No Longer a Gentleman (6 page)

Grey and Laurent slid a little toward the front of the cart as it rattled down the hill from Castle Durand. Still no shouts of pursuit, no gunshots. How long until their absence was discovered? A few hours, perhaps as much as a day.

Père Laurent murmured, “I didn’t believe I would leave that place alive.”

“Neither did I. Much less that I’d be rescued by Cassie the Fox.”

“That is her name? It suits her. She’s clever like a fox.”

That she was. Grey hoped that Cassie the Fox would continue to be as competent as she’d been so far. The way she’d knocked out and immobilized the guard was impressive. He closed his eyes so he couldn’t see how cramped this compartment was. It would be embarrassing to fall apart now that he was finally free.

He was grateful when the cart stopped. Sounds of rummaging above their heads, then Cassie opened the side panel. Her dark cloak was frosted with snowflakes.

Grey slid out with relief. Snow was starting to accumulate on the iron-hard ground and more was falling. Weather. Actual weather! Not just watching the light change beyond his tiny window.

As Grey helped his friend from the compartment, Cassie said, “I’ll need your guidance now, Père Laurent. This has the feel of heavy snow coming and I’d like to find shelter before the roads become impassable. If your niece is too far away, we need to look for an isolated barn to wait out the storm.”

Laurent gazed at the horizon, where the blurred shape of Castle Durand was still visible through the falling snow. “From where we are now, we should be able to reach Viole’s farm before the roads become difficult. She married a foreigner.” He gave a fleeting smile. “A man who lives more than half an hour’s ride away. Romain Boyer’s farm is a prosperous little place hidden well back in the hills.”

“If something has happened to your niece, will her husband also welcome us?” Cassie asked. “Much has changed in France in recent years.”

“We will find shelter there,” Laurent said confidently. “I must ride beside you, Cassie the Fox. The way is confusing and I will have to guide you.”

“Very well.” Cassie lifted a pair of scissors she’d been holding by her side. “But first I’ll trim your hair and beard so you’ll look less conspicuous.”

She began clipping efficiently at Laurent’s thin white hair. After she’d cut away the tangles that fell over his shoulders, he changed from a wild-eyed hermit into a shabby old man who wouldn’t draw a second glance.

When she finished, Grey lifted his friend up into the driver’s seat and bundled the horse blanket around him. To Cassie, he said, “My turn. If you give me the scissors, I’ll do the cutting myself so we can get moving without more delay.”

“You’d have trouble with the back.” She began cutting below his left ear. His hair was much thicker than Père Laurent’s, so she took it in chunks. She was taller than he’d realized, average or a bit above. “This will only take a couple of minutes.”

He stood still despite the closeness of the sharp blades. If he could shave his head and face completely bald, he’d be willing, just to get rid of the horrible, filthy mass of hair. During the years of imprisonment, he sometimes whiled away time by breaking off individual hairs. If he hadn’t done that, the tangled mess would be past his waist.

Despite all the knots, she managed to quickly cut his hair so that it was above his shoulders, then did a beard trim. She’d left enough hair to keep his head from freezing, but removing the weight made him feel lighter and freer. Not cleaner, but that would come.

It felt strange to be so close to a female again. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and kiss her horizontal. He was embarrassed by his intense reaction to a woman older than his mother. Dear God, how long until he could find himself a willing wench?

Forcing down lustful thoughts, he stared into the snow. He might no longer be a gentleman, but at least he had enough self-control not to behave like a beast with the woman who had risked her life to save him. At least, he hoped he did.

“There.” She finished trimming his beard a couple of inches below his chin, then bent to scoop up the handfuls of fallen hair. “Mustn’t show our direction by leaving a trail of hair.” She balled up the greasy locks and stuffed them into a corner of the cart. “Time to get back inside so we can be on our way.”

“No!” The word ripped out of him. “I can’t bear being closed up. There’s almost no traffic in this weather. I’ll lie in the back of the cart under the canvas cover.”

She studied his face. Her eyes were blue and shrewd and contained unexpected depths. “Very well,” she said. “Be sure to stay hidden if we pass other carts or riders.”

Thank God she was a sensible woman. Sighing with relief, he flipped back the canvas and climbed up into the cart. Given how she’d brought down both him and that great burly guard, best not to cross her. He’d had no idea how dangerous little old ladies could be. Well, there was his grandmother, the dowager Countess of Costain, but her weapons were words. With a pang, he wondered if she was still alive.

He settled in among the boxes and baskets. The space was more cramped than the lower compartment and the corner of a box stuck into his side, but he didn’t care as long as he was in the open air.

