The Price of Temptation (27 page)
“I
need another favor,” Sinjon said.
“Oh?” d’Agramant asked, pouring more apple brandy into Sinjon’s glass. “Surely Sergeant O’Neill’s written statement will assist you, but he refuses to return to England until Creighton is in prison or dead.”
“I’m hoping it will. You have my thanks for keeping him safe, but I’ve brought something with me.” Sinjon unfolded the gonfalon. The colonel stared at it.
“
Mon Dieu
, Rutherford, where did you get this? Our troops believe it was lost, and think that is why they are losing every battle.” He spread it over the surface of his desk and regarded Sinjon with a bemused frown. “Why return it to me? Surely your own army could make use of it, if only to frighten the French.”
“I believe that’s what some in England have in mind. Philip Renshaw stole it. I found it.”
D’Agramant shook his head. “I am not a superstitious man, but this is a holy relic, touched by Charlemagne, and Jeanne d’Arc. It belongs in Reims Cathedral, not in battle. Thank you for returning it to France. Once again I owe you my thanks. I think I can promise the flag won’t be used in this war again.”
“Where is Sergeant O’Neill?” Sinjon asked, rising. “I’d like to thank him.”
D’Agramant smiled. “In the orchard, I believe. He is learning the secrets of making apple brandy. He still fears French troops will arrest him, or Creighton will find out he’s here and murder him. I will send someone to fetch him.”
The sound of feet on the steps brought both gentlemen to their feet. Sinjon found himself anxious to see Evelyn, anticipating the sight of her, but only Marielle entered the room.
“Where’s Evelyn?” he asked.
“She said she wished to go for a walk in the garden. She was quite upset when I told her—”
A man limped in, and Sinjon recognized Patrick O’Neill, even with the grievous scar across his throat and lower jaw. “Colonel, there is trouble, I think,” he said, his eyes wide. “A man and a woman just left in a coach. The man had a gun!”
“Was it Creighton?” the Colonel demanded.
O’Neill shook his head painfully. “I’d recognize him. This man was older, mean looking.”
“Renshaw,” Sinjon growled as he ran for the door. The coach he’d arrived in with Evelyn was gone.
D’Agramant was right behind him, issuing orders. “If it is Renshaw, he may head for the Chateau Elenoire. It’s only a few miles away. I’ll call out the militia.”
“I’ll go on ahead, try to stop the coach,” Sinjon insisted as a groom came around the side of the house, leading the colonel’s saddled horse. “Colonel, I need the gonfalon back again. Forgive me for bringing it back and taking it away again, but it may help stop Renshaw and save Evelyn’s life.”
“I cannot allow it to come to harm, Captain. It is a holy object. There must be another way,”
Marielle laid her hand on her husband’s sleeve. “Jean-Pierre, give it to him. He saved me for you, and you must help him rescue the woman he loves. It’s time the gonfalon served love instead of war.”
“It’s not like that,” Sinjon objected. “She’s in danger, and Renshaw is a dangerous man.”
Marielle smiled. “I can see it in your eyes, Captain, and in hers. It’s very much like that. Take the gonfalon, and go and save her.”
Sinjon didn’t argue. He tucked the flag under his coat and set off on the wildest, most desperate charge of his life.
I
f Chateau d’Agramant was a jewel in the French countryside, Chateau d’Elenoire was a bunion. It crouched in ugly decay, the crumbling yellow stone sallow and sickly in the hot sun.
Evelyn watched Philip glower at his ancestral home. He’d spent a fortune in England to prepare a palace fit for a king in exile, and this, a hovel not fit for a beggar, was all that he had left.
“Is this what you betrayed your country for?” she asked.
He puffed like an adder. “The servants will answer for this. I hired twenty gardeners, a full household staff—” He stopped, and his face reddened dangerously as he read her expression. “Don’t you dare pity me!”
He dragged her off the coach and frog-marched her up the broken stone steps. She wondered if he’d set her to work, sweeping and scrubbing.
