Petals in the Storm (44 page)

The door swung open with a squeal, and Rafe prepared to jump. Then Margot hurtled into the cell, saying urgently, "Robin, are you here?"

Barely in time Rafe checked his leap. Not seeing him, Margot darted across the cell and dropped beside Robin, enfolding him in a heartfelt hug. "Thank God you're all right! I was so frightened ..."

Though he winced as she jarred his injured arm, Robin hugged her back. "I'm well enough, Maggie. We have reinforcements, too." He glanced at his fellow prisoner.

Margot turned to follow his gaze. "Rafe!"

They stared at each other for an eternity that lasted for perhaps two heartbeats. With her golden hair loose around her shoulders, she looked like a Valkyrie. Rafe took an involuntary step toward her, then forced himself to stop when he saw alarm flash across her face.

He wondered if she feared that he would do something that would embarrass her in front of Robin. Kiss her, perhaps, or start babbling about how much he loved her. Swiftly he said, "I'm glad to see that you're uninjured, Countess. I'm even gladder that the dungeon key was hanging outside." It was an inane comment, but he hoped that it would convey the message that he didn't intend to cause her any problems.

She must have understood, for her expression smoothed out. "I'm not sure whether I should be glad to see you, or sorry that you're a prisoner, too."

Looking back at Robin, she frowned at the sling. "You aren't looking your best, love. What happened to your arm?"

Though they were all impatient to be away, the next few minutes were spent exchanging vital information. When Margot described how the gunpowder was set to explode that afternoon, Rafe exclaimed, "Damnation! Robin, is there any chance that someone will smell the candle smoke and find the gunpowder before it's too late?"

Face grim, Robin replied, "Virtually none. That closet is on a corridor that's almost never used. Even if someone became suspicious, time would probably be wasted searching for a key, and Margot may have the only one."

Rafe took a quick look at his watch. As he shoved it back in his pocket, he said, "We have about two hours to get out of here and reach the embassy." He thought for a moment. "I have a general idea of the layout of the grounds. Have either of you seen enough of the castle to know the best way to escape?"

Robin shook his head. "Sorry. Since I was brought here unconscious and dumped in this cell immediately, my ignorance is total."

"I learned a few things about the interior when I was finding my way down here," Margot said. "Even though Varenne said that Robin was being held directly under the room I was in, it took forever to find this cell—the lower levels of the castle are a labyrinth of service stairs and passages. Luckily, there are very few people about—I didn't see a single servant, though I heard voices once."

"I guess the only possible plan is to try to steal horses, then ride like hell and hope we get to the embassy in time," Robin said. "If we're discovered, we'll have to scatter and hope that one of us can get through alone."

As Rafe opened the cell door, he felt a pressure on his ankle. He looked down to see a fluffy black cat brush against him coquettishly. "Where the devil did this beast come from?"

'This is Rex." Margot leaned over and scooped the cat up. As it settled, purring, into her arms, she said, "He kept me company upstairs. Since I fed him, we're friends for life. I think I'll take him with me for luck." She eyed Rafe warily, as if expecting him to disagree.

The idea was absurd, of course, but the way she held the cat made Rafe think that she derived some kind of comfort from it. "I'm not sure whether this is melodrama or farce," he said with wry amusement. "Bring him if you must, but be prepared to release him if he slows you down. He's in a lot less danger than we are."

Holding the door for his companions, he said, "Time to be off. And if anyone knows any good prayers, please say them."

Oliver Northwood regained consciousness to find himself wet, bound, and gagged. Rage cleared his mind. As he tugged at his bonds, he swore mentally at the little slut who had done this to him. He should have raped her immediately rather than falling victim to her lying tongue.

The water-softened drapery cords stretched as he strained at them. He swore again, this time in gratitude that his luck had turned. After ten minutes of struggle, he was free of his bonds.

He lurched to his feet and searched his pockets. As expected, the room key was gone, so he pounded on the door and shouted for help. Again he was in luck. A servant was in the vicinity, and soon Northwood was out of his prison.

He hastened to Varenne's library and burst into the room without knocking. The count was still seated behind his desk working at his infernal plans.

When Varenne glanced up, Northwood gasped, "She's gotten away! The little bitch is loose somewhere in the castle!"

The count examined his bloody, disheveled visitor. "You let a female half your size do that to you? I have overestimated your abilities."

Northwood flushed angrily. "There's no need to be insulting. That brazen-faced hussy could bamboozle a saint. She's dangerous."

"Quite deliciously so," Varenne murmured, more amused than alarmed. As he rang for a servant, he said, "She won't get far. Besides, how much trouble can one woman cause?"

Uneasily Northwood said, "She knows what's going to happen at the embassy this afternoon."

"What! You fool, why did you tell her that?" The count's lip curled in disgust. "You needn't answer. Obviously you were boasting. My respect for Miss Ashton grows hourly greater."

When a footman entered, Varenne said, "The woman has escaped. Set all the servants searching for her." He gave Northwood's bloody head an ironic glance. "Tell them to carry shotguns and travel in pairs. She's quite a ferocious wench."

As soon as the count stopped speaking the footman said urgently, "Milord, I was just coming to inform you that the lady has freed the two Englishmen. They are loose somewhere on the lower levels."

The count's air of calm disintegrated and he bounded to his feet. "Jesu! Alone she was a minor threat, but the three together are dangerous. Tell the searchers that while I would prefer to have the spies captured alive, they should shoot if necessary. The English cannot be allowed to leave Chanteuil."

The footman nodded and left. When Northwood started to follow, Varenne stopped him. "Where are you going?"

"To help search. I want to be the one to find her."

