by Unknown
up their oars just as the child shrieked. "Ma bebe. J'ai oublie ma bebe."
Danny swore, feeling the profanity quite justified, as she plunged back into the surf. "Attendez!" She
ran across the beach to where the forgotten doll lay by a rock.
None of the watchers in the small craft were able to sort out what happened next. Men seemed to appear from nowhere, hurtling down the narrow cliff path, a musket shot exploded in the still air, but apart from that, for an eerie moment, there was no other sound: Jules and his three companions leaped to their feet setting the small craft rocking dangerously, the woman screamed, and the rowers put to their oars as
rapid fire broke out anew from the beach, quite clearly directed at the dinghy. Danielle was a tiny figure, dodging from side to side, attempting to evade her captors and make for the water as the dinghy pulled away under the desperate efforts of two pairs of strong arms encouraged by the hail of bullets spurting
the water around them.
Suddenly Danielle stopped running, recognizing the tall figure on the beach who had been watching her gyrations. She called the traitor's name with all the force of her lungs.
"St. Estephe!" Jules exclaimed just as a scream of pain came from one of the Cornishmen. A bullet had caught him in the shoulder and he collapsed gasping over the oars.
"Take over, man, damn your eyes!" Jules, with a brutal foot, kicked the Frenchman cowering with his wife and child in the bottom of the boat. "If you do not, you will never reach safety. Quick!" he said urgently to the others. "Into the water, but silently. There are too many of them and our only hope is in surprise." He turned to the uninjured Cornishman. "Tell Jake to hold Dream Girl offshore until we signal again." The man merely grunted, all breath and energy devoted to his task, and the four discarded boots, cloaks, swords, and pistols, keeping only the wickedly sharp daggers, before slipping into the now deep water where the current ran strongly but the dark night hid them from the confusion on the beach.
St. Estephe swore as he saw one-half of his prey make its escape, but there was nothing he could do. It was a moonless night and the boat had almost vanished, swallowed into the blackness long before it would have been out of range of the muskets. But he did have the most important object and, for a moment on the cliff top as he'd watched them pile into the dinghy, he had thought to lose that also. Why she had suddenly leapt from the boat and straight into his arms was of little interest—suffice it that she had done so. He, walked toward her, withdrawing from his pocket the wad of cloth.
It had taken three men eventually to subdue her, but although her body was held imprisoned, arms bent painfully behind her back, her tongue was still virulent and the defiance glared from the brown eyes as
she spat in the comte's face.
He smiled and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. "You will pay for that later, ma belle," he said and suddenly clamped the wad of cloth over her mouth and nose.
Danielle smelled the sickly sweetness of the chloroform and struggled until a vicious jerk of her arms made her cry out in pain against the smothering cloth. The last thing she saw was the flat gleam of those fishy eyes and her last conscious thought was that the simile was wrong. They were the eyes of a cobra preparing to strike . . .
Her friends, cowering in the freezing water against the black overhang of a jutting rock, could see little detail of the events on the beach. There was nothing they could do at this point since they were hopelessly outnumbered and armed only with knives—-good enough weapons in single, close quarters combat, but of no use at all against ten men with muskets.
They waited until the beach party had reached the top of the cliff before dragging their soaked bodies onto the sand of the small cove.
"What the devil has St. Estephe to do with this?" Westmore led the way up the narrow path.
"Only the devil's work," Philip answered. "Why else would he take Danny?"
Hidden behind the windswept scrub of the cliff top they watched St. Estephe and his men mount and
take off across the fields, Danny's limp body hanging across the comte's saddle bow.
"They are not going immediately to Paris then." Jules spoke for the first time. "We can be of little use without dry clothes and horses and now we know their direction we will find it easy to follow their tracks."
"And what of Danny?" Tony demanded.
"If St. Estephe intended to kill her he would have done so already," Jules replied. He seemed to be now simply a cold thinking machine, all emotion banished. He was responsible for the safety of his cousin's wife and they could afford no hasty impulsive action. St. Estephe would not himself have carried her dead body in that way, he would have left such a burden to a minion. So, whatever they had done to her on the beach had simply immobilized her. Their task was to find where she had been taken and effect her rescue—simple enough if one went about it in the right way. "Come, let us go to the village. We will retrieve the horses from the Legrands and find fresh clothes. If we succumb to the ague we will be of little use to Danny."
It was cold common sense and no one demurred. They now had friends in the village, fisherfolk who accepted them with undemanding hospitality and no questions, receiving more than adequate recompense for their kindness. In an hour or so, they would be able to follow the tracks of Danielle's captors— eleven horsemen could not disappear without trace in this isolated region where all strange occurrences would be noticed—and her friends had the advantage of surprise.
* * *
Danielle woke to hammer blows in her skull, rhythmic, regular, each one seemingly intended to split her head in two. A violent wave of nausea, the inevitable aftermath of the chloroform, left her retching into the pillow in helpless self-disgust as she tugged futilely at whatever it was that held her wrists fast above her head. Then the merciful black wave of unconsciousness swallowed her yet again.