A homey equine scent wafted back from Père Laurent’s horse blanket. Grey didn’t mind. He’d always loved riding. What would it be like to be on a horse again?

He’d probably fall off. How much of his life would have to be relearned?

The thought made him sweat despite the cold. He must proceed one step at a time. For now, it was enough that he was no longer a prisoner.

Surrendering to fatigue, he slept as a free man for the first time in ten years.

Cassie’s mouth tightened as the snow became heavier. It was more than three inches deep and concealed the frozen ruts, making the ride a bumpy one. She’d slept in her cart before in bad weather, and even ridden out a blizzard once, grateful for the warmth of her pony. But she’d rather not have to do that with two men, one of them in fragile health.

The weather did have the advantage of keeping people indoors. Once a hunched rider passed them going the opposite direction, and another time she halted the cart while a farmer drove a small flock of sheep across the road. He ignored the cart and its occupants as if they were invisible.

Afternoon turned to dusk and the snow became deep enough to slow their progress. If they didn’t reach their destination soon, they risked being bogged down in the empty countryside.

It was almost dark when Père Laurent said, “Turn left into that lane. It leads to Viole’s farm.”

Praying that farm and niece would be as he believed, she turned at his direction. The area was indeed out of the way. They should be safe here, at least for a while.

The track climbed upward and the pony began foundering in the slippery snow. Cassie halted the cart and handed the reins to Père Laurent. “Please hold these.”

She climbed from the cart and went to the pony’s head. Taking the bridle, she tugged the pony forward. “I’m sorry for this, Thistle,” she crooned. “You’re such a strong, brave pony. Soon you can rest and I’ll give you some of the oats in the back of the cart. Just a little longer, ma petite chou.”

Head down, the pony struggled forward again. At first the cart barely moved. Then it began rolling smoothly, reducing the strain on Thistle. Surprised, Cassie glanced back and saw that Grey had climbed out and was pushing the cart from behind. The man was strong. And for a British lord, fairly useful.

The last stretch of track seemed endless. Cassie was numb with cold and slipped repeatedly. She was exhausted, not just from the trials of today but because she’d been pushing herself since leaving England. She kept moving, one foot in front of the other, clinging to the pony’s harness. She’d learned early that surrender was a poor choice.

She didn’t notice that the track had leveled off until Père Laurent said, “We’re here.” His voice was warm. “It looks just as I remember.”

Cassie wondered tartly if that had also been in the middle of a blizzard. She couldn’t see the farmhouse clearly, but smoke came from the nearest chimney and there was light visible through the windows. Even if the priest’s niece, Viole, wasn’t here anymore, surely the inhabitants wouldn’t turn away strangers caught in such a storm.

Shivering, Cassie made her way to the door and knocked hard. Only a moment passed before the door opened a crack, revealing the face of a wary middle-aged woman. She relaxed a little to see another female on the doorstep. “Who are you?”

“I’m Madame Renard. There are three of us, and we need shelter from the storm.” When the woman nodded, Cassie continued, “If you are Madame Boyer, do you have an Uncle Laurent?”

The woman’s face clouded and she crossed herself. “I did, may God rest his blessed soul.”

A weary but amused voice said, “Reports of my death were exaggerated, my dearest Viole.”

Cassie turned and saw the dark figure of Père Laurent emerging from the cart, supported by Grey. Viole Boyer stared in disbelief. “Mon oncle!”

She threw the door open and raced out into the snow and embraced the priest. If not for Grey’s support, she and her uncle would have tumbled to the ground.

Père Laurent didn’t mind. Tears on his face and in his voice, he said hoarsely, “My darling niece, I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

The wind gusted, cutting to the bone. Cassie pointed out, “This reunion will be even better indoors.”

“Oui, oui!” Madame Boyer took her uncle’s arm and led him to the house.

Cassie asked, “Is there a stable for my pony?”

A broadly built man who must be Romain Boyer appeared, drawn by the commotion. “Père Laurent, it really is you!” After a brief, intense clasp of the old man’s hand, he said to Cassie, “I’ll take your pony to the stable and bed it down, madame. You and your companions need to warm yourselves by the fire.”

Ordinarily Cassie would have seen to her horse herself, but this evening she was willing to turn Thistle over to someone else. “There are oats in the back of the cart,” she said wearily. “Thistle has earned them.”

“Indeed she has.” Romain Boyer moved into the storm and took hold of the pony’s bridle. “I promise she’ll be well cared for.”

The door opened into a large, warm kitchen with bunches of herbs and braids of garlic and onions hanging from the rafters. A fire burned on the hearth and the warmth almost knocked Cassie out. She stood, swaying, too tired to think.