"I need you elsewhere," the count said, voice controlled again. "The lower castle is a maze of passages, and the prisoners might conceal themselves indefinitely. That would be a nuisance, but not a disaster. The real danger is that they might reach the stables and steal horses. If they managed that, they could reach Paris in time to undo my plan. Therefore you and I shall wait for them in the stables until it is too late for the explosion to be stopped."

"Very well—as long as that treacherous slut is punished," Northwood growled.

"Never fear, she will be." Varenne reached into his desk and brought out a mahogany box containing two dueling pistols. He loaded both and offered one to Northwood. "I trust that you know how to use this?"

The Englishman glowered. "Don't worry, I'm a crack shot."

As they went downstairs, the distant boom of a shotgun blast was heard from somewhere below. The count gave a nod of satisfaction. "Perhaps our vigil in the stables will be unnecessary. Nonetheless, we cannot afford to take a chance."

Before they went outside, he gave orders for his small troop of soldiers to surround the stables and conceal themselves. Even if the three Britons got that far, they would go no farther.

Varenne took a footpath down to the stables, which were built on the lower slope of the hill. Inside the stone building, the main room stretched back with box stalls on each side of a wide central area. Most of the stalls were occupied, and the earthy scents of animals and sweet hay were heavy in the air.

A couple of horses whickered greetings, but Varenne ignored them, turning to the right to enter a long, narrow harness room. As Northwood followed, he asked, "Why are we going to wait in here?"

"Because I still hope to capture them alive, imbecile," the count said with exasperation. He walked to the window at the far end of the room and stared out. "Come look at this."

The Englishman joined him at the window, but saw nothing. "What do you want me to see?"

"This." Behind Northwood came the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked. Startled, Northwood spun around and found himself facing the barrel of Varenne's pistol.

"You have ceased to be an asset,
mon petit Anglais
," the count said coldly. "You are too stupid to know your place, and I greatly disliked your attempts to coerce me. As a last gesture for services rendered, I was willing to grant you a fling with the countess, but you have bungled even that. I cannot waste any more time on you."

"You bloody French bastard!" Desperately Northwood reached for his own pistol, but he never had a chance. Calmly Varenne squeezed his trigger. The gun bucked in his hand, the report shatteringly loud in the enclosed space.

The impact of the bullet knocked Northwood back against the wall. He made a breathy sound like a sudden exhalation and clapped a hand to his chest. Then,an expression of disbelief on his face, he slowly slid down the wall and fell forward in an ungainly sprawl, his pistol beneath him.

Varenne walked over to his victim and prodded Northwood's ribs with the toe of his boot. The only response was the slow spread of blood from under the body.

In general the count was not involved with death directly; it was such a messy business. With a grimace of distaste, he turned away. The servants could retrieve the gun later. He disliked the necessity of sharing the tackroom with a corpse. However, shooting the imbecile here had saved the library carpet from being ruined by blood, which had been Varenne's objective.

He reloaded his own weapon with meticulous care. One pistol and the element of surprise were all that would be necessary to capture the escaped prisoners. All he need do was threaten the fraudulent countess, and her lovers would fall into line immediately. The fools.

Maggie kept a watchful eye on Robin as they made their way swiftly through the shadowy passages. Though he was keeping up with the others, his drawn face showed the amount of effort it was taking. She had great faith in his formidable willpower; nonetheless, she uttered a silent prayer that his strength would last long enough for them to escape Chanteuil.

Worrying about Robin's condition had the advantage of preventing her from brooding about Rafe. Her first reaction to seeing him had been pure, uncomplicated joy in spite of their dangerous circumstances. However, his cool detachment had quickly put her in her place. He obviously couldn't wait until this mission was over, so he wouldn't ever have to see her again.

But this was not the time or place to think about her personal problems. Sharply tamping down her grief,she turned her attention to the present. To escape the castle, they would have to go up at least two levels, then find a side exit.

In the flagstoned passageways, their footsteps made little sound. The castle seemed almost deserted, and they went up one flight of stairs and turned right into another passage without seeing anyone.

Then their luck ran out. They had almost reached the end of the corridor when two hulking men with shotguns appeared around the corner just ahead of them.

"You two run for it!" Rafe barked as he threw himself forward in a flat dive, barreling into the man in the lead.

Maggie froze, terrified to leave Rafe behind. Robin snapped, "Come on, Maggie!" and grabbed her arm, pulling her back the way they had come.

She resisted for an agonized moment, but the pressure on her arm left her no choice. With Rex draped over her shoulder, she raced along beside Robin as the hideous blast of a shotgun echoed through the stone halls.

Because the Prussian barracks lay off the main St. Cloud road, Colonel von Fehrenbach's Hussars didn't intersect the French party until they were a bare half mile from Chanteuil. The Prussians entered the main road at a right angle from a lane they had taken as a shortcut.

With a squealing of horses, both groups pulled to a chaotic halt to prevent a collision. As the uniformed Prussian cavalrymen faced the armed French officers, mutual suspicion and hostility throbbed between them. A single spark would set off a full-scale conflagration. A Frenchman uttered an angry oath, and a nervous young Hussar started to raise his musket.

Before catastrophe could strike, von Fehrenbach threw his hand up imperiously. "No!"

Helene was beside the colonel on a mount supplied by the Prussian barracks. Recognizing Michel Roussaye, she urged her horse into the open ground, crying, "Don't shoot, we're friends!"

Having an attractive woman intervene released the tension, particularly since lack of a proper riding habit allowed an indecent amount of leg to show. Von Fehrenbach cantered after her, meeting Roussaye in the space between the groups.

After a terse discussion of where each group was going, and why, the colonel frowned for a moment. Then he suggested, "Perhaps we should join forces, General Roussaye."

Roussaye raised his brows, his dark face skeptical. "Frenchmen and Prussians riding together?"