The next time she awoke it was when something warm and soothing sponged her face and hair and the soiled pillow was removed, leaving her aching head to lie flat.
"She'll not vomit again," St. Estephe said to the pasty-faced girl ministering to the still figure on the bed. There's no further need to keep her head raised. You may go now, and you will come in here only when
I tell you—do you understand?"
The girl stammered her promise of obedience and stumbled from the room. The two guards outside the door caught her, their hands straying in gross familiarity over her body as she shuddered and begged
them to leave her be. They laughed and let her go with a generous salting of coarse remarks and promises.
Danielle opened her eyes and looked into the snake eyes of St. Estephe. Her head was pounding sickeningly and the candle he held shot sparks behind her eyeballs. She averted her head and the comte laughed. "You are not comfortable, ma belle?" he questioned, taking her chin and turning her face back toward him.
"I am perfectly comfortable, thank you, sir," she responded with a travesty of a smile. St. Estephe chuckled in rich satisfaction.
"We will amuse ourselves," he promised. "You will become more amenable when you have experienced your position for a little longer." He left her, taking the candle and plunging Danny into pitch-darkness. She had lost all sense of time and lay still in the darkness until her eyes became accustomed. A thread of light indicated a closed window shutter, another filament showed her the door. Apart from that there was nothing except the sensation of her damp britches clinging to her thighs, an uncovered mattress beneath her, and the straps cutting into her wrists.
She slept again and awoke to the same darkness and the pressing demand of her body. But there was no way she could free herself. Her legs were unfettered but her hands were held fast. She opened her mouth to call out and thought again of the stories she had been told of St. Estephe. If they were true then her humiliation and degradation was his object and to plead would only increase his satisfaction. Danielle gritted her teeth and bent her mind to the business of making some sense out o
f all this. If the comte was simply an agent of the revolutionary committee, why had he not betrayed them in Paris? It would have been easy enough. But he appeared on the scene long before she had begun this adventure, had talked to Justin of an old friendship between their fathers . . . had appeared in London, all charm and eagerness to offer his services. And Justin had disliked him and mistrusted him from the outset without knowing why ....
The door opened. For an instant bright daylight flooded the room and Danny took in her surroundings, such as they were, before the door closed again and the dim flicker of a tallow candle pierced the
renewed darkness.
"Madame?" a soft anxious voice spoke. "I am permitted to release you if you wish to use the pail and
take some food."
"Then in the name of charity do so," Danny groaned.
"You will please try not to ... There are guards outside the door," the voice stuttered unhappily.
"Je comprends," Danielle reassured. "I will make no move to escape." The straps were undone. She rubbed her reddeped wrists, and stretched the cramped muscles of her protesting shoulders and upper arms before making use of the facilities.
She looked at the bread, cheese, and pitcher of water with a frown. "When will you come again?"
"I cannot say, milady," the voice whispered. "When the comte tells me."
"I see." Danielle spurned the food despite her hunger pangs and slaked her thirst with but two sips of water. The less she put inside her at this point, the longer her body could resist nature's imperative calls. "Will you tell me what you know of this place?" she inquired gently, pacing the floor and swinging her arms as she flexed the muscles in her legs and feet. "Are we still in Brittany?"
"Mais oui, madame—but five miles from the coast. The cottage belongs to my father. The comte has paid him well for its use and my services." The girl's voice was very low now. "I dare not disobey. If I displease the comte my father will beat me and I cannot bear it another time." With a simple movement, the girl slipped her blouse off her shoulders and Danielle stared in horror at the crusted welts crisscrossing her back.
"Have no fear," she said quietly, "I'll not put you in further danger. What is your name?"
"Jeanette," the girl replied. "Milady, if you will not eat, I must . . ." She gestured toward the cot.
"Bien sur." Danielle lay down on the rough mattress and allowed the girl to fasten her wrists again.
"I dare not fasten the straps more loosely," Jeanette whispered in soft apology.
"No, I understand." With a supreme effort Danielle smiled and the girl left, taking the tallow candle and returning Danny to her dark prison. She knew now that it was a tiny room, no more than seven paces in length and perhaps five in width, containing the cot and a low table—nothing more. Outside there were guards and five miles away the coast. It was little enough to go on but she had to think of something constructive to blot from her mind thoughts of Nicky and Justin and the fear of her unknown destiny at the hands of St. Estephe.
Her arms began to ache unbearably. She moved up the cot, trying to ease the pain, but there was little relief to be gained from the tiny adjustments she was able to make. The continuing darkness did nothing for her slowly despairing spirit, and hunger and thirst raged. Danny had faced many dangers, but never before had she been quite without resources and, as the long hours of confinement passed, she fought despair with every fiber of her strength.