The front door stood open, and inside was worse than out. A startled flock of birds took flight through a glassless window, and Philip swung the gun in surprise.
Evelyn snatched herself out of his grip, tried to run, but he caught her easily. He slapped her for her audacity, and she felt her lip break against her teeth, tasted blood.
“I will make Elenoire a palace to rival Versailles or Fontainebleau,” he snarled, pushing her against the wall, holding her there. “Do you doubt me? I am the comte d’Elenoire, kin to royalty. I will not be disobeyed or mocked, especially not by you.”
He held her against the wall and squeezed her throat. She shut her eyes against the pain, refusing to scream or panic. Philip enjoyed causing suffering.
She let her face go blank, the way she used to, but it wasn’t enough. He curled his fingers around her jaw, digging in until it hurt. Tears filled her eyes, blurred his hate-filled face. She ground her fingernails into the crumbling plaster of the wall behind her and bore it silently.
“Where is the gonfalon, Evelyn?” he demanded. “What did you do with it?”
The pain he was inflicting weakened her knees, made her eyes water, reminded her of her terror when the French spy demanded the same thing in Hyde Park. Sinjon had found her that day, rescued her. She glanced at the empty doorway, but now she was on her own. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
He shook her so hard her head banged against the wall and she saw stars. “I left it in
my
house, the house you despoiled. It’s a flag, made of silk, very old. It was in my
private
dressing room.”
“I don’t know,” she gasped. She wondered if Philip would kill her now. She shut her eyes against the pain, prayed for strength, but he grabbed her chin again, made her open her eyes and look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed hollows of fury. She wondered when he’d last slept or eaten. The cruel, cold, aristocrat had been replaced by a madman, ruined, driven by desperation.
“No? Then where are my paintings, my clothes, my books? Do you know where they are,
wife
?”
“Sold.” She choked out the word, not bothering to lie. There was no point. She clawed at Philip’s hand as the pressure on her throat increased and the pain burned white hot in her head.
“You had no right,” he growled. “You are my wife!” He flung Evelyn away so suddenly that she fell to the floor. Putting a hand to her bruised face, she felt the cuts and welts he’d left. She let the sharp sting fuel fury instead of fear.
“I had no choice, Philip. You left me without any money, and the Crown froze your assets.”
“Why? What did you tell them? Did you play the loyal wife and swear I was innocent?”
Her eyes burned into his. “They did not even ask me. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind of your guilt. Even the French are hunting you. They’ll come here, Philip, find you, and you’ll hang.”
Mirth lit in his eyes for a moment as he grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her upright. “You know nothing! I am a friend of the Emperor’s!”
“And an enemy of the king!” She had never dared to fight back, to rebuke him, but if he was going to kill her, she would not die silently.
“Where is the gonfalon?” he demanded again, sounding desperate. He slapped her, making her head ring. “You must have seen it. It was silk, embroidered with angels, Evelyn.”
Angels.
She remembered angels on the shawl Sinjon had put around her shoulders. It couldn’t be— She looked away, but not in time. Philip let out a long breath, a hiss from hell.
“Ah, so you know something after all.”
She shook her head, but it was too late.
“That man with you, Rutherford, who is he?”
“N-No one,” she said. “A footman.”
“A footman,” he mocked her. “Handsome, young, virile. He doesn’t look like a servant. What else is he to you, wife? Why did you come to France? Did you come looking for me, bring him here to kill me for you?” He pushed his face into hers, pressing her to the wall with the weight of his body. “I’m alive, Evelyn, and I intend to stay that way.”
A wave of revulsion swept through her. “Get off me!” she said, and shoved him. He caught her, pulled her, laughing.
“You are my wife, Evelyn. My property. I can do as I like. Has your footman taught you anything new? I’m surprised. You never liked sex.” He curled his hand around her breast, a painful, ugly parody of Sinjon’s caresses, and squeezed. She felt a scream gather itself in her throat. She wanted to fight, but he held her against the wall, unable to move or even breathe. Tears stung her eyes. She went limp, and he chuckled in her ear, and ground his erection against her hip.
