes of snow were drifting softly down as she set the cart in motion.

She drove out the castle gates, hoping they’d find shelter before the snow became serious. And that the priest’s niece was still alive, well, and would welcome them as he believed.

Stage one, the rescue from the castle, was successful.

Now came the hard part.