It was six interminable hours later when St. Estephe entered the disorienting darkness with a bright
lantern that he placed carefully on the small table.
"Alors, ma belle." he said, looking down at her. "Do you find that you are still perfectly comfortable?"
His eyes mocked her as she blinked in confusion at the sudden light.
"Perfectly, thank you," she replied through dry lips.
"You cannot be comfortable in wet clothes," he argued, bending over her supine figure, patting her down with intimate hands. Danielle held her breath and bit back the scream of revulsion. As he began to unbutton her shirt, she curled her legs and kicked him in the stomach. St. Estephe drew back with a gasp of pain. "That was foolish," he said almost gently, and with quiet deliberation hit her across the mouth with his open hand.
Tears sprang in her eyesand she tasted the salty blood from a cut lip.
"Would you prefer that I have my men strip you?" he inquired casually as her shirt tore apart beneath his hands. "They would take much pleasure in the task, I assure you." He examined her breasts through hooded eyes and Danielle lay still preparing herself for what she knew was to come. When he stripped
off her britches she made no foolish futile movement of protest and received her reward in the clear disappointment in her tormentor's eyes. "So, you will not fight me?" His hands stroked lasciviously
over her body. "Eventually you will beg me to take you, ma belle. When you can no longer bear your discomfort."
"Just tell me why?" Danielle summoned her last reserves of e,nergy. "What have I done to you that
you should do this to mer
St. Estephe chuckled. "It is nothing that you have done, ma belle. You are merely the instrument of my revenge. Many years ago your husband's father dishonored my family and I am pledged to avenge the insult. Your husband will come in search of you and when he finds you, you will be my willing submissive plaything. And I will kill him after he has seen what you have become."
Danny licked her dry lips again. "You have overlooked one thing, comte. My husband is dead. I heard
the news from Pitt before I left England. You may use me as you please, but Justin will have no knowledge of your revenge."
The second blow smashed her head sideways into the mattress and, without a further word, the comte took the lantern and her torn clothing and left her, naked and alone in the darkness.
Chapter 22
Justin's heart leapt as he rounded the corner of the steep path and at last saw journey's end. The long low house of Mervanwey glowed mellow in the afternoon light of this last day of October, and the trees bordering the path were a deep copper. One strong wind and they would lose the fragile leaves to the winter of gales and sea storms waiting in the wings. As he reached the head of the cliff he looked over
the low stone wall into the rose garden and saw a sight that brought aglow of pride and love into his eyes. His son, turned sixteen months now, was running on sturdy legs across the grass, shrieking with glee, pursued by Maddy, the young nursery maid, growling like a lion.
Justin dismounted and vaulted over the wall. "Nicky?" Both child and girl stopped, and Maddy's rosy cheeks suddenly paled as if she saw a ghost.
"My Lord," she gasped. "Is it really you? You are alive then?"
"I certainly have that impression," he agreed with a smile. "My son, do you remember your papa?" Kneeling in front of the little boy, he took his hands.
"Papa?" Nicky looked at him seriously and then the small face split in a sunny beam. It had been six months since he had last seen this man but he still saw his picture every night before he slept, and everyone always talked to him about "Papa."
Justin laughed with pleasure and picked up the little figure, kissing the firm round cheek. "Come, let
us go and find Maman."
"Maman . . . boat." Nicky pointed to the gray Atlantic ocean stretching into the distance.
"What?" His father frowned and looked at Maddy whose eyes were stricken. She gazed at the ground, apparently tongue-tied. "I will take Nicky with me up to the house," he told her and, hitching his son onto a hip, vaulted the wall again and remounted easily with one hand. Nicky squealed with delight at finding himself on the back of this great beast, an experience that he found not at all terrifying, held as he was by an iron arm against a broad chest. He babbled nonstop, a mixture of nonsense and baby words, pointing excitedly from side to side and bouncing up and down on the saddle. Justin responded with the right degree of interested encouragement although the prick of unease wa
s rapidly becoming a cold stab of premonition.
There had been something in the prime minister's attitude that had puzzled him when he had made the detailed report of his mission immediately on his return. Pitt had appeared curiously evasive when Justin had asked him if he had news of Danny, and had said only that he believed her to be in Cornwall. Linton, in his eagerness to reach his wife's side, had hardly noticed the awkwardness until memory now came back with full force. Unconsciously he urged his mount into a canter as the path leveled off.
Nicky shrieked, and the earl instantly checked the horse, only to hear his son demand, '"Gain, 'gain." Definitely his mother's child, Justin reflected, obeying the instruction. Their arrival at the circular gravel sweep outside the house caused an extraordinary commotion. Justin tossed his son over his shoulder and swung to the ground in one movement, striding through the gaping gabbling throng of servants into the cool flagged hallway.
"Justin! Oh thank God! We have been certain that you were dead. There has been no news and . . ." Lady Lavinift flung herself weeping against his chest.