A young girl and a smaller boy appeared. Seeing Cassie’s condition, Madame Boyer said, “You need rest, Madame Renard.” To her daughter, she said, “Light the fire and warm the extra bed in your room. This lady has brought my uncle home to us!” She turned to her son. “Fill three porringers with hot soup, André.”

To Cassie, she said, “Give me your cloak. I’ll dry it by the fire. Please, all three of you, sit before you fall over!”

Cassie was used to taking care of people in her charge as well as horses, but she let herself be ushered to a chair by the fire. Père Laurent sat on her right, and Grey withdrew to the corner, as far from all the chattering people as possible.

André ladled steaming soup from a pot on the hob into a wooden porringer, then hesitated, unsure whether to serve the lady or the priest first. Cassie gestured toward Père Laurent. “A priest has precedence over a female peddler.”

Glad to have that clarified, the boy handed the porringer to his great-uncle, then filled another and handed it to Cassie. She cupped it in her hands, her fingers tingling uncomfortably as they warmed. She was just finishing the soup when the young girl returned. “I am Yvette. Come, madame. Your bed is warmed and ready.”

“Merci.” Cassie set down the empty porringer and followed the girl from the warm kitchen, down a cold, drafty corridor, then into a small, warm bedroom with single beds on opposite walls.

“My sister, Jeanne, is married, so there is a spare bed,” Yvette explained. “The one on the right is yours. Can I help you disrobe?”

“Thank you, but I can manage.” Cassie sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off her half boots and loosened her hair. She stood to remove her sturdy gown, then crawled into the narrow but comfortable bed.

Usually in France she slept with one ear cocked for trouble. But this welcoming family and farmhouse were a haven, protected from all enemies by the storm rattling the windows and concealing the fugitives’ path.

She was asleep before Yvette left the room.

It was still dark outside the frost-patterned windows when Cassie woke. She had the sense she’d slept only a few hours, but long enough to cure her exhaustion.

Wondering how her newly freed charges were faring, she dressed again. Yvette had left her half boots by the small fire so they were warm and mostly dry. After pulling them on, she returned to the kitchen, which was the center of life in most farmhouses.

The long room was empty except for Madame Boyer, who was mending by the fire. She glanced up, her happiness at the reunion with her uncle still visible. “Ah, you look much better than you did, madame. Join me by the fire. Would you like more to eat? To drink? Perhaps some apple brandy, made right here on our farm?”

Cassie was about to say the apple brandy sounded good when she noticed a drying rack angled on the other side of the fire. Her cloak was draped over one end, thin tendrils of steam wisping from the heavy fabric. Hanging on the other end were the garments taken from the guard at the castle. She remarked, “Wyndham is sleeping?”

Viole made a face. “Père Laurent and my family have gone to bed, but I cannot retire before your other man—I thought his name was Monsieur Sommers?—returns. He is bathing. In the farm pond.”

“What?” Appalled, Cassie stared at her hostess. “He’ll freeze to death! Surely the farm pond has iced over. How could you allow him to do such a mad thing?”

“Water flows in from a spring at one end so it doesn’t freeze.” Viole rolled her eyes. “I also told him he was mad, but he just asked most politely for soap and towels and a scrub brush. Uncle Laurent says he’s English. That explains much.” She gestured toward the fire, which was burning low. “I told him if he wasn’t back by the time that log burns down, I shall send my husband out after him.”

The log was almost gone. Cassie reached for her cloak. “Where is the pond?”

“Around the back of the house by the stables. It cannot be missed.” Viole set her mending aside and lifted a cloak from one of the pegs by the door. “Take mine. It’s dry.”

Cassie donned the cloak gratefully. “May I have a blanket and perhaps some brandy in case I must pull that idiot’s frozen body from the pond and revive him?”

Viole removed a small, squat jug from a cabinet, then a scratchy blanket from a different cabinet. The blanket was pleasantly warm from being kept near the fire. “If you need help removing the body, come inside and I shall wake Romain.”

Cassie took the brandy and headed toward the door. “Men! It’s amazing mankind has survived.”

“Mankind survives because womankind has more sense,” the other woman said.

“So very, very true.” Cassie pulled the hood over her head. “You can go to bed now. If Monsieur Sommers is alive and in reasonable health, I’ll wait with him until he’s ready to come back in. If he’s frozen dead in the water, I’ll leave him there till morning!”

Accompanied by Viole’s laughter, she headed out into the night. A foot or so of snow had fallen, making walking difficult, but the storm had mostly passed. The wind had dropped and the snow had become giant flakes, which meant the end was near.

