Moonlight Surrender (Moonlight Book 3)

by Ferrarella, Marie

  The journey took the better part of an hour. The sound of a barking dog alerted them as they approached the small cottage that looked so like John’s had on the grounds of Shalott.

  A small black-and-white mongrel advanced on them, barking fiercely as he danced from paw to paw, warning them to stay back.

  “Nuisance,” Cosette murmured, waving her hand at the dog. “All animals are but nuisances. Call out to her,” she instructed Beth, pointing to the cottage. “Her name is Therese.”

  Beth shouted the name above the dog’s barking.

  The front door opened a crack, enough to allow the person behind it view of the front yard. The next moment, the door flew open as if it was unattached and a wide-hipped, sweet-faced woman came bustling out. She wrung her hands in thanksgiving as she hurried to the visitors who stood before her house.

  “Hush, dog,” she chided sharply.

  The dog whimpered and gave one bark for good measure before retreating.

  Duncan gently set Cosette down once more. She gained her legs unsteadily and Duncan kept one arm discreetly about her waist.

  “Mademoiselle!” Therese cried, as if she had seen a ghost. With hesitant fingers, she touched the thin arm. “It is you.” She hugged Cosette’s hand to her ample bosom. “You are safe. Praise God, you are safe.”

  Remembering her place, Therese dropped Cosette’s hand and took a step back. Her eyes uncertainly searched the faces of the strangers with her former mistress. One never knew the face of a potential enemy these days.

  “I have been hearing about such horrible goings-on!”

  Cosette felt tired as she nodded. “All true. Anarchy has been visited upon us. My grandniece brought friends who came to my aid.” She said the words in English for their benefit, since Therese understood a little.

  With a regal gesture, Cosette indicated Duncan and Jacob.

  Therese inclined her head to each in turn in a show of proper respect.

  “Please, come in, come in,” she urged.

  She stood back until they were all inside and then, looking over her shoulder, closed the door firmly once more. She trusted her dog to warn her of anyone else’s approach.

  Duncan had ushered Cosette to a chair at the uneven wooden table that dominated the main room. Therese sat down beside her, then hesitated a moment before venturing to ask, “And Madam—?”

  “Died this morning,” Cosette said, each word weighing heavily in her mouth.

  She saw the concern rise in Therese’s eyes. Cosette allowed herself contact in a way she never had before this trouble had come to plague them. She squeezed the servant’s hand. Therese had a good and faithful heart. She had been Andre’s daughter and loyal to the last, and now Cosette realized she was a good friend. Maybe the strict lines between the classes could be blurred a little, she thought.

  “There was time but to bury her before the vultures came, smelling blood,” the old woman concluded passionately.

  “Horrible times we are living in,” Therese murmured, solemnly nodding. “Horrible times.” She gestured about the meager two-room cottage. “I know that this is not even as large as your stables were, but what is mine is yours, as always.” Her glance took them all in. “I would be honored if you would all grace me with your presence for as long as you wish.”

  It was not an easy offer to make, given the circumstances. If Therese was suspected of aiding the enemy, she could readily be tortured and put to death beside the very people she had given asylum to. They all knew this.

  Duncan smiled and shook his head, refusing her kindness and her bravery. “We would not place you in danger thus. We cannot stay, but we do need a place where Mademoiselle Delacroix might safely remain. Can you suggest one?”

  Therese knew of no safer place than here. There was a small network of people she could trust, people who were as heartsick over what had befallen France as she and her beloved Mademoiselle were.

  “Here,” Therese said readily, looking at Cosette. “She can pretend to be my aunt now, if it pleases her. Hopefully, no one will recognize her.”

  Cosette looked about the small room with its rough-hewn furniture and straw-covered dirt floor. Therese was right; it wasn’t even as large as her stables. She smiled and ran spidery fingers along the woman’s chestnut hair.

  “It pleases me.” She turned in her chair toward Duncan and Beth, concern etched into her fine lines. “But what of you? Where will you be?”