“That’s better. You can fight if you want to. It won’t change a thing. Do you remember what it was like, in your bed, my hands on you? Fight me, Evelyn, I dare you.” He grabbed her skirts in his fist, yanked the delicate muslin upward as he forced his knee between her legs.
Rage filled her. No, she thought. She knew what love felt like, what kindness and honor looked like. She kicked him, her knee connecting with his crotch. He grunted a curse and slapped her, but he did not let go. She raised her hand, tore at his face with her nails, but he grabbed her wrist, twisted her arm behind her and tugged. The pain was excruciating. A moan of agony escaped from her lips.
“There, that’s better,” he hissed. “Moan for it, Evelyn.” He twisted her arm again, and the room blurred. As he reached down to undo his flies, she kicked him again, harder this time, with every ounce of fear and determination she possessed. He dropped to his knee, and she ran.
S
injon didn’t give the horse a chance to slow as he dismounted at the front steps of Chateau d’Elenoire. The coach was there, proof enough that Evelyn was inside.
He took the steps two at a time. A single scream ended abruptly, and he followed the sound down the corridor, peering into each ruined room he passed, but they were all empty.
Evelyn burst out of a doorway on his right. Running blindly down the hall, straight toward him.
“Evelyn!” Relief surged as he opened his arms to catch her.
The roar of a pistol drowned her reply. He felt the ball punch into him, saw her eyes widen, watched her lips peel back in a scream as the breath left his body and he fell. Philip stood behind her, the gun still clutched in his hand. The pain was instant and white hot, burning like the Spanish sun. Philip dragged Evelyn backward, away from him.
“Sinjon!” Evelyn screamed, trying to reach him, her white hand outstretched, but Philip struck her with the butt of the pistol.
“Renshaw!” Sinjon’s voice echoed back at him through the empty rooms. “I have something you want.” He pulled the gonfalon out from under his coat, ignoring the pain. “A trade, Evelyn for the flag.”
Renshaw stared at the gonfalon as he came forward, holding Evelyn by the arm. Her mouth was bleeding, her face was bruised, and her eyes were pools of hell. Sinjon grinned at her, but she sobbed, not trusting he’d be able to rescue her this time. Renshaw snatched the gonfalon from Sinjon’s numb fingers and stepped back.
“How very convenient,” he said. “But I’ll take both, I believe.” He pointed a second pistol at Sinjon.
“No!” Evelyn screamed, careening against her husband. The shot went wide, hit the wall beside Sinjon’s head. Shards of plaster stung his cheek.
“The French are coming, Renshaw.” He was surprised at the calm in his tone, and by the effort it took to speak at all. He wasn’t sure Philip heard him, but Evelyn gasped, either from pain or surprise as Renshaw dragged her away. Sinjon fought the urge to sink into blackness. The room wavered around him, and he put his hand inside his coat, feeling the wet heat of blood. He had no idea how bad it was. Chest wounds were always fatal in Spain, but he couldn’t die yet.
Evelyn needed him.
P
hilip forced her up a steep set of circular stairs, and she wondered if he knew where he was going. The steps ended abruptly, and she stumbled out into bright sunlight at the top of an ancient tower.
The chateau’s crumbling battlements framed a magnificent view of fields and woods. He forced her to the edge and pushed her between the thick blocks of yellow stone until she dangled over the drop.
“Everything you can see is my land, wife, my kingdom. You might have lived like a queen here.”
All Evelyn could see was a sixty-foot drop. She shut her eyes, feeling dizzy, waiting for the final push that would send her over the parapet. Sinjon was hurt, perhaps dying. She had so much to say to him. She said it in her mind like a prayer and stared at the horizon.
A movement in the distance caught her eye, a plume of dust coiling in the air behind a column of riders.
“The French are coming!” she croaked. She willed Sinjon to hang on, to let someone rescue him for a change.