Seething with exasperation, she followed the partially snow-filled tracks made by the foolish Lord Wyndham. The night was utterly still, and the world shimmered in a whiteness that caught all the available light and made the darkness glow.

The barn was a low stone building behind the house. Splashing sounds came from the right. Since any sensible animal would have taken shelter, it must be Grey.

One end of the pond was dark open water. As she drew closer, she saw her quarry. He was mostly immersed, only his head and shoulders out of the water as he busily scrubbed his hair.

Relief that he hadn’t frozen to death flared into irritation. She marched toward him as well as a woman could march through deep snow. “I didn’t go to the effort to rescue you just so you could kill yourself through stupidity, Lord Wyndham!”

“After ten years in a cell exposed to the open air, I don’t notice temperature much.” He ducked into the water to rinse off the soap, then emerged and pushed his wet hair back with both hands. Even in the night, it was noticeably lighter than before. “Such luxury to completely immerse myself in water! You cannot imagine.”

“I love a really luxurious bath,” she allowed. “But that doesn’t include freezing into a solid block of ice when I take one.”

“The water isn’t too uncomfortable. It’s the air that’s bitter cold.” His tone turned wry. “I’ll have to move fast when I get out so no cherished bits freeze and snap off.”

She suppressed a smile. “I brought a blanket you can wrap yourself in when the time comes.” A log laid on the bank served as a bench, so she wiped snow off one end, set the folded blanket on the cleared area, and sat. “I told Madame Boyer she could retire since I’ll stay here until you either emerge safely, or disappear into the watery depths.”

“Even if I keel over from heart failure, it’s worth it to be clean again.” Grey used a long-handled brush to clean his back, scrubbing so hard he must be removing skin. “Not to mention the benefits of icy water on hot blood.”

She blinked. “Your passions need controlling?”

His hands stilled. “For the first couple of years, I thought about women constantly. Dreamed of them. Remembered every woman I’d ever fancied in luscious feminine detail.”

He soaped his hair again, hard muscles rippling in his shoulders. “Gradually that faded away. By the time you arrived, I felt like a eunuch. Now I’m a guest in this glorious farmhouse and my gracious hostess is a distractingly fine-looking woman. Her daughter is a delicious nymph who is far too young for me to be having such thoughts. So yes, ice water is useful.”

“I, of course, am too old and drab to inspire unseemly lust,” she said dryly.

Grey turned a burning gaze on her. She could feel the heat even on this frigid night. “I thought it best not to offend you with my improper thoughts,” he said. “Particularly since you could probably defeat me in fair combat.”

Remembering the desperate intensity of his embrace in the prison, she shivered, and not from the cold. “You’re stronger and I presume you learned Indian fighting skills from Ashton while you were at the Westerfield Academy. I acted without thinking because you looked murderous and caught you by surprise.”

“Not murderous. Merely desperate to get past you and away from that damnable cell.” He ducked under the water to rinse his hair again.

Cassie pulled her cloak tighter. The snow had stopped entirely, and the air was getting colder. “Madame Boyer attributes your mad desire to bathe outside in a blizzard to your Englishness.”

He swallowed hard. “After ten years in hell, quite possibly I am mad.”

She winced. Thinking he needed reassurance, she said, “Not mad, I think, though perhaps a little crazed. That will pass.” She uncorked the brandy jug and leaned over the water to offer it to him. “Try the apple brandy. It might save you from freezing solid.”

He took a swallow, then began coughing so hard she was afraid he’d go under. When he could breathe again, he said hoarsely, “I’ve lost the habit of strong spirits.” He sipped more cautiously, then sighed with pleasure. “Apple fire. Lovely.”

When he handed the jug back to Cassie, she sampled the contents. Though strong, the brandy was sweet and fruity, with perhaps pear as well as apple. Enjoying the slow burn, she returned the jug to Grey. “This is made here on the farm.”

He took another sip. “Speak English to me,” he said haltingly in English. “Slowly. After ten years of only French, I must struggle to speak my native language.”

She did as he asked, speaking each word distinctly. “Your English will return quickly once you have it in your ears again.”

He frowned at the brandy jug. “I have wanted nothing more than to escape, but now that I am free, what will I find back in England?” he said slowly. “I thought I’d been long forgotten by everyone, but you said Kirkland sent you?”

“You have not been forgotten,” she said quietly. “You haunt all the friends you made at the Westerfield Academy. Kirkland has searched for you for years. He made inquiries among the thousands of Englishmen interned in France when the Peace of Amiens ended. He heard rumors, and traced them all without success. Kirkland was determined to keep going until he either found you alive, or found proof of your death.”