  “In Paris,” Duncan answered her. “We need to discover what has happened to your nephew.” He glanced about the warm room. It reminded him of happier times at home. “We cannot learn that by being safe.” He paused as he glanced toward Beth. “Would you consider—?”

  “No, I would not,” she retorted, knowing full well what he was going to ask of her. She rose to her feet to show her readiness to leave.

  Duncan sighed. Beth’s response had been a foregone conclusion. He lifted his shoulders and let them drop in the careless manner of one resigned to his fate.

  “I thought that I might at least try. Very well, we’ve a need to make our way back to the estate to see if the horses have been taken. Perhaps they ran off and are not far away.” That, too, he thought was worth a try.

  “From there, we shall go to Paris.” He turned his attention to Beth. “While there yesterday, I got the distinct impression that something was about to happen, but I could not discover what. Your knowledge of the language will be extremely helpful.”

  “Wait,” Therese protested, as Duncan began to rise. “You cannot leave without something in your stomachs to see you through. I have a stew cooking.” She gestured toward the large cauldron in the hearth. “It is almost ready. Surely a few more minutes do not matter.”

  They hadn’t had breakfast. The events of the morning had driven all thoughts of food from them. Duncan nodded, seating himself once more. “That is a very good suggestion. We’ll prevail upon your hospitality a little longer, then, Mistress Therese.”

  Though she was far older than Duncan, the woman giggled like a flirtatious young girl and went to fetch whatever serving bowls and eating utensils she possessed for her guests.

  Beth leaned toward him at the table. “Too bad Robespierre isn’t a woman. You could charm the Revolution right out of his head.”

  Duncan returned Beth’s smile. “Too bad,” he echoed.

  The simple meal was filling, and over far too quickly. Fortified and well sustained, they needed now to be on their way. Therese told them of a man they might contact in Paris, should they need any help once they were there, a man who could be trusted to hold his tongue. His name was Louis.

  Cosette remained seated at the table as they rose. The day’s events and travels had sapped her precious store of energy, though she loathed to admit it.

  Beth bent down and hugged the old woman close to her. “I won’t be back until Father is with me.”

  “No.” Cosette shook her head. She was too old for dire promises. “You are as precious to me as your father. I wish to know what is happening, both to France and to you.” Cosette looked up at Duncan, including him in her entreaty as well. “Send word to me if you can, return to me when you are able. With or without your father. Return.” It was a mandate.

  She squeezed her grandniece’s hand. “God speed you and protect you, for He is the only one able to now.”

  Duncan and Jacob said their goodbyes and took their leave. As they departed from the cottage, Cosette made the sign of the cross over them, her thin hand cutting through the warm, moist August air.

  Without thinking, Beth closed her hand over the cross she now wore at her throat, the one that John had pressed on her in thanksgiving for the lives of his newborn son and wife.

  “God be with you as well, Aunt Cosette,” she whispered, as she hurried from the cottage after Duncan. She knew that if she didn’t keep up, he would force Jacob to take her back to her aunt.

  To her surprise, Duncan paused a moment until she was beside him.

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nbsp; “Remember,” Duncan cautioned, “when you see the rubble, it means nothing to you. There is no telling who is watching, or from where.”

  Above all, no harm was to come to her. No harm. He almost laughed at himself. He was taking Beth into the very heart of the devil’s soul, and he was hoping she would return unscathed. His mother had always called him a dreamer.

  What he asked of her was easier said than done, Beth thought. Could he really expect her to look upon her ancestral home and not feel remorse over what had befallen it?

  “But—“

  “It means nothing to you,” Duncan repeated, more adamantly.

  She nodded. “Nothing,” she echoed, like a parrot repeating a phrase that had been taught to it. “It was just a house, no different from any other. Only larger.”

  But her voice shook with emotion and unshed tears as she said it.

  Duncan silently linked his hand with hers.