Philip let her go and began reloading the pistols. He didn’t even glance at the advancing soldiers. “It doesn’t matter. I have the gonfalon.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t make myself clear downstairs, Renshaw. You can have the gonfalon, but Evelyn comes with me.”
Evelyn turned. Sinjon was leaning against the doorpost. He was pale and sweating, and blood dripped from his sleeve to patter on the thirsty stone, but he had his sword in his hand, and he was glaring at Philip like one of the avenging angels on the flag. Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat, half in fear, half in love. He looked magnificent.
Philip raised his pistol and cocked it.
Evelyn leapt between Philip’s pistol and the man she loved. “Sinjon, the army is coming. Go back down and wait for them, if you please,” she ordered, lady of the manor again. “You’re bleeding.”
“Did you hear that, Renshaw? The French are coming for you,” Sinjon said, ignoring her. Philip sighed. “God, how I hate heroes! You are all so tiresome, and predictable. You won’t leave her, will you? It’s some ridiculous code you live by. You’ll stand there and let me shoot you before you’d even
think
of abandoning her. I have the flag, Rutherford. I’m invincible. You, however, will still die, and you won’t have saved anyone.”
Evelyn could hear the pounding of hooves now, and the shouts of men below. Philip jerked the pistol toward the stairs. “Evelyn, go and see what’s happening, or I’ll shoot him between the eyes.”
She didn’t move.
Sinjon smirked. “Let me describe what’s happening. The officer is Colonel Jean-Pierre d’Agramant, Renshaw. He has orders to shoot you on sight. He commands a unit of crack shots, personally chosen by Napoleon for their skill.”
A bead of sweat rolled down Philip’s cheek, but he threw back his head and laughed.
“Napoleon? I’m emperor here!” He unfurled the gonfalon and wrapped it around his shoulders like a royal robe. “When they see the gonfalon, those crack shots will kneel to me. They will not shoot me, or dare to raise a hand against this blessed scrap of cloth.”
Evelyn’s ears pricked at the sound of boots on the stone steps. Sinjon kept his eyes on Philip, who drew himself up to full height and waited, the gonfalon billowing around him, gleaming in the sun.
The first soldier appeared in the doorway. He stopped and stared at the flag for a moment before he dropped to one knee and crossed himself. His fellows followed, and Philip laughed.
“You see, Rutherford? As I said, they are kneeling to me.”
“Not to you, Renshaw. Never to you,” Sinjon growled.
D’Agramant arrived and stood behind his men, regarding the situation.
“Order them to fight!” Evelyn cried desperately. “He’s a traitor! Will they allow such a man to hold such a holy object?”
“Return the gonfalon, Lord Renshaw, and you may walk away,” d’Agramant bargained.
Philip smiled. “You aren’t kneeling, Colonel. Are you not a believer? I could walk through fire unscathed, wrapped in this flag. Ask your men. Order them to shoot. They won’t do it. I
will
leave, but the gonfalon comes with me. I’ll ride through the streets of Paris with it around my shoulders and shame Napoleon before God and man.” He held out his hand. “Come, Evelyn, we’re leaving.”
She hesitated.
“You didn’t think I’d leave you here with
him
, did you? Winner takes all, my dear. The loser gets nothing.”
Evelyn looked at Sinjon. He would die if his wounds weren’t tended. With Philip gone, the colonel could bandage him, get him safely home to England. She told him with her eyes that she loved him, and took a step toward her husband.
Sinjon caught her hand with more strength than she thought he had left. “No. If you go, Renshaw, you will relinquish your claim on Evelyn. You will swear never to come near her again.”
Philip tilted his head, amused. “Are you in love with my wife, Rutherford?”
Evelyn held her breath, but Sinjon didn’t reply.
“Apparently not. Poor Evelyn,” Philip mocked. “Do you love him, or was he just a roll in the hay to satisfy the itch in my absence?”
“I did not miss you at all,” she said. “I wished you were—” Sinjon’s grip tightened on her hand before she could say the word.