“Why?” Grey asked, surprised. “I was the very model of a useless fribble.”

“But a charming one, from what Kirkland said.”

“Charm is one of many things I’ve lost over the years.” He took another sip of brandy. “Do you know anything of my family? You have called me Wyndham, not Costain. I hope this means my father is well?”

“Kirkland said all of your immediate family is in good health,” she assured him. “Your father, your mother, your younger brother and sister.”

The moon broke through the clouds and touched Grey’s hair to brightness. Cassie was reminded that Kirkland had called him a golden boy. “If you’re through washing, it’s time to go inside.”

“I fear emerging from the water because then the cold will be truly vicious.” He handed her the brandy jug. “But I suppose I must.”

“Madame Boyer said you’d brought out towels. Ah, over there.” She scooped up the towels. After kicking snow off a section of the bank, she spread the smaller towel on the cleared space. “Step up here. The towel will protect your feet a bit. Use the larger one to wipe off as much water as you can, then I’ll wrap you in this blanket.”

“Stand back if you don’t want to be splattered.” He clambered onto the bank and planted both feet on the small towel as he took the larger one from her.

In the moonlight, he had a gaunt powerful beauty marred by scars and too many bones visible under his taut, pale skin. Teeth chattering, he said, “Pattens. Over there.”

The wooden pattens had almost disappeared in the snow. She retrieved them and set them by his towel. Pattens were usually worn over regular shoes, but he was a tall man so they fit well enough on his bare feet.

He toweled himself off rapidly. From the little she saw of what was euphemistically called “courting tackle,” the frigid water had done a good job of cooling his ardor, at least for the moment.

“Let me wipe your back,” she said. He handed her the wet towel. She swiftly pulled it down his long frame, then wrapped the blanket around him.

He pulled the scratchy wool square tight, shivering. “I knew this would be the difficult part. Where’s the brandy?”

She handed it over. He swigged some as he stepped into the pattens. “Time to run for it before I end up like one of Gunter’s ices. Lord, is Gunter’s still in business?”

“The teashop in Mayfair?” Cassie had been there once so long ago she’d almost forgotten. But now she remembered a lemon ice, the tangy sweetness melting on her tongue. “As far as I know, it’s flourishing.”

“Good. I used to take my younger brother and sister there. In warmer weather!” He headed toward the house, making good time with his long legs and high motivation. Cassie followed at a slower pace, carrying the wet towels.

Though Grey had dashed into the warm house, he held the door open for her when she arrived. His gentlemanly manners hadn’t disappeared entirely.

Viole had retired, but she’d banked the fire and left a lamp burning, so the kitchen was warm and welcoming. On the scrubbed deal table were eating utensils, a bottle of wine, and food covered by a light cloth. After hanging up the cloak, Cassie lifted the cloth and found bread, cheese, a small dish of pâté, and a jar of pickled relish.

Keeping her voice down so as not to disturb the sleepers, she said, “We both need to warm up by the fire before heading off to bed. Our wonderful hostess has left refreshments. Would you care for some, or did you eat enough earlier?”

“Madame Boyer wouldn’t let me eat too much because she thought I might make myself ill. So yes, more food would be most welcome.” He kicked off the pattens and settled into one of the cushioned chairs by the fire, the blanket wrapped closely around him. With a sigh of pleasure, he stretched his bare feet out on the hearth. “Food and freedom and a fine fire. Yesterday I could barely imagine such riches.”

Cassie assembled two plates with sliced bread and cheese and mounds of pâté and relish. She was silently amused by Grey’s cavalier treatment of the pattens. In his pampered youth, he would have had servants quietly straightening up behind him. In his prison cell, he’d had no possessions to keep orderly. The man needed housebreaking.

She handed him one of the platters, a knife, and a tumbler of hearty red wine. In the low light, he had become the golden youth Kirkland had described. His hair was a bright blond, his beard several shades darker and touched with red. But he was a boy no longer. Now he was a man aged beyond his years.

“Food and drink whenever I want it. What a remarkable concept.” He spread pâté on a slice of bread and took a bite. He savored the taste before swallowing. “Aahhh, ambrosia.”

She settled in the chair beside him with her own food and wine. She tasted cheese on bread, pâté on bread, then both plus relish. As he said, ambrosia. “How did you keep your strength up under such dreadful conditions?”

“I exercised. Ran in place, lifted the two stones that served as furniture, kept moving as much as I could.” He shrugged. “At the beginning, there was barely enough food to keep a rat alive, but the rations improved after Père Laurent was imprisoned.”