  It was worse than she could have imagined.

  The fire was still smoldering about the remnants of the house. The once-proud edifice lay like a charred skeleton, a testimony of the hatred that had taken it down, the hatred that beat within the breast of the rabble who loathed anything that belonged to the aristocracy.

  Duncan urged her away from the sight, though they were still not close enough to be noticed. His hands upon her shoulders, he ushered her toward where the stables had stood.

  But those had been leveled as well.

  This time, it was Jacob who was the more greatly distressed. His greatest joy had always been the animals he cared for.

  “They’ve stolen the horses.” He looked at Duncan as if to beg him to make it not so. “My mare, Duncan. They took my mare.”

  Duncan nodded. The three horses they had brought were the only animals that had occupied the stable. He laid a hand on Jacob’s shoulder in comfort. “Perhaps we can recover her as well.”

  Beth was relieved that this changed nothing. “Then we are going to Paris?”

  “We have no choice in the matter. It is in Paris that all the answers lie.” Duncan looked down into her face. “And perhaps your father as well. If he is alive, he might very well be jailed in the Bastille, or on his way there from some other cell.”

  Given the situation and the times, it was the most educated guess he could offer. The peasants were eager to turn the tables on their masters. How better than to place the bluebloods in the very cells that had once been occupied by members of their own class?

  Beth nodded, but she could not bear to think on what he had suggested. It seemed too horribly cruel, to envision her father in those surroundings.

  From the charred remnants of the Beaulieu estate, they made their way to Paris. The path was slow and arduous, but none complained. They passed a few on their journey, men and women who looked upon them with suspicion and fear. Fear was now the companion of them all.

  Duncan’s scowl, when looked upon, was fearsome, and since the shadow he cast was long and powerful, there were none to challenge the three on their way.

  An hour after they had left the estate, Jacob saw something in the distance that made his heart sing.

  “Duncan, look,” Jacob cried, excited, as he pointed toward a clearing. “ ’Tis my Megan. My horse. And the others. I swear it.”

  Duncan smiled broadly as he looked in the direction Jacob pointed. There, below them, were four men gathered around a fire. Not far from them were three horses, secured to bushes.

  Duncan recognized his own stallion, and Jacob’s beloved mare.

  The last had the same coloring as the horse he had selected for Beth.

  Duncan looked at Beth, well pleased at the turn of events. “It looks as if the God your aunt has charged with looking after us is smiling upon us after all.”

  His words brought a question to Beth’s mind, but now was not the time to ask.

  Now was the time to act.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Duncan motioned Beth quickly back behind the tree. Though there was brush in the way, he wanted her well hidden from the men below.

  “Stay here, Beth.”

  Her head snapped up to look at him, instead of at the men in the distance. He couldn’t be thinking of leaving her behind. She had made it clear that she was to be with him, step for step.

  “I will—“

  “Stay here,” he ordered. The words were more a growl than a statement. “You will stay here.” It was clear that he didn’t intend to argue the point with her.

  Very well, she thought, as she folded her arms before her, her eyes smoldering as she watched him go. She would not argue.

  But neither would she obey.

  Beth waited until they were a little ways from her, and then stealthfully crept after them. The same foliage that sheltered Duncan and Jacob from the thieves’ view sheltered Beth from theirs.

  She made her way carefully, wanting not to get in the way, but wanting to be there should another hand be needed. He could not deny her that, just because her skin was softer than his. Just because she was not a man. She could not stay behind, to wait and worry and watch. That was for the faint-hearted, not her.

  Duncan motioned for Jacob to position himself on one side of the encampment while he rounded to the other. Armed with his sword, his dagger, and most important, the courage that had seen him through so much, Duncan softly crept up on the circle of men. He thanked the powers which watched over him that he was downwind of the camp. The horses couldn’t scent him approaching. One of the men was off to the side, tending to the animals.

  Luck and skill were with him.

  Duncan surprised the man by pulling him into the brush. The man struggled, but had no chance. Duncan was the more skillful. Swiftly, Duncan ran his adversary through with his sword.

  The man did not go to his maker silently. The scream that left his lips was like that of an animal being slaughtered. It instantly alerted the others to the presence of intruders.

  “Now we’re in for it,” Jacob cried, leaping into the camp, his sword drawn and at the ready.

  “How was I to know he’d yell like a woman?” Duncan retorted.

  The battle was swift and bloody.

  Having tasted victory by being among those who had burned down the estate, the three in the camp were still in the grip of the frenzy that had seized them all. They fought like men possessed. Duncan matched swords with first one, then two, as Jacob met the third. The sound of clashing steel rang in the air that was fouled with curses which neither Duncan nor Jacob understood.

  Beth abandoned her stealthy path upon hearing the first cry. She broke into a run, reaching the camp in time to see Duncan propel an evil-looking, wiry man away from him. The man had a scar that ran the length of his face and a voice that rattled the gates of heaven as he screamed obscenities at Duncan.

  Crashing to the ground, his body arching over the un-tended campfire, he came down hard on top of the pistol he had stolen from the estate. His eyes glittered as he raised it now and aimed at Duncan’s back.

  “Duncan!” Beth screamed.

  The death rattle from the thief’s throat had a fearsome sound. A startled look had entered his eyes as he’d pitched forward a moment after the sound of a discharging pistol exploded. The ball tore a hole in the middle of his forehead.

  Beth’s scream had Duncan jerking around. He turned in time to see the man with the scar falling not far from him, his hand still gripping the silent pistol. The next moment, his attention perforce returned to the man he was dueling with. He was a younger man who obviously had some training with a sword. Twice he had nearly sliced Duncan’s shoulder and he had nicked his arm once.

  Her heart hammering wildly in her throat, Beth scrambled forward to seize the pistol from the dead man’s hand. She had never killed anyone before, and the realization that she had made her ill and almost dizzy. She forced the feelings away. This was no time to be weak.

  With the weapon in her hands, she rose and looked first to Duncan, then to Jacob.
Both battles were going strong. Jacob looked more than well matched.

  “Halt,” Beth shouted in French. “Or I shall fire at the head of the next man who moves.”

  Neither Duncan nor Jacob understood her, but the two men did. They had but to look at their fallen comrade to know that the woman meant what she said. Each fearing to be her next victim, they put up their swords, cursing her soul to hell.

  Duncan was quick to cleave to Bern’s side. He threw his arm about her shoulders and pulled her to him, a hearty laugh echoing in the air.

  “By God, woman, but you are a constant source of surprise to me.”

  “As it should be.”

  Jacob stood slightly apart, looking from the dead man to Beth. He had never known a woman who behaved in this manner and was clearly more and more in awe of her.

  Beth looked at the two men who stood quaking before them, their hands raised high. Jacob hurriedly relieved them of their swords. He stripped the dead man of his shirt, and using his dagger, tore it into strips to use as binding. He and Duncan quickly tied the men’s hands and feet, then bound them tightly together, back to back.

  Hatred shone in her eyes as Beth watched, the pistol still ready in her hands lest one of them moved. She prayed one of them would resist. These were the men who helped destroy a proud old woman’s home. Her hand tightened on the pistol.

  Done, Duncan rose and laid a hand on hers. It was the one with the pistol in it. He gently forced it down. Beth looked at him in surprise.

  “Beth, we need to ask them questions. I know how you must feel, but killing them won’t resurrect your house, or, more importantly, lead us to your father.”

  She nodded. He was right. As always.

  She sheathed the pistol in the waistband of her britches. For the moment, she sealed the ache in her heart away as well and thought only of what she had to do: save her father.

  She stepped forward and looked from one man to the other. There was nothing behind their eyes save hatred. They hated her as much as she hated them. And before the hour, they had never even set eyes on one another.