“Indeed.” Philip frowned. “With such tender feelings involved, it will be all the more amusing to kill you, Rutherford.” He waved a hand at the kneeling soldiers. “There’s not a man here who’d stop me. Not because of the gonfalon, but because adultery is a sin.”
He let his eyes bore into Sinjon’s. “Imagine this man with
your
wives,
mes amis
, and I’m sure you’ll agree to kill him for me. You!” He pointed to the first man. “In the name of the holy Gonfalon de Charlemagne, I order you to kill my wife’s defiler.”
Evelyn watched in disbelief as the soldier crossed himself and reached for his sword.
“You see, Evelyn? With this flag, I can do anything. Now watch your lover die.”
Behind her, Sinjon’s breathing was ragged. He would not survive a long fight.
“Put down your weapon,” Colonel d’Agramant ordered the soldier, but the man shook his head and crossed himself again.
“Evelyn, move,” Sinjon said. He pushed her aside and raised his sword, facing his attacker. Philip was smiling, smug, sure of the situation. He wouldn’t stop. He’d kill them all for his amusement.
“Stop!” she pleaded as Sinjon parried the first thrust. On the second, his opponent knocked his sword from his hand, and Sinjon swayed.
Only Evelyn was watching Philip, saw him raise his pistol and point it at Sinjon, his finger curling on the trigger.
She grabbed for Sinjon’s sword and lunged at her husband with a cry of rage as the gun fired.
The shot went wide, and Philip screamed as the sword sank into his flesh. Evelyn felt it press home, shudder in her hand. She let go, her shock mirrored in Philip’s eyes. He clutched the blade, staring at her in horrified surprise. He backed away and hit the edge of the parapet. For a moment he cartwheeled in space, trying to save himself. The gonfalon floated free, caught by the wind, unfurling over the rooftop to hover above the fray. Philip’s eyes were fixed on the flag as he toppled backward.
Sinjon reached for her, tore the sword from her hand and gathered her to his chest, trying to keep her from seeing Philip’s death, protecting her even from that.
“I’m all right,” she said, her voice quivering.
He touched her cheek. “No you’re not,” he said, but his eyes rolled back as she watched, and his body sagged.
“Colonel!” she screamed, holding her lover, and d’Agramant caught Sinjon and lowered him gently.
Evelyn dropped to her knees beside him and tore open his coat and his blood-soaked shirt.
“Retrieve the gonfalon,” the colonel ordered his men, then came to Evelyn’s side. “How bad is it?”
“Flesh wound,” Sinjon muttered through clenched teeth.
But d’Agramant drew a sharp breath. “We’ll need to get him back to my home,” he said.
Sinjon shook his head and began to get up, grunting at the pain. “There’s a ship waiting, and they’ll hang me if I’m not on it. I must get Evelyn home.”
The colonel regarded her soberly. “The coast is four hours from here. My home is only two.”
“Home,” Sinjon insisted weakly.
“I’ll see to him,” Evelyn said quickly.
D’Agramant indicated that several of his men should carry Sinjon down to the coach. Then he bent and picked up Sinjon’s sword, looking down at it for a moment. “I gave this sword to Captain Renshaw for rescuing my wife,” he said to Evelyn. “It has been in my family for many generations. It has always been used honorably, and I thank you for what you did here today. It can’t have been easy.”
“I couldn’t let him die,” Evelyn murmured, staring at the bloody blade.
“You are a remarkably brave woman, a woman worthy of a man like Captain Rutherford.” He bowed and held out the sword to her. “Will you return this to him with my thanks?” She took it gingerly, and nodded.
The colonel’s men poured brandy over Sinjon’s wound, and a good deal down his throat to dull the pain. They found clean bandages, and warned her again that the injury would need stitching as soon as possible.
Sinjon looked at her with glazed eyes. “You’re free, Evelyn,” he murmured before he fell asleep in her arms.
She was free. Just what